As Thom later reflected upon the evening, he became more and more intrigued by the strange masquerade and as to the reasons behind it. The First Minister need not have had anything to do with himself or his ship and crew. There was certainly a show of power being displayed to the other guests at least. As to why, Thom could not even hazard to guess. Maybe, the man felt simply curious. Maybe they saw so few Westlanders. But the fact that Kouhei could converse with them and worked as a translator intimated that trade and commerce with the west, if not common, was certainly not unheard of.
Thom became unsure whether he should be worried by the interest he and his ship had aroused. As he lay on his bunk, staring at the planks of the cabin ceiling, he listened to the drunken singing of his returning crew and smiled in the knowledge that they had made a night of it. He thought he should be grateful for so warm a welcome, but somewhere deep down, a nagging voice told him to affect repairs with all speed and get out of this strange land.
EIGHT
The journey to Hana-Shi-Ku from Kyo-To-Shi had taken three days. Three days of pain and humiliation for Hayato as he was displayed for all the countryside to see in a caged wagon better suited for the transport of animals. Three days ago he had urged Lord Kurohoshi to spare what soldiers remained alive from his father’s army, suffering the shame of standing before them and renouncing his right to the Presidorship of Kiki Province. Then came the interminable journey through village after village, where he was presented like a circus freak. People turned their backs on him unwilling to set their eyes upon someone so unworthy. He wished he was dead. Over and over again he lamented agreeing to his sister’s plea to stay alive. What was there to live for? What had he become? Still, somewhere a part of him trusted her insight, understood that, for whatever reason, he was supposed to live.
Now the procession of wagons and soldiers were entering the great city of Hana-Shi-Ku with its Lord and Presidor at the head of the column. The conquering hero, bringing with him a royal prisoner and a bride. Lord Kurohoshi had left his new dominion in the capable hands of a trusted minister and one thousand warriors. He feared no rebellion. There was no one left to rise against him. The Lords Presidor of the southern Provinces were weak. Lord Oyama had been the last worthy opponent and now he was gone, swept aside like chaff and his son a prisoner. It had been a small thing to allow the few remaining Samurai to live. It ensured the word of his victory would spread.
As the gates of the city swung open and Kurohoshi rode at the head of his victory procession a wide smile crept across his hard features. The people of the city were waiting, news having arrived earlier of their Lord’s imminent return. They lined the streets and bowed with respectful awe as their leader rode by them, turning their backs upon the cage, and waving and cheering the soldiers who rode or marched behind a row of wooden, enclosed carts.
In one of these carts sat Mizuki. Reasonably comfortable on a cushioned seat of red velvet, she had been as well cared for as her older brother had been neglected. Opposite travelled her maid, a middle aged lady who had been with her since early childhood. They were not guarded. Whenever they camped Mizuki had been allowed to see Hayato to tend to his wounds. Kurohoshi knew she would not try and escape as long as her brother remained his captive. She felt for Hayato, sensed his shame and a part of her experienced guilt for asking so much from him. Nevertheless, she held steadfastly to the belief that his fate was intertwined with her own and that he must live.
The cart bumped along the cobbled road jolting her uncomfortably this way and that. She longed for it to stop; to be able to get out and stretch her legs. The cheering crowd outside told her that they had nearly reached their journey’s end and shamefully she felt relieved. At last she could rest properly.
Whenever the caravan had travelled she had stayed hidden, the slats in the wagon’s windows fastened tight shut so that she and the maid journeyed in near darkness. She had not wanted to look upon the world knowing her father was no longer in it, knowing that the people they passed derided her brother and applauded his victor. But now an inexplicable desire to view the city that would, at least for some time, be her home, took hold. Putting her delicate, long fingered hands to the window slats she turned them just enough to afford her a glimpse of the scene outside.
She saw cramped streets filled with people. Many poorly dressed working folk, their ramshackle, but clean, houses behind them. She was surprised at the prevalent poverty having always believed Hana-Shi-Ku to be a wealthy city and Ubu a wealthy Province. She felt pride emanating from the crowd as they watched the march of their triumphant Lord, but it was a pride also tainted with a hint of resentment. She perceived that many of these poor people would see little of the spoils of war.
They turned a corner and began passing a harbour, wide and packed with various ships and boats similar to those she could see from the castle walls at Kyo-To-Shi. She started to sit back when something made her jump forward and part the shutters a little more. Along the nearest quayside, just coming into sight, lay a vessel the likes of which she had never seen before, yet was as familiar as the maid sitting opposite. It was the twin masted ship she had painted from her dream. She felt sure of it. It could not be coincidence. Her heart beating rapidly she opened the window fully to get a better view.
Upon the ship’s deck men were working; hammering and painting, replacing broken timbers and rigging. Mizuki stared. They were not men from Ashima. None had the features of her race; the almond shaped or slanting eyes, the broad high cheekbones and raven dark hair. She had seen few men of the Westlands before other than in childhood picture books showing the different races of the world and the distantly remembered Kapitan of a great steam ship and his officers. She was surprised by the variation in hair colour and skin tone. Some were almost black skinned whereas others were pink and lily-white. None wore shirts as they worked, finding the heat too stifling for clothing. Mizuki coloured at the sight of their semi-nakedness and glanced coyly at the maid, who smiled back totally unaware of the scene without.
The girl returned her gaze to the view beyond her wagon wanting to see more and trying to piece together how this ship and, she supposed its crew, were important to her, when her eyes caught those of a young man. He was so obviously from the battered Brig. He wore a similar garb of cropped trousers and light, canvass shoes, only he also wore a grubby white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and unfastened half way down his chest. He had the same round eyed look of the other men. But those eyes were so large and so very dark; his stare seemed to look straight into her soul. His long, chestnut coloured hair was mostly fastened from his face by a black ribbon. His features were fine or rather refined and somewhat exotic, his skin tanned and healthy and in his mouth he held a pipe tightly clamped. It was a face that Mizuki did not want to turn away from, handsome, in a very foreign way, but it was his eyes that held her rapt. Suddenly he smiled broadly; a roguishly boyish grin given especially for her. He touched his forehead and bowed with a flourish of his right arm springing upright with a wink and still wearing the same beaming, slightly mocking expression.
Embarrassed Mizuki dropped the slats back into place and sat hard back in her seat. The foreigner had caught her watching him and he had dared to flirt with her. For a moment she feared for his safety. What if someone had seen? But she heard no shouting, no protestation from Kurohoshi’s men and so she exhaled gently with relief and allowed herself the rare luxury of a smile. The maid, in all innocence, returned the expression.
Hayato also saw the Brig and her crew working upon her deck and amongst her rigging. If circumstances had been different he would have taken a curious interest in such an unusual vessel. Rarely did one see such a ship in Ashiman waters these days. As a child he had seen more, but something had changed in the interim. Something that meant the nations of the Westlands did not feel the long journey to the far side of the world worth the risk anymore.
If Hayato had still been heir to Kiki Province he would have paid a visit to the Brig and
her foreign crew, but he was not. Now he was a prisoner, a shamed and beaten man riding amidst his conqueror’s cavalcade in a horse drawn cage. His interest in the vessel was hardly there at all, he glanced at it and nothing more. Until he noticed the man blatantly gazing at the wagon that held his sister some way up ahead. He saw the visitor bow low, with a flourish and noted Mizuki’s pale face vanish from view behind the slats of the wagon’s windows. She was gone but the man continued to stare after her for some seconds before turning his eyes to the rest of the procession. The foreigner smiled broadly, displaying an arrogant confidence that told that he either did not care that he may have been seen, or more likely, that he did not know that his behaviour could result in his arrest.
The stranger continued to watch the wagons and horsemen of Lord Kurohoshi pass him by with an expression of mild amusement on his face until the cage drew level. Hayato sat in the straw of his mobile prison, his leg still too painful, despite the splint, to allow him to stand for long. As he drew level with the Brig, the procession briefly stopped and he found himself opposite the Westlander. The latter’s smile dropped from his face to be replaced by a concerned frown. Their eyes locked for some moments before Hayato finally looked away and his cart began to move forwards once more. The shame of his situation burned as strong as ever yet within him something stirred. He had connected with the foreigner, only for a brief few seconds, but it felt important. Hayato was not Sennjo like his siblings, but he had the strangest feeling that this moment was seminal.
As the caravan moved forwards, the exotic sailor and his ship were hidden from view behind the hordes of foot soldiers and Hayato could see them no more.
Thom stared after the procession of soldiers and wagons. He had been impressed by the proud warrior, clad in armour, at the head of the column and the thousands of men, similarly dressed following behind. He had been interested in their archaic appearance and how it seemed at odds with the modern rifles they carried and field guns that their great war horses pulled. Then he had been enraptured by the beautiful, pale faced young woman peering from a window of her carriage. She had appeared sad, but he could have sworn that her lovely face smiled at his flamboyant bow. Her visage was an image he did not wish to forget in a long time, something he could lie in bed and dream about. But then the beauty had vanished and she had been replaced by that sight of a wounded man in a cage. A prisoner no doubt, but Thom felt shocked at such treatment. Displayed like a circus beast for all to deride and abuse. As the cavalcade turned a corner away from the harbour and up a wide thoroughfare towards the castle that dominated the city from its hillside position, he became aware of a presence.
“Mr Akika, I think I have just seen an angel. Do you know who she was?” he asked the little interpreter who had arrived puffing and panting at his side.
“You should not look. It is not done. It is forbidden to set eyes on bride of Lord Kurohoshi,” Akika warned hurriedly and looked about him nervously.
Thom eyed him with amusement and laughed. “Bride? Of the warrior leading the procession?” he carried on watching the last of the foot soldiers disappear from sight.
“Yes, yes. Well, I presume so. That is what word is. That Lord Kurohoshi has brought home bride. You must not look. No man must see. She will enter isolation for one month.”
“Isolation? You mean she is kept a prisoner until she marries him?”
“No. Not prisoner. It is great honour to be chosen by Lord Kurohoshi. It is custom that bride is in isolation. She will be well treated and may have female company. But no man must see her now,” the translator explained.
“Huh! Seems like being a prisoner to me,” Thom argued.
“It is custom,” Mr Akika uttered again quietly.
“Mmm, so you say. She looked a little young for your Lord Kurohoshi. Tell me, what do you know of the man in the cage, the prisoner?” Thom changed the subject.
“Lord Kurohoshi has fought great battle in south, Province of Kiki. He won and now returns as conquering hero. Young woman is prize. She is as you would say, princess, I think. Man in cage is enemy. Now he is prisoner and there will be much celebration as his Lordship now rules more than half of Ashima. Kiki Province was last strong opponent. Now others will bow to Lord Kurohoshi. He is great warrior,” Mr Akika expounded with pride, a wide smile filling his round features.
“He might be a great warrior, but he is no great man if he treats his captives in such a way, Kouhei. A great man would respect those he has vanquished and treat them with dignity, not like a caged bear.”
“How dare you say so? You are unworthy to criticise! Lord Kurohoshi is great man and great warrior.” Kouhei spat with venom and taking offence turned his back on his foreign companion and marched away, his head held high with indignation.
Thom sniffed and sneered at his back. He had caused offence, but he had meant what he said and if the little man did not like what he heard, then the pirate kapitan was not going to lose any sleep over it.
A call from above drew his attention back to the Rose. He caught Mr Aledd’s wave and made his way up the gang plank of his ship.
NINE
Karasu rose from his futon early wanting to make as much progress as possible before nightfall. He had a small sack containing his wash things, some food, a flask of water and a change of clothing, but other than that he had nothing for he owned nothing. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the sunlight that filtered into his room through the open blinds. Outside, the leafy confines of the Temple were bathed in glorious early morning light and the damp, warm air carried the fragrant scent of flowers. He wrapped a robe around himself and prepared to wash when he was disturbed by a light tap at the rush-grass door.
“Yes?” he called. The familiar, flat face of Yoshino, his teacher and mentor, peered around the flimsy door. The older priest bowed his head slightly and asked if he could come in. Karasu accented and returned the greeting with a low, respectful bow of his own.
“Saishu tells me you are leaving us today,” Yoshino said, his hands hidden behind his back.
“Yes Sensei. I have to leave. You have not come to try and make me stay?”
“Sadly no. Though I will admit that when I learned of this I wanted to do so. However, Saishu has advised me that this must be so, that it is foreseen. I will miss you little one. It has been a long time that you have been under my wing. I think of you as a son. I will feel your loss more than most,” Yoshino replied with melancholy.
“You make it sound like I am dying,” Karasu laughed, but the laugh was hollow for he knew that to Yoshino and all the other priests of the Temple that was exactly what they thought. By leaving the priesthood he was effectively dying. He would be leaving a pure life to be tainted by the filth and sin of the outside world. To his brothers it was worse than death. Neither man spoke for some seconds.
“I have brought you something Karasu. I think you will need both,” the teacher convened at length and from behind his back he brought two curved swords wrapped in black material.
Karasu hesitated before taking them. He had hoped to not need any weapons though deep down he had known such a thought was folly. Somehow being presented with the katana by a senior priest made the realisation of what his leaving meant, could mean, much more real and much more frightening. He took the swords and unwrapped them from their binding. The black material was much more than a swathe of fabric; it was two items of clothing. A pair of wide hakama pants and the short, kimono style jacket known as Haori. It was the garb of a ronin priest. He felt humbled that Yoshino was honouring him as such when truly he had never taken his vows and had no right to such attire.
“Thank you Sensei, but I am not worthy of these,” he said keeping his eyes on the items and away from the gaze of his superior.
“I disagree. Besides, both the clothes and the katana will afford you some respect. There are few who would rob a ronin priest and fewer who would challenge one to combat. If any were foolish enough to do so at least you have the means to defen
d yourself and I have faith in your skill as a swordsman.”
“But I have never used that skill for anything other than training, to reach a higher state of physical being and mental discipline. I do not think I can fight for real,” Karasu objected his eyes bright and face flushed with the fear of his uncertain future.
“Your path is different now. I am not advocating that you fight, only that you do not hesitate to defend yourself when necessary,” Yoshino returned and stepping forward he placed one hand upon his apprentice’s shoulder. “Take care little one. Fly as strong and true as the bird you are named for and may the Kami look after you. I will pray for you each day.” He stepped back, bowed low and retreated from the room leaving Karasu alone holding the trappings of his new life.
Karasu wiped away the tears from his face, took a wash in the stream that ran through the Temple grounds and donned the clothes his Sensei had given him. He wrapped a broad, sash-like belt of black cloth from his light yukata around the haori and stashed both sheathed katana through it. Then picking up his sack, he left his room; walked through the Temple grounds to the gates and made his way out into the world beyond. A world he had not set foot in for six years.
TEN
Mizuki stared from her window down onto the city, the harbour and the two masts of the foreign ship within it. She had been incarcerated in her four room apartment upon the fourth floor of Kurohoshi’s vast, white walled castle for nearly a week now. Not a day went by when she did not grieve for her father or worry over her eldest brother, who she knew lay devoid of hope and wishing to die in the cells somewhere beneath her feet. Despite his promise Kurohoshi had not yet allowed her to see Hayato. Instead her maid paid the daily visit to attend to his wounds and to try and lift his spirits.
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