Masks Read Online Free

tells me to show you the costumes—not that we have much to show.” Shyness emanated from his dark features; he seemed a good-hearted sort. Perhaps, thought Mikamé, this slightly odd affability of Yorikata’s accounted for the decreasing prosperity of this school of Nō—an impression made all the stronger by the faint atmosphere of gloom that had at once made itself felt within the house.
    Yorikata untied the bundle, which was wrapped in a cloth imprinted with the family crest. Inside was a pile of four or five costumes for female roles. Sliding closer to the pile, he lifted the topmost silken garment and inserted his arms into the sleeves, spreading it out for them to see.
    “How beautiful!” said Mieko with a sharp intake of breath. The material was gray figured satin, stamped with a heavy gold-leaf pattern and embroidered with bunches of large, drooping white lilies. The vermilion of the stamens was faded and yellow; the gold leaf, blackened as if by soot. Both the subdued damask and the embroidery bespoke a quiet elegance like that of old screen paintings.
    “This dates from around the Keichō era, which is early seventeenth century. We call it the Lily Robe. The lining is finely woven silk, but even inside what was once scarlet has faded to a pale reddish yellow. Pick it up and see for yourselves.” He removed his arms from the sleeves and laid the garment down carefully next to Mieko, before spreading out the next: a brocade robe in large alternating squares of straw and vermilion, across which tiny woven chrysanthemums were thickly scattered.
    “This one is quite a bit later. It’s from the late Kyōhoera, around 1730. Yoriyasu, who was the fifth head of our school, received it as a gift from the Nishi Honganji Temple for a performance of
Chrysanthemum Youth
at the Sento Imperial Palace. Supposedly, one of the Nishijin weavers worked so hard to have it ready on time that he fell ill, hemorrhaged, and died. Then, the story goes, while Yoriyasu was dancing on stage, the weaver’s ghost came and watched the performance from the imperial box. Yoriyasu hadn’t been told the story behind his new robe, and while he danced, he kept wondering about that pale little man in a plain cotton robe, sitting without a sword in the imperial box alongside the retired emperor, the regents, and the priests of the Honganji.”
    “You mean to say the man’s ghost came to see the robe he’d made?” Mikamé’s voice was loud.
    “Supposedly, yes. In those days even the best Nishijin weavers barely made a living, so it’s hardly any wonder Yoriyasu thought the man looked out of place.” Yorikata seemed to enjoy the tale, smiling quietly as he spoke.
    “Since this one is not so old, the vermilion is much less faded, but even so, you’ll notice it’s much brighter on the inside.” He slid the tip of a stubby finger along a side seam, deftly exposing a patch of cloth where vermilion and indigo gleamed richly.
    Mieko glanced at the shiny bit of cloth, then turned to Yasuko. “Think of that,” she murmured.
    “Yes, I know,” Yasuko whispered in reply, bending entranced over the brocade.
    Ibuki sensed the passing of a private and wordless communication between the two women. They were thinking of neither the robe’s design nor its weave, he was certain, but rather of the man who had died in its making—and of the man’s ghost, watching the dance from the emperor’s box.
    “Were any other stories told about the robe after that?” he asked.
    “Yes, I wonder,” said Mikamé. “If the weaver went all the way to the palace to see that performance after his death, obviously the robe had deep meaning for him. Did his ghost appear when other people wore it, too?” He made the query with an earnest air—one that had enabled him, as a researcher, to uncover the secrets of many an old rural family.
    “Nothing of the sort ever happened again.” Toé sounded put out, as if she thought it poor taste on her brother’s part