“Isn’t there another doctor, a safe one?”
“No, Hiraga-san,” the mama-san, Noriko, said. She was a tiny woman of fifty, her voice soft. “I even sent for a Korean acupuncturist and herbalist, both friends, but the poultices have been no value. There’s the giant gai-jin …”
“You’re stupid,” Ori shouted. “How many times must I tell you? This is a bullet wound, one of their bullets, and they saw me at Kanagawa!”
“Please excuse me,” the mama-san said humbly, her head to the tatami, “please excuse this stupid person.” She bowed again and left, but in her secret heart she was cursing Ori for failing to be a true shishi and not committing seppuku while Hiraga was here, the most perfect second a man could wish for, and so lessen the awful danger surrounding her and her House. News of the fate of the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin had rushed fifty ri and beyond—an outrageous retribution to kill all patrons, courtesans and servants and to spike the head of the mama-san.
Monstrous, she thought, inflamed. How can a House forbid any samurai entrance, shishi or not? In olden days samurai killed much more than today, yes, but that was centuries ago and mostly only when it was merited and not women or children. That was when the law of the land was just, Shōgun Toranaga just, his son and grandson just, before corruption and dissipation became a way of life for descendant Shōguns, daimyo and samurai alike, who for a century and more have spread their rapacious taxations over us like pus! The shishi are our only hope! Sonno-joi!
“Anjo must die before we die,” she said fervently when Hiraga had at length returned safely two days after the attack. “We’ve been petrified you’d been caught and burnt with the others. It was all done on Anjo’s orders, Hiraga-san, on his orders—in fact he was returning from the Inn when you attacked him near the castle gates, he had personally ordered and witnessed the executions, leaving men there in ambush in case all you shishi returned unawares.”
“Who betrayed us, Hiraga?” Ori had asked.
“The Mori samurai.”
“But Akimoto said he saw them engulfed and killed.”
“It must have been one of them. Did anyone else escape?”
“Akimoto—he hid out in another Inn for a day and a night.”
“Where is he now?”
Noriko said, “He’s occupied—shall I send for him?”
“No. Tomorrow I will see him.”
“Anjo must pay in blood for the Inn—that’s against all custom!”
“He will. So will the roju. So will Shōgun Nobusada. And so will Yoshi.”
In his private quarters high up in the castle keep, Yoshi was composing a poem. He wore a blue silk kimono and sat at a low table, an oil lamp on it and sheets of rice paper, brushes of different thicknesses, water to soften the block of jet ink that now had a tiny, inviting pool in the hollowed-out center.
Twilight was becoming night. From outside the hum of Yedo’s million souls was ever present. A few houses on fire as usual. From the castle below the comforting, muted noise of soldiers, hooves on cobblestones, an occasional throaty laugh wafting upwards with the smoke and smells of the cooking fires through the decorative, bowman openings in the vast walls, not yet shuttered against the night chill.
This was his inner sanctum. Spartan. Tatamis, a tokonoma, the shoji door in front of him so positioned and lit that he could see the shape of any figure outside but no one there could look within.
Outside this room was a larger anteroom with corridors leading off it to sleeping quarters, empty at present except for retainers, maids and Koiko, his special favorite. His family—his wife, two sons and a daughter, his consort and her son—were all safe and heavily guarded in his hereditary, fortress castle, Dragon’s Tooth, in the mountains some twenty ri northwards. Beyond this antechamber were guards and other rooms with other guards, all sworn to his personal service.
His brush dipped into the ink pool. He poised the point over the delicate rice paper then wrote firmly:
Sword of my fathers
When in my hands
Twists uneasily
The writing was in three short, flowing vertical lines of characters, strong where they should be strong and soft where softness would enhance the picture that the characters made—never a second chance to refine or change or correct even the slightest fault, the texture of the rice paper sucking in the ink at once to become indelibly a part of it, varying the black to grey depending how the brush was used and the amount of water therein.
Coldly, he scrutinized what he had done, the placement of the poem and the whole picture that the shades of black calligraphy made within the expanse of white, the shape and the fluid, obscured clearness of his characters.
It’s good, he thought without vanity. I cannot do better yet—this is almost to the limit of my capability, if not at the limit. What about the meaning of the poem, how it should be read? Ah, that’s the important question, that’s why it is good. But will it achieve what I want?
These questions prompted him to review the shocking state of affairs here and at Kyōto. Word arrived a few days ago that there had been a sudden bloody but successful coup there by Choshu troops who had thrown out Satsuma and Tosa forces who had, for the last six months, held power there in an uneasy truce. Lord Ogama of Choshu now commanded the Palace Gates.
At the hastily convened meeting of the Council tempers had flared, Anjo almost frothing with fury. “Choshu, Satsuma and Tosa! Always those three. They’re dogs who must be crushed! Without them everything would be in control.”
“True,” Yoshi had said, “I tell you all again we must order our troops in Kyōto to put down the rebellion at once—whatever the cost!”
“No, we have to wait, we have insufficient forces there.”
Toyama, the old man, wiped his grizzled chin and said, “I agree with Yoshi-dono. War is the only way, we must declare Ogama of Choshu outlaw!”
“Impossible!” Adachi had said querulously, for himself and the last Elder. “We agree with Anjo, we cannot risk offending all daimyos, encouraging them to mass against us.”
“We must act at once!” he had repeated. “We must order our troops to retake the Gates, put down the rebellion.”
“We have insufficient forces,” Anjo had said stubbornly. “We will wait. Now is not the time.”
“Why won’t you listen to my advice?” By now Yoshi was so angered that it almost surfaced. He had contained it with an effort, knowing that to rave and lose his temper would be a fatal error and turn them all permanently against him. Wasn’t he the youngest, the least experienced but the most qualified, with the most influence amongst daimyos, who could, if he wished, alone amongst the Elders, raise his standard and pitch the whole country into civil war as had existed for centuries before the Shōgun Toranaga? Were they not all jealous and spitting when he was appointed Guardian and an Elder by Imperial “request” without consulting them, by whomever the Son of Heaven was manipulated? “I know I’m right. Wasn’t I right about the gai-jin? I’m right about this.”
The plan he had conceived to remove the gai-jin and their fleet from Yedo to gain time to deal with their own internal problems had been a perfect success. It was so simple: “With great ceremony and feigned humility we give the gai-jin a pittance of a ransom, propose a future meeting with the Council which will be delayed and further delayed or cancelled, or even staged with puppets if need be, implying at the last moment, when their patience is at an end, that a meeting with the Shōgun when he returns is to be arranged—which can also be delayed, renegotiated and delayed and will never happen, or even if it does sometime in the future, it will produce nothing we do not wish.
“We gained some of the time we needed, and discovered a permanent way of dealing with them: use their impatience against them, give them ‘promises’ and lots of soup but no fish, or at the most a few rotting pieces we don’t need or want. They were satisfied; their fleet sailed away into the storm and perhaps under the sea. None have returned yet.”
Old
Toyama said, “The gods aided us with that storm, again their Divine Wind, kamikaze wind, as they did against Kublai Khan’s invading hordes centuries ago. When we expel them it will be the same, the gods will never forsake us.”
Adachi had been preening himself. “It’s true I carried out our plan to perfection. The gai-jin were as docile as a fifth-rate courtesan.”
“Gai-jin are a sore that will never heal while we are weaker in military power or wealth,” Anjo said irritably, wringing his hands. “They are a sore that will not heal—not without burning it out, and we cannot do that yet, not yet, not without means to build ships and make cannon. We cannot be diverted and order troops to take the Gates, not yet. They are not the immediate enemy, nor Choshus, the immediate enemy is sonno-joi and shishi dogs.”
Yoshi had noticed how very much Anjo had changed since the assassination attempt: now he was far more irascible, stubborn, his resolve weakened though his influence over the other Elders had not. “I don’t agree but if you think we have insufficient forces let us order a general mobilization and let us finish the outside lords and any who join them!”
Toyama said, “War is the only way, Anjo-sama, forget shishi, forget gai-jin for the moment. The Gates—first we must repossess our hereditary rights.”
Anjo had said, “We will, at the right time. Next: the Shōgun’s visit will go forth as planned.”
Over his further protests Anjo had again carried the vote, three to two, and in private had added malevolently, “I told you, Yoshi-dono, they will always vote with me, shishi will never succeed against me, nor will you, nor will anyone.”
“Even Shōgun Nobusada?”
“He … he is not an enemy and he takes my advice.”
“And the Princess Yazu?”
“She will obey … she will obey her husband.”
“She will obey her brother, the Emperor, until she dies.”
To his shock Anjo had said with a twisted smile, “You propose an accident? Eh?”
“I propose nothing of the sort.”
Yoshi felt chilled, afraid the man was becoming too dangerous to leave alive, already too powerful to neutralize, too farsighted, supported by a swarm of cohorts ready and able to swallow him up….
A silhouette was approaching the door, almost noiselessly. Without thinking his right hand went to his long sword that lay beside him even though he was sure he recognized her. The figure knelt. Delicate knock.
“Yes?”
She slid the door back smiling, bowed and waited.
“Please come in, Koiko,” he said, delighted with this unexpected visit, all his demons vanishing.
She obeyed, closed the door and ran over to him, her long, multipatterned kimono sibilant, knelt again and pressed her cheek to his hand, at once noticing the picture poem. “Good evening, Sire.”
He laughed, and gave her a tender hug. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I missed you,” she said simply. “May I see your poem?”
“Of course.”
As she studied his work, he studied her, a constant pleasure for him in the thirty-four days she had been here within the castle walls. Extraordinary clothes. Pure eggshell skin, shining raven hair that, when loosed, would reach to her waist, delicate nose, her teeth left white as were his and not blackened in Court fashion.
“Stupid!” his father had said to him as soon as he could understand. “Why should we blacken our teeth just because it’s a Court custom started by an Emperor centuries ago whose teeth were old and rotting, who therefore decreed that dyed teeth were superior to having teeth like animals! And why use paints for our lips and cheeks as some still do because another wanted to be a woman and not a man, pretended to be one, and courtiers imitated him-her to curry favor.”
Koiko was twenty-two years old, Tayu, the highest possible grade of geisha in the Willow World.
Hearing whispers about her and curious, some months ago he had sent for her, enjoyed her company and then, two months ago, had ordered her mama-san to submit a proposal for her services. Correctly the proposal had gone to his wife to deal with. His wife had written from Dragon’s Tooth, their castle home:
Beloved Husband, I have today concluded satisfactory arrangements with the mama-san for the Tayu Koiko of the House of Wisteria. Sire, we considered it is better to have her exclusivity than a first option on her services, and also safer as you are surrounded by enemies. At your whim the contract is renewable monthly, payment monthly in arrears to ensure that her services are maintained to the very high standard you should expect.
Your Consort and I are pleased that you have decided to have a toy, we were and are continually most concerned for your health and safety. May I compliment you on your choice, it is rumored that Koiko is rare indeed.
Your sons are well and happy, and your daughter and myself. We send our everlasting loyalty and long for your presence. Please keep me closely advised as I must direct our Paymaster to set aside funds …
Correctly his wife had not mentioned the amount, nor would it concern him, for that was a prime wifely function: to manage and guard the family wealth and pay all bills.
Koiko looked up. “Your poem is flawless, Yoshi-chan,” she said, and clapped her hands, the “chan” an intimate diminutive.
“You’re flawless,” he said, hiding his pleasure at her judgment. Apart from her unique physical attributes, she was renowned in Yedo for the quality of her calligraphy, the beauty of her poems, and her shrewdness in art and politics.
“I adore the way you write, and the poem, it is superb. I adore the complexity of your mind, particularly why you chose ‘when’ and not perhaps ‘now,’ and ‘twists’ when a lesser man could use ‘moves’ or the more blatant ‘stirs,’ which would give it sexual overtones. But the placement of your final word, the final ‘uneasily’—ah, Yoshi-chan, how clever to use that word last, an underneath word, perfect. Your creation is superb and can be read a dozen ways.”
“And what do you think I’m saying?”
Her eyes lit. “First tell me if you intend to keep it—to keep it openly, secretly or to destroy it.”
“What is my intention?” he asked, enjoying her.
“If you keep it openly, or pretend to hide it, or pretend it’s secret, you plan it to be read by others who, one way or another, will inform your enemies, as you want.”
“And what will they think?”
“All but the cleverest will presume that your resolve is weakening, your fears are beginning to overrun you.”
“And the others?”
Koiko’s eyes lost none of their amusement but he saw them pick up an added glint. “Of your chief adversaries,” she said delicately, “Shōgun Nobusada would interpret it that in your inner mind you agree with him that you are not strong enough to be a real threat, and he’ll happily postulate it will become easier and easier to eliminate you the longer he waits. Anjo would be consumed with envy at your prowess as a poet and calligraphier and would sneer at the ‘uneasily,’ believing it to be unworthy and ill chosen, but the poem would obsess him, worrying him, particularly if it was reported as a secret document, until he would have eighty-eight inner meanings all of which would increase his implacable opposition to you.”
Her openness dazzled him. “And if I kept it, secretly?”
She laughed. “If you wanted to keep it secret, then you would have burnt it at once and never shown it to me. Sad to destroy such beauty, so sad, Yoshi-chan, but necessary to a man in your position.”
“Why? It’s just a poem.”
“I believe this one is special. It is too good. Such art comes from deep wells within. It reveals. Revelation is the purpose of poetry.”
“Go on.”
Her eyes seemed to change color as she wondered how far she dared go, always testing intellectual limits—to entertain and excite her patron, if that was his interest. He noticed the change but did not discern the reason.
“For example,” she said easily, “to the wrong eyes it
could be construed that your innermost thought was really saying: ‘The power of my ancestor namesake, Shōgun Toranaga Yoshi, is within my grasp, begs to be used.’”
He watched her and she could not read his eyes. Eeee, he was thinking, all his senses shrieking danger. Am I so apparent? Perhaps this lady is too perceptive to keep alive. “And the Princess Yazu? What would she think?”
“She’s the cleverest of all, Yoshi-chan. But then you know that. She would realize the meaning instantly—if you have a special meaning.” Again her eyes could not be read.
“And if as a present to you?”
“Then this unworthy person would be filled with joy to be given such a treasure—but in a quandary, Yoshi-chan.”
“Quandary?”
“It is too special, to give or to receive.”
Yoshi took his eyes off her and looked at his work very carefully. It was everything he desired, he could never duplicate it. Then he considered her, with equal finality. He watched his fingers pick up the paper and hand it to her, closing the trap.
Reverently she received the paper with both hands and bowed low. Intently she scrutinized it, wanting the whole of it to be put indelibly in her memory as the ink on the paper. A deep sigh. Carefully she held the corner near the oil flame. “With your permission, Yoshi-sama, please?” she said formally, looking at him, eyes steady, hands steady.
“Why?” he asked, astonished.
“Too dangerous for you to leave such thoughts alive.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then, please excuse me, I must decide for you.”
“Then decide.”
At once she lowered the paper into the flame. It caught and flared up. Deftly she twisted it until only a tiny scrap was still burning, the ash still in one piece, carefully balanced it on another sheet until the flame died. Her fingers were long and delicate, fingernails perfection. In silence they folded the paper containing the ashes into an origami and put it back on the table. The paper now resembled a carp.
When Koiko looked up again her eyes were filled with tears and his affection went out to her. “So sorry, please excuse me,” she said, her voice breaking, “But too dangerous for you … so sad to have to destroy such beauty, I wanted so very much to keep it. So very sad but too dangerous …”