She was rarely so far from the comforts of her home city of Kiyō, so exposed to the raw elements. The swollen river carried tonnes of yellow mud, debris and flotsam, gathered along its way from the hills, but there was something else in the water, something Nagomi knew only she could see. Streaks of blackness, threads of un-light flashed among the waves. She knew at once what it was—somewhere upstream the river had disturbed a cemetery shrine, and released the troubled Spirits into the world. She shivered, only partly from the cold.
“I thought as much,” her mother, Lady Itō, said, observing the chaos before them. She straightened her silk yukata robe, once dazzlingly colourful and light as a feather, now grey and heavy with water and dirt. “We cannot cross today.”
“It’s still safe!” said Satō, a ponytail of black hair bobbing up and down with her every agitated move. Nagomi’s best friend cut her hair and wore her clothes like a samurai, down to the long katana sword in a red lacquer scabbard dangling from her silk sash.
“Look, if we hurry…”
“It’s too risky,” Lady Itō said, shaking her head.
“Can’t we just go back to the inn, Mother?” Nagomi asked quietly. “Drink some hot cha…”
“I don’t like their cha,” muttered Satō, “it’s bland and dead. They boil it too hot, and serve it too cold. If we go back now, we’ll have to wait for days until this calms down.”
Lady Itō looked at the river doubtfully.
“All right, but be very careful. Let the porter through first.”
She waved at the servant, who entered the causeway with trembling legs, the heavy bundle of their belongings bending his back. They followed him across. A small group of men and women in simple linen clothes, tattered and mud-stained, waited on the other side—the causeway was already only wide enough for single file.
“Almost there,” said Satō.
They now waded through shallow mud as the swollen waters started breaching the crest of the causeway. The other side was now closer than the one from which they had started.
Nagomi said nothing. Her face turned pale-green. It was neither the water she feared nor the cold, but the dark Spirits in the water, now floating around her legs. It was like wading through sewage. The souls of the dead whispered and buzzed with an incessant droning hum and, worst of all, they seemed to be gathering around her, sensing a holy presence. She was almost certain she could hear her name repeated in their humming.
“Nagomi,” they whispered. “Nagominagominagomi…”
A horseman appeared on the road ahead, a governmental courier speeding on a white stallion, crying for them to make way. The peasants on the shore dispersed before the horse, and the three travellers managed to wade to the side, but their porter lost his balance and stumbled into the water. The courier did not stop, bound by duty to deliver his urgent message, splashing the yellow muck all around. The commoners, however, rushed to the servant’s aid. With Satō’s help, they managed to pull him out of the raging current, but the man was already unconscious, his head cracked, bleeding.
Without thinking, Nagomi dropped to her knees beside the porter, straight into the brown-yellow sludge. The black Spirits still swirled about her, repeating their monotonous mantra:
“Minagominagominagomi…”
“Nagomi, dear,” Lady Itō tried to admonish her in exasperation, “it’s just a hired servant, not worth your attention…”
The girl didn’t listen. She examined the porter’s wound. It was not as severe as she had feared. She threw back the hood of her cloak and the people around gasped at the sight of her copper-coloured hair. Some pulled back, crooking their fingers against bad luck.
The girl ignored them. She was used to this reaction whenever she showed herself outside her hometown, and understood the cause. Nobody in all of Yamato had hair of the same colour. Some—a few close friends and family—regarded it as a blessing from the Gods. Most, however, treated it as a curse, an abomination. Luckily it did not affect her healing powers.
She drew a tasselled paper wand from her sash and started waving it vigorously, chanting a prayer. She could feel the holy energy filling her body with warmth. It was the warmth of a fireplace in winter, of the summer sun, of a mother’s arms. She forgot all about the other-worldly coldness of the dark Spirits in the water below. At last, when she was almost at the point of bursting, she released it into the unconscious man’s body. It blazed with a blue light for a moment and the wound started sealing up almost immediately. The man stirred and moaned. She staggered as blood rushed from her head. It was an exhausting exercise.
Instead of showering her with praise for the miracle, the villagers eyed Nagomi suspiciously, as if she was a demon in disguise.
“Take him somewhere warm. He should be back up in a few days,” she said, trying not to let their hostility get to her. The response was silence and accusing glares, as if the villagers were telling her “you healed him, you take care of him.”
“Are you deaf?” Satō glowered at them, putting her hand on the hilt of her sword. This made them move. A couple of men carried the injured porter across the sinking causeway, and the remaining peasants followed, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders.
“You did well,” Satō said, helping Nagomi up with a smile, “and see, we’ve crossed to the other side.”
She turned to Lady Itō with a beaming grin.
“Yes, but all our luggage is lost in the river,” her mother replied, shaking her head with disappointment.
“So we’ll travel faster.” Satō continued to grin. “We’ll be back at Kiyō in no time.”
The girl hurried onwards. Nagomi stuck her wand back into her sash, sighed, recited a quick prayer of gratitude and followed her friend into the rain.
It was a busy day, a happy day, the Day of the Ship. A new Bataavian merchantman had arrived at Dejima with news and visitors from the mysterious exotic world beyond Yamato’s shores. The streets of Nishihama-machi, the old merchant district of Kiyō, bustled with handcarts and porters carrying wares from all over Chinzei—the southernmost island of the Yamato archipelago, of which Kiyō was by far the largest and richest port— to storehouses and shops. Pottery from Arima in the east, knives and blades from Matsubara in the north, silver from the mines of Ginya, malted rice from nearby Kojiya, dyed cloth from Bungo on the north-eastern coast; anything the Bataavian representatives could be persuaded to spend their gold and silver bullion on. To serve the crowds, food and drink stands sprouted along the main streets. Summer fruit and pickles were brought in from the countryside. Fishmongers hawked their morning wares; marinated eel from inland waters, and freshest mackerel and skipjack from the sea. There were boiled sweets and rice crackers for the children. There was saké and strong shōchū for adults.
Any other time, Satō would have been the first to venture among the stalls, looking for bargains on Western accessories and magical ingredients; lenses and copper tubes from Bataave, dried herbs and powdered bones from Qin, elemental essences and black iron from Chosen. All these things were always much cheaper and more abundant on the Day of the Ship, but this time she was simply too tired to care. All she wanted was a bath and a hot meal.
“Do come with me,” she said to the others, “I’m sure Father will love it if you stay for dinner.”
“That is most kind,” replied Lady Itō politely. “Nagomi, you go with Satō. I will come later.”
Nagomi agreed eagerly. The Itō house was farther up the hill, beyond the Sōfukuji Temple, and Satō’s family residence was much more luxurious, commanding a beautiful view over the city.
The Takashima household was a massive compound, built on the very top of Maruyama Hill, dominating the neighbourhood with its thick stone walls. Two spearmen stood by the main gate, vigilant. The younger of the guards lowered his weapon threateningly as the girls approached, but his older companion shook his head.
“It’s all right—that’s the young tono.”
Satō stopped by the younger guard. To him she was a samurai boy, son and prospective heir to her father’s school of Rangaku – the study Western magic.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?”
The man nodded. He couldn’t have been more than five years older her.
“What do they call you?”
“Kaiten, Takashima-dono.”
“You’re supposed to be keeping people in that house, Kaiten, not out of it.”
“Yes, Takashima-dono,” he replied pursing his lips, uncomfortable and irritated.
Satō didn’t worry about his discomfort. She enjoyed mocking the guards, playing pranks on them and being generally obnoxious towards the frequently changing spearmen. The soldiers did not belong to her household—they were employed by the city magistrate, who, in turn, took their orders straight from the Taikun’s court in far-away Edo. Her father was under house arrest ever since he had tried to convince the magistrate to put the masters of Western magic, like himself, to work on the city’s defences. The idea proved too radical and deemed a treason: even in Kiyō, a city more open and diverse than any other place in Yamato, nobody trusted the wizards enough to give them access to military secrets.
“It feels more empty than usual,” remarked Nagomi, entering the residence.
“Everyone’s either helping their families in the stores or has just wandered off to see the Ship,” explained Satō, “besides, we don’t get that many students these days. It’s been six years since my father lost favour with the Taikun, people are starting to lose faith he will ever regain it.”
A white-haired figure lurked in the hallway. The old servant cried out in joy and disappeared to summon the master of the household. Shūhan hurried down from the library wing. He was a short man, long-faced and small-eyed, clad in a short, black pleated skirt, a kimono of the same vermillion silk as Satō’s garment—the colour signifying he was a scholar of Rangaku—and a black vest bearing the Takashima clan crest, four diamonds in a triangle, embroidered on the shoulders. His head was shaven in front, with a small bun of tied greying hair at the back. He hugged Satō, who flushed with embarrassment, and greeted Nagomi warmly.
“Do you have it?” he asked. “Show me the blade!”
Satō drew the sword and presented it proudly. The blade was magnificent; long, slender, perfectly balanced, with distinct temper lines forming a small circle at the tip, the signature of the Matsubara swordsmiths. The hilt and hand guard were decorated with the cherry blossom seal of the Ōmura clan and the tsuba handguard carved with the butterfly insignia of the Heike clan.
Satō smirked every time she saw the butterfly crest. The Heike clan had been vanquished eight hundred years earlier, and still the Matsubaras, their once-sworn vassals, clung to the ancient allegiance. This unwillingness to change was exactly what her father had always warned her about. “The elements are always mutating, always transforming, and so must a wizard”, he had taught her. “That’s why the Rangakusha are so feared and hated in Yamato. We are the harbingers of revolution”.
“Splendid, splendid!” exclaimed Shūhan, admiring the weapon in the sunlight. “Shigehide-sama has truly outdone himself this time. I dare say it’s even finer than my own. It was worth the trip, eh? You know, the old fools say a sword is the warrior’s soul—but I can see how this one truly fits you. You must tell me all about your journey… but you are dying for a bath and change of clothes, right? We’ll talk at dinner. I’ve ordered eel from Yorozuya today!”
The girls bowed and hurried to the bathroom. Nagomi threw her travel uniform into the washing basket, while Satō removed the Rangakusha garments and began to unwind a bandage that flattened her breasts.
“Phew! Finally,” she groaned, “you’ve no idea how uncomfortable this is.”
“Believe me, I do,” replied the younger girl, “you’ve been complaining about it every night since this trip started. I thought you’d got used to wearing boys’ clothes. Weren’t you always trying to sneak into kendo trainings in this disguise?”
“I was an urchin then, and didn’t need those.” Satō threw the bandages into the laundry basket. “Still, it’s a small price to pay for being able to walk around the city with a sword.”
When they came out of the bath, fresh summer yukatas waited for them folded neatly on the straw mat. Nagomi changed into a pink floral robe, while Satō dried herself with a fragrant towel.
“I like this blue dye,” said Nagomi, picking up the other yukata, “I haven’t seen it before.”
“Father must have bought it as a surprise. I don’t think it’s local.”
“Looks like Arimatsu cloth. It must have cost a fortune!”
“Sometimes I think he doesn’t really know how much things are worth… Since Mother died, he’s been useless with money. Like this sword he got me—it’s marvellous, but was it really necessary to buy a Matsubara blade? He always says the blade is only a tool…”
Satō shook her head and stood up to put on the yukata.
“What about your father and sister? Will they be coming tonight?”
“I believe so,” answered Nagomi. “I just hope Father doesn’t have any patients booked for the evening.”
The girls tied their obi belts in an elaborate manner and Nagomi finished braiding her long auburn hair. The sound of the kitchen gong and the smell of broiling eel coming from downstairs announced it was time for dinner. Satō felt her stomach rumble with the thought of a good meal. She had forgotten how hungry she was.
CHAPTER X
From the window of her room on the top floor, overlooking the village sprawling along the hillside, Satō first saw the herald bearing the orange standard of the Merchant Republic of Bataave. A retinue of servants and guards followed and then, at the end, an ornate palanquin climbed up the steep hill road, carried by six porters. The guards halted the procession at the gates of the residence.
“His Excellency, Oppertovenaar of the Dejima domain, Hendrik Curzius, here to see the master of the household, Takashima Shūhan,” the herald announced in a loud shrieking voice then presented a rolled up paper to the elder of the guards. The spearman checked the seals and nodded at his companion. The two bowed and stepped aside.
She leaned further; she had not seen the new Overwizard before. A short portly Westerner stepped down from the carriage, straightened his long vermillion tailcoat and put on a wide-brimmed green top hat.
“Welkom, Oppertovenaar,” a voice spoke in nigh impeccable Bataavian. Satō’s father was proud of his ability to speak the language without a strong accent. He claimed it made his spells work that bit more precisely. “I’m grateful for your visit.”
“I’m grateful for your welcome, Takashima-sama,” the guest replied in the language of the Yamato, in a correct, but rather coarse, manner.
She ran down to the main hall just in time for the two men to enter the building.
“My heir, Satō,” Shūhan introduced the girl and sat down beside her by the low table. The Westerner bowed and joined them, his legs crossed casually.
“Aah, my limbs are not what they used to be,” he explained.
Shūhan laughed politely, poured saké into three shallow cups and raised a toast.
“To the eternal friendship of Bataave and Yamato! Kanpai!”
“Proost!”
Satō swallowed the warming liquid and felt immediately relaxed. She reached for another portion, but her father discreetly moved the cup away.
“I’m so happy I can finally meet you, Takashima-sama,” said Curzius, sipping saké. “It’s so difficult to be granted the permit. The Magistrate finally agreed when I threatened to delay my visit to the Taikun’s court.”
“I’m honoured,” bowed Takashima.
“No, no,” protested the guest, “the honour is all mine. I’ve heard so much about you from previous Overwizards. The great Takashima Shūhan, one of the finest Rangaku scholars in all of Yamato! The airgun, by the way—marvell
ous, one of my marksmen shot a pheasant from two hundred yards last week! I’ll be sending it to the Stadtholder’s court in Bataave; he enjoys game hunting.”
“That pleases me greatly.”
“But let’s get down to business!” The wizard looked around, watchful. “Are we in a safe place?”
“There are only the three of us here.”
“I’m not sure if it’s a conversation for a young… boy,” Curzius said.
He knows, she realised. Of course he does. He’s the chief wizard of Dejima. He must have spotted through my disguise the moment he entered.
“Satō is my heir,” Shūhan replied, “whatever is said or done in this house, he is part of it.”
“I’ll get straight to the point, then. I come not of my own accord, but on a mission from my master, the Stadtholder—a very special mission.”
“You intrigue me.”
“There is something… new in the air. Our soothsayers are anxious. They say the threads of Fate are tangled, disordered, and they all seem to focus here, on Yamato.”
“Surely, your soothsayers are mistaken,” protested Shūhan. “We are an isolated and peaceful nation, far from the events of the outside world.”
“And yet the world seems to be reaching out towards you. The Westerners are encroaching on the lands of the East. The realms of Bharata have fallen. The Qin barrier is breaking.”
“I’m familiar with all this,” said Shūhan, “but I would think the spoils of Bharata and Qin are quite enough to entertain the Westerners for generations to come.”
“You underestimate our greed, Master Shūhan,” Curzius said, “and the soothsayers of Dejima are rarely wrong—after all, they have learned their skill from your priests. The Empire of Yamato is on the brink of a major change—a change that may have repercussions far beyond your borders. The Stadtholder wants me to be more than just aware of it happening. I am required to take an active part in the events, however should they unfold, and for that, I need trusted men on my side.”
The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) Page 13