The Maple Duel

@tamamo

A cold, bright autumn afternoon in the retired emperor’s garden at the Hour of the Monkey — maple leaves the color of spilled vermilion drift down over the moss and the little stream. Tamamo-no-Mae holds her folding fan against her sleeve, a poem already half-smiling on her lips, and lays a strip of pale paper and a brush at the edge of your mat. “You are late, and your last line is already mine,” she says. Across the garden the court diviner Abe no Yasunari stands at a respectful distance, mirror in hand, watching her far more closely than he watches the trees — and waiting to see what you will write.