Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him I thank him truly for what he did for Old Gardener. I didn’t before, not from my heart. Tell him that.”

  “There’s no need, Anjin-san. He knew before that you were just being polite.”

  “How did he know?”

  “I told you he is the wisest man in the world.”

  He grinned.

  “There,” she said, “your age has fallen off you again,” and added in Latin, “Thou art thyself again, and better than before!”

  “But thou art beautiful, as always.”

  Her eyes warmed and she averted them from Toranaga. Blackthorne saw this and marked her caution. He got to his feet and stared down into the jagged cleft. Carefully he jumped into it and disappeared.

  Mariko scrambled up, momentarily afraid, but Blackthorne quickly came back to the surface. In his hands was Fujiko’s sword. It was still scabbarded, though muddied and scarred. His short stabbing sword had disappeared.

  He knelt in front of Toranaga and offered his sword as a sword should be offered. “Dozo, Toranaga-sama,” he said simply. “Kara samurai ni samurai, neh?” Please, Lord Toranaga, from a samurai to a samurai, eh?

  “Domo, Anjin-san.” The Lord of the Kwanto accepted the sword and shoved it into his sash. Then he smiled, leaned forward, and clapped Blackthorne once on the shoulder, hard. “Tomo, neh?” Friend, eh?

  “Domo.” Blackthorne glanced away. His smile faded. A cloud of smoke was drifting over the rise above where the village would be. At once he asked Toranaga if he could leave, to make sure Fujiko was all right.

  “He says, yes, Anjin-san. And we are to see him at the fortress at sunset for the evening meal. There are some things he wishes to discuss with you.”

  Blackthorne went back to the village. It was devastated, the course of the road bent out of recognition, the surface shattered. But the boats were safe. Many fires still burned. Villagers were carrying buckets of sand and buckets of water. He turned the corner. Omi’s house was tilted drunkenly on its side. His own was a burnt-out ruin.

  CHAPTER 39

  Fujiko had been injured. Nigatsu, her maid, was dead. The first shock had collapsed the central pillars of the house, scattering the coals of the kitchen fire. Fujiko and Nigatsu had been trapped by one of the fallen beams and the flames had turned Nigatsu into a torch. Fujiko had been pulled free. One of the cook’s children had also been killed, but the rest of his servants had suffered only bruises and some twisted limbs. They all were overjoyed to find that Blackthorne was alive and unhurt.

  Fujiko was lying on a salvaged futon near the undamaged garden fence, half conscious. When she saw also that Blackthorne was unscathed she almost wept. “I thank Buddha you’re not hurt, Anjin-san,” she said weakly.

  Still partially in shock, she tried to get up but he bade her not to move. Her legs and lower back were badly burned. A doctor was already tending her, wrapping bandages soaked in cha and other herbs around her limbs to soothe them. Blackthorne hid his concern and waited until the doctor had finished, then said privately, “Fujiko-san, yoi ka?” Lady Fujiko will be all right?

  The doctor shrugged. “Hai.” His lips came back from his protruding teeth again. “Karma, neh?”

  “Hai.” Blackthorne had seen enough burned seamen die to know that any bad burn was dangerous, the open wound almost always rotting within a few days and nothing to stop the infection spreading. “I don’t want her to die.”

  “Dozo?”

  He said it in Japanese and the doctor shook his head and told him that the Lady would surely be all right. She was young and strong.

  “Shigata ga nai,” the doctor said and ordered maids to keep her bandages moist, gave Blackthorne herbs for his own abrasions, told him he would return soon, then scuttled up the hill toward Omi’s wrecked house above.

  Blackthorne stood at his main gate, which was unharmed. Buntaro’s arrows were still embedded in the left post. Absently he touched one. Karma that she was burned, he thought sadly.

  He went back to Fujiko and ordered a maid to bring cha. He helped her to drink and held her hand until she slept, or appeared to sleep. His servants were salvaging whatever they could, working quickly, helped by a few villagers. They knew the rains would be coming soon. Four men were trying to erect a temporary shelter.

  “Dozo, Anjin-san.” The cook was offering him fresh tea, trying to keep the misery off his face. The little girl had been his favorite daughter.

  “Domo,” Blackthorne replied. “Sumimasen.” I’m sorry.

  “Arigato, Anjin-san. Karma, neh?”

  Blackthorne nodded, accepted the tea, and pretended not to notice the cook’s grief, lest he shame him. Later a samurai came up the hill bringing word from Toranaga that Blackthorne and Fujiko were to sleep in the fortress until the house was rebuilt. Two palanquins arrived. Blackthorne lifted her gently into one of them and sent her with maids. He dismissed his own palanquin, telling her he’d follow soon.

  The rain began but he paid it no heed. He sat on a stone in the garden that had given him so much pleasure. Now it was a shambles. The little bridge was broken, the pond shattered, and the streamlet had vanished.

  “Never mind,” he said to no one. “The rocks aren’t dead.”

  Ueki-ya had told him that a garden must be settled around its rocks, that without them a garden is empty, merely a place of growing.

  One of the rocks was jagged and ordinary but Ueki-ya had planted it so that if you looked at it long and hard near sunset, the reddish glow glinting off the veins and crystal buried within, you could see a whole range of mountains with lingering valleys and deep lakes and, far off, a greening horizon, night gathering there.

  Blackthorne touched the rock. “I name you Ueki-ya-sama,” he said. This pleased him and he knew that if Ueki-ya were alive, the old man would have been very pleased also. Even though he’s dead, perhaps he’ll know, Blackthorne told himself, perhaps his kami is here now. Shintoists believed that when they died they became a kami….

  ‘What is a kami, Mariko-san?’

  ‘Kami is inexplicable, Anjin-san. It is like a spirit but not, like a soul but not. Perhaps it is the insubstantial essence of a thing or person … you should know a human becomes a kami after death but a tree or rock or plant or painting is equally a kami. Kami are venerated, never worshiped. They exist between heaven and earth and visit this Land of the Gods or leave it, all at the same time.’

  ‘And Shinto? What’s Shinto?’

  ‘Ah, that is inexplicable too, so sorry. It’s like a religion, but isn’t. At first it even had no name—we only called it Shinto, the Way of the Kami, a thousand years ago, to distinguish it from Butsudo, the Way of Buddha. But though it’s indefinable Shinto is the essence of Japan and the Japanese, and though it possesses neither theology nor godhead nor faith nor system of ethics, it is our justification for existence. Shinto is a nature cult of myths and legends in which no one believes wholeheartedly, yet everyone venerates totally. A person is Shinto in the same way he is born Japanese.’

  ‘Are you Shinto too—as well as Christian?’

  ‘Oh yes, oh very yes, of course….’

  Blackthorne touched the stone again. “Please, kami of Ueki-ya, please stay in my garden.”

  Then, careless of the rain, he let his eyes take him into the rock, past the lush valleys and serene lake and to the greening horizon, darkness gathering there.

  His ears told him to come back. He looked up. Omi was watching him, squatting patiently on his haunches. It was still raining and Omi wore a newly pressed kimono under his rice-straw raincoat, and a wide, conical bamboo hat. His hair was freshly shampooed.

  “Karma, Anjin-san,” he said, motioning at the smoldering ruins.

  “Hai. Ikaga desu ka?” Blackthorne wiped the rain off his face.

  “Yoi.” Omi pointed up at his house. “Watakushi no yuya wa hakaisarete imasen ostukai ni narimasen-ka?” My bath wasn’t damaged. Would you care to use it?

  “Ah so
desu! Domo, Omi-san, hai, domo.” Gratefully Blackthorne followed Omi up the winding path, into his courtyard. Servants and village artisans under Mura’s supervision were already hammering and sawing and repairing. The central posts were already back in place and the roof almost resettled.

  With signs and simple words and much patience, Omi explained that his servants had managed to douse the fires in time. Within a day or two, he told Blackthorne, the house would be up again, as good as it was, so not to worry. Yours will take longer, a week, Anjin-san. Don’t worry, Fujiko-san is a fine manager. She’ll have all costs arranged with Mura in no time and your house’ll be better than ever. I hear she was burned? Well, this happens sometimes, but not to worry, our doctors are very expert with burns—they have to be, neh? Yes, Anjin-san, it was a bad quake, but not that bad. The rice fields were hardly touched and the so essential irrigation system was undamaged. And the boats weren’t damaged and that’s very important too. Only a hundred and fifty-four samurai were killed in the avalanche, that’s not many, neh? As to the village, a week and you’ll hardly know there was a quake. Five peasants were killed and a few children—nothing! Anjiro was very lucky, neh? I hear you pulled Toranaga-sama out of a death trap. We’re all grateful to you, Anjin-san. Very. If we’d lost him … Lord Toranaga said he accepted your sword—you’re lucky, that’s a great honor. Yes. Your karma’s strong, very good, very rich. Yes, we thank you very much. Listen, we’ll talk more after you’ve bathed. I’m glad to have you as a friend.

  Omi called out for the bath attendants. “Isogi!” Hurry up!

  The servants escorted Blackthorne to the bath house, which was set within a tiny maple grove and joined to the main house by a neat winding walk, usually roofed. The bath was much more luxurious than his own. One wall was cracked badly but villagers were already replastering it. The roof was sound although a few tiles were missing and rain leaked in here and there, but that did not matter.

  Blackthorne stripped and sat on the tiny seat. The servants lathered him and shampooed him in the rain. When he was cleansed he went inside and immersed himself in the steaming bath. All his troubles melted away.

  Fujiko’s going to be all right. I’m a lucky man—lucky I was there to pull Toranaga out, lucky to save Mariko, and lucky he was there to pull us out.

  Suwo’s magic renewed him as usual. Later he let Suwo dress his bruises and cuts and put on the clean loincloth and kimono and tabi that had been left for him, and went out. The rain had stopped.

  A temporary lean-to had been erected in one corner of the garden. It had a neat raised floor and was furnished with clean futons and a little vase with a flower arrangement. Omi was waiting for him and in attendance was a toothless, hard-faced old woman.

  “Please sit down, Anjin-san,” Omi said.

  “Thank you, and thanks for the clothes,” he replied in halting Japanese.

  “Please don’t mention it. Would you like cha or saké?”

  “Cha,” Blackthorne decided, thinking that he had better keep his head clear for his interview with Toranaga. “Thank you.”

  “This is my mother,” Omi said formally, clearly idolizing her.

  Blackthorne bowed. The old woman simpered and sucked in her breath.

  “It’s my honor, Anjin-san,” she said.

  “Thank you, but I’m honored.” Blackthorne repeated automatically the succession of formal politenesses that Mariko had taught him.

  “Anjin-san, we were so sorry to see your house in flames.”

  “What could one do? That’s karma, neh?”

  “Yes, karma.” The old woman looked away and scowled. “Hurry up! The Anjin-san wants his cha warm!”

  The girl standing beside the maid who carried the tray took Blackthorne’s breath away. Then he remembered her. Wasn’t this the girl he’d seen with Omi, the first time, when he was passing through the village square on his way to the galley?

  “This is my wife,” Omi said tersely.

  “I’m honored,” Blackthorne said as she took her place, knelt, and bowed.

  “You must forgive her slowness,” Omi’s mother said. “Is the cha warm enough for you?”

  “Thank you, it’s very good.” Blackthorne had noted that the old woman had not used the wife’s name as she should have. But then, he was not surprised because Mariko had told him already about the dominating position of a girl’s mother-in-law in Japanese society.

  “Thank God it’s not the same in Europe,” he had told her.

  “A wife’s mother-in-law can do no wrong—after all, Anjin-san, the parents choose the wife in the first place and what father would choose without first consulting his own wife? Of course, the daughter-in-law has to obey, and the son always does what his mother and father want.”

  “Always?”

  “Always.”

  “What if the son refuses?”

  “That’s not possible. Everyone has to obey the head of the house. A son’s first duty is to his parents. Of course. Sons are given everything by their mothers—life, food, tenderness, protection. She succors them all their lives. So of course it’s right that a son should heed his mother’s wishes. The daughter-in-law—she has to obey. That’s her duty.”

  “It’s not the same with us.”

  “It’s hard to be a good daughter-in-law, very hard. You just have to hope that you live long enough to have sons to become one yourself.”

  “And your mother-in-law?”

  “Ah, she’s dead, Anjin-san. She died many years ago. I never knew her. Lord Hiro-matsu, in his wisdom, never took another wife.”

  “Buntaro-san’s his only son?”

  “Yes. My husband has five living sisters, but no brothers.” She had joked, “In a way we’re related now, Anjin-san. Fujiko’s my husband’s niece. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m surprised you never told me, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s complicated, Anjin-san.” Then Mariko had explained that Fujiko was actually an adopted daughter of Numata Akinori, who had married Buntaro’s youngest sister, and that Fujiko’s real father was a grandson of the Dictator Goroda by his eighth consort, that Fujiko had been adopted by Numata when an infant at the Taikō’s orders because the Taikō wanted closer ties between the descendants of Hiro-matsu and Goroda….

  “What?”

  Mariko had laughed, telling him that, yes, Japanese family relationships were very complicated because adoption was normal, that families exchanged sons and daughters often, and divorced and remarried and intermarried all the time. With so many legal consorts and the ease of divorce—particularly if at the order of a liege lord—all families soon become incredibly tangled.

  “To unravel Lord Toranaga’s family links accurately would take days, Anjin-san. Just think of the complications: Presently he has seven official consorts living, who have given him five sons and three daughters. Some of the consorts were widows or previously married with other sons and daughters—some of these Toranaga adopted, some he did not. In Japan you don’t ask if a person is adopted or natural. Truly, what does it matter? Inheritance is always at the whim of the head of the house, so adopted or not it is the same, neh? Even Toranaga’s mother was divorced. Later she remarried and had three more sons and two daughters by her second husband, all of whom are also now married! Her eldest son from her second marriage is Zataki, Lord of Shinano.”

  Blackthorne had mulled that. Then he had said, “Divorce isn’t possible for us. Not possible.”

  “So the Holy Fathers tell us. So sorry, but that’s not very sensible, Anjin-san. Mistakes happen, people change, that’s karma, neh? Why should a man have to bear a foul wife, or a wife a foul man? Foolish to be stuck forever, man or woman, neh?”

  “Yes.”

  “In this we are very wise and the Holy Fathers unwise. This was one of the two great reasons the Taikō would not embrace Christianity, this foolishness about divorce—and the sixth Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ The Father-Visitor sent all the way to Rome begging dispensati
on for Japanese about divorce. But His Holiness the Pope, in his wisdom, said no. If His Holiness had said yes, I believe the Taikō would have converted, the daimyos would be following the True Faith now, and the land would be Christian. The matter of ‘killing’ would have been unimportant because no one pays any attention to that really, Christians least of all. Such a little concession, for so much, neh?”

  “Yes,” Blackthorne had said. How sensible divorce seemed here. Why was it a mortal sin at home, opposed by every priest in Christendom, Catholic or Protestant, in the name of God?

  “What’s Toranaga’s wife like?” he had asked, wanting to keep her talking. Most of the time she avoided the subject of Toranaga and his family history and it was important for Blackthorne to know everything.

  A shadow had crossed Mariko’s face. “She’s dead. She was his second wife and she died ten or eleven years ago. She was the Taikō’s stepsister. Lord Toranaga was never successful with his wives, Anjin-san.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, the second was old and tired and grasping, worshiping gold, though pretending not to, like her brother, the Taikō himself. Barren and bad-tempered. It was a political marriage, of course. I had to be one of her ladies-in-waiting for a time. Nothing would please her and none of the youths or men could unwind the knot in her Golden Pavilion.”

  “What?”

  “Her Jade Gate, Anjin-san. With their Turtle Heads—their Steaming Shafts. Don’t you understand? Her … thing.”

  “Oh! I understand. Yes.”

  “No one could unwind her knot … could satisfy her.”

  “Not even Toranaga?”

  “He never pillowed her, Anjin-san,” she had said, quite shocked. “Of course, after the marriage he had nothing to do with her, other than give her a castle and retainers and the keys to his treasure house—why should he? She was quite old, she’d been married twice before, but her brother, the Taikō, had dissolved the marriages. A most unpleasant woman—everyone was most relieved when she went into the Great Void, even the Taikō, and all her stepdaughters-in-law and all of Toranaga’s consorts secretly burnt incense with great joy.”