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inexorably down the long aisle, no more than a passenger in his own body. At least, he assumes he is in his own body, for he cannot see any of it except an occasional peripheral glimpse of his hands as he walks toward the podium.
    There, an elderly white-haired man strikes the tabletop with a small wooden hammer.
    “Order! Order! The Diet will come to order!”
    His voice is lost in the torrent of warring words that come at Genji from both sides of the aisle.
    “Damn you to hell!”
    “
Banzai!
You’ve saved the nation!”
    “Show honor and kill yourself!”
    “May all the gods and all the Buddhas bless and protect you!”
    The voices tell him he is hated and revered with almost equal ardor. The cheers come from his left, the curses from his right. He raises his hand to acknowledge the cheers. When he does, Genji the passenger can see that the hand is indeed his own, though perhaps showing more signs of the passage of time.
    An instant later, a shout comes from the right.
    “Long live the Emperor!”
    Rushing at him from that direction is a young man. He wears a plain dark blue uniform with no emblems or insignias. His hair is cut close to the scalp. In his hands is a short-bladed wakizashi sword.
    Genji tries to move defensively. His body doesn’t budge. As he watches, the young man drives his sword deep into Genji’s chest. Passenger or not, he feels the sudden jolt of contact and a sharp stinging sensation as if a huge venomous creature has stung him. Blood explodes into his assailant’s face. It is a moment before Genji realizes the blood is his. His muscles suddenly relax and he falls to the ground.
    Among the faces peering down at him is that of an unusually beautiful young woman — unusual both in the degree and quality of her beauty. Her eyes are hazel, her hair is light brown, her features are exaggerated and dramatic and reminiscent of the outsiders. She reminds him of someone he can’t quite place. She kneels down and, oblivious of the blood, cradles him in her arms.
    She smiles at him through her tears and says, “You will always be my Shining Prince.” It is a play on his name, Genji, the same name as an ancient fictional hero.
    Genji feels his body trying to speak, but no words come. He sees something sparkling at her long, smooth throat. A locket marked with a fleur-de-lis. Then he sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing—
     

     
    “Lord Genji! Lord Genji!”
    He opened his eyes. The housemaid Umé knelt beside him, a worried look on her face. He raised himself up on one elbow. While unconscious, he had fallen out of his room and into the garden.
    “Are you well, my lord? Forgive me for entering without permission. I was on duty outside and heard a thud, and when I called, you did not answer.”
    “I am well,” Genji said. He leaned on her and sat down on the veranda.
    “Perhaps it would be best to summon Dr. Ozawa,” Umé said. “Just to be safe.”
    “Yes, perhaps. Send one of the others for him.”
    “Yes, Lord Genji.” She hurried to the doorway, whispered to another maid who waited there, and hurried back.
    “May I have tea brought to you, my lord?”
    “No, just sit with me.”
    Had he had a seizure? Or was that, at last, one of the visions he had been promised? It couldn’t be, could it? It made no sense. If it was a vision, it was a vision of his own death. What use was that? He felt a kind of deep, cold fear he had never experienced before. Perhaps instead of becoming a visionary, he was destined for early madness. That had happened often enough in his family. Still dizzy from the fall and the vision or dream or hallucination, he lost his balance.
    Umé caught him softly with her body.
    Genji leaned against her, still very afraid. He would send a message to his grandfather today asking him to hurry to Edo without delay. Only Kiyori could explain what he had experienced. Only Kiyori could find the sense in it, if sense there was.
    But before his messenger left, another