Seeing Meiko invariably raised an urgent need in him. And tonight more so than ever. She had looked so lovely, so desirable, he had wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek, to untie her obi and let the folds of her kimono fall open, to throw himself upon her, to—
He further quickened his pace. He had sent word to Yukiko from his home to make sure she was free and to prepare herself for him in the usual manner. She knew what to do.
When Hiroki knocked on her door on an ill-lit back street, she opened it immediately. When she saw him she said, "Go away! You're not wanted here!" She tried to close the door on him but Hiroki slammed his shoulder against it and forced his way in.
Yukiko was a big woman, as tall as Hiroki, with large breasts and long-fingered hands. She’d dressed like an American flapper tonight—short, bouncy skirt, a fluffy blouse, and a band around her forehead. And black stockings. Excitement expanded within him.
"Get out," she said in a low voice as he closed the door behind him. "I don't want you here!"
Hiroki slapped her across the face, then pushed her across the room. Whenever she resisted him he would hit her again, and again, following her around the tiny room, continually beating her. With each blow his excitement grew. Finally, she was whimpering and begging for him to stop. Panting with exertion and anticipation, he grabbed a handful of her blouse and yanked with all his strength. The flimsy fabric ripped easily. As he pulled the shreds from her, she turned away from him, crossing her arms over her black lace bra. She wailed as he tore the bra from her, exposing her high, full breasts. Then he ripped at the skirt. As she stood trembling before him, clad only in a black garter belt and stockings, the need exploded within him. He grabbed two handfuls of hair and forced her to her knees before him.
As Yukiko began to do what she did best, Hiroki surveyed the torn clothes on the floor. Yukiko always charged him an extra-heavy pillow price for a night like this, but it was worth it. As the pleasure crept through him he closed his eyes and dreamed she was Meiko.
* * *
“Have you reached your decision, Hiroki Okumo?" Shimazu said.
Hiroki sat alone in his master's quarters, a tiny, bare-walled room in the subterranean level of the temple, furnished only with a low bureau with two drawers, a teak chest, and a futon rolled in the corner. Two plain paper lanterns—chochin—provided ample illumination, but did nothing to dispel the chilly dampness of the air in the room, nor the musty odor.
Hiroki's eyes burned and his back ached from his night with Yukiko, but his head was clear and he was quiet inside.
"I would be honored with the burden, Shimazu-sensei," he said.
"Very well, then. What I tell you now you must never repeat or discuss with anyone other than Yajima, who has also accepted the burden, or myself. You must never utter the slightest hint of it to any other living soul. Is that clear?"
Hiroki nodded, feeling at once a thrill of exultation in his spine and a twist of fear in his bowels. What could need to be kept so dreadfully secret?
"I shall carry it silently to my grave, sensei."
"Listen carefully, then, and learn. You know well the story of the Siege of the Final Monastery. What you do not know is that the Order was almost eradicated during that siege. The decision to call up the Black Wind was made at the last minute due to the danger to the monastery itself. And even though the Wind devastated our attackers, it appeared that Nobunaga's forces might still carry the day. Seeing this, the Elder Monk, Okamoto, feared that the sacred scrolls containing the directives from Susanoo and the means of calling up the Kuroikaze might fall into the hands of the Shogun. To prevent that, he gathered up the most valuable scrolls and fled into the countryside. He was never seen again."
Hiroki didn’t understand. "But we won. Nobunaga retreated. The temple was victorious."
"Yes. We won the battle, but the Shogun was still in power. And worse: We lost the secret of the Black Winds."
Hiroki sat in mute shock, feeling as if someone had driven a spear through his body and pinned him to the tatami. The entire reputation of the Order rested on the legend of the Kuroikaze and the unspoken knowledge that should the Emperor ever have need of the Black Wind, the Kakureta Kao would be there to call it up for him. But the real truth was that the secret was gone, and it had been lost for centuries.
"That explains it, then!" Hiroki cried.
"Explains what, young Okumo?"
"Forgive me, sensei, I did not mean to speak."
"You have had a revelation. Share it with your teacher that he might learn from you, or learn about you."
Hiroki said, "I have always wondered, sensei, why the Order, if it controlled the Kuroikaze, did not march to Kyoto after defeating the Shogun's army and use the winds to end his rule and restore the Imperial Line."
"You show a clever mind. Yes, now you know why the Shogunate was allowed to endure. The means for ending it were lost to us."
"But the Seers' visions. You said that they all show that the Black Winds will return."
Shimazu nodded. "The visions show what can be, not what must be. It is plain to all of us that the Kuroikaze will be crucial to our victory in the coming war, but I do not believe it will drop out of the air into our waiting upturned palms. No, if the Black Winds are to rise again and smite the enemies of the Son of Heaven, we must bend all our efforts to finding the ancient sacred scrolls. And since full members of the Order may not venture out into the world, we must depend on those near us who can."
Hiroki felt the weight of Shimazu's stare. And then he remembered the Seer's words.
"Shimazu-san? Am I the ‘noble firstborn' the Seer mentioned?"
"Possibly so. Years ago, when our Seers first began having these visions, we went to many of the nobles and tested their firstborn sons by the motsu ..."
Shimazu's voice trailed off here and he stared at Hiroki in a way that made him uncomfortable. The motsu, the holding, was a rite in which a Seer under the influence of the vision drugs cradled a child of less than a year of age in his arms and looked into his future. Had mention of the motsu brought back a memory for Shimazu?
"Sensei?"
"Yes-yes." He shook himself. "The Order asked to take certain babes into the temple to be educated as acolytes. Most parents refused, but a few with foresight agreed. Your father was one of them. Yajima's was another. I believe you or Yajima will be the one to restore the power of the Kuroikaze to us."
Awed by the honor his sensei foresaw for him, Hiroki bowed until his forehead touched the floor.
"I am not worthy of this trust."
"I was confident the Order could depend on you. And while you and Yajima search for the scrolls in the outer world, the inner members of the Order shall comb all the records we have of the past to help direct your search."
"The vision says we will find it."
"Knowing the future does not clear the path, but sets more thorns upon it instead. We must ask questions in regard to these visions. Have we interpreted them properly? Is the future seen in the visions mutable by our actions or inactions? Can we sit back and do nothing, secure that the outcome of the conflict will favor us? Or must we go on, striving as diligently as we would have, had we not the benefit of the Seer's vision? I believe the latter choice must be ours."
As ever, he sensed the great wisdom and insight in his master's words, the great power in his conviction. This was why he honored and revered him so.
"Yes, sensei," Hiroki said, but Shimazu was barely listening. His voice rose and his green eyes seemed to glaze over as he talked on.
"Too long have we striven for the chance to go to war for the Emperor. It was in 1850 when we began our Hundred Year Plan by planting the seeds of revolution against the Tokugawa Shogunate. Our seeds bore fruit when the Emperor Meiji took the reins of power and returned the seat of government to Tokyo. Since then it has been a matter of encouraging greater strength within the Empire until we have power enough to challenge the white world in war and defeat it. We were not yet
strong enough to enter the Great War of the last decade, but we must be ready for the next one. We must drive the whites out of Asia completely. They are parasites. Lice. Leeches on the body of the Empire! British, French, Dutch, Americans—all sucking the lifeblood from Asia and the Floating Worlds and sending it back to the West. It must stop. All of Asia and the Floating Worlds must be united under the Emperor to drive out the whites. You have walked the streets outside and seen how ‘fashionable' it is now to forsake the kimono and wear ‘Western-style clothes,’ to have a ‘Western-style room' in one's home. The whites are slowly, insidiously destroying what is ours by Westernizing Japan. The time is nearing for us to begin ‘Nipponizing' the world!"
Hiroki could only bow his agreement. He wanted to jump up and cheer, to embrace his master, but that would not be at all proper. Never had he seen Shimazu so angry, or known him to reveal what must be a white-hot core of rage within. When he straightened up, Shimazu had returned to his placid self.
"Before you leave, Hiroki, I would like to discuss two matters with you."
"Yes, sensei?"
"The first is your brother, Matsuo. Do you expect him from America soon?"
Hiroki clenched his teeth. "Not that I know of, sensei." Matsuo again. His master questioned him regularly about his younger brother. "Why do you ask?"
"I wish to meet with him. Make sure you bring him to me when he returns."
Everyone seemed to be interested in Matsuo's return. He was sick of being asked about Matsuo.
"And the other matter, sensei?"
"I wish to discuss your life plan with you."
Hiroki tensed. He knew what was coming. "Yes, sensei?"
"As you know, I heartily encourage you to lead a secular life and take the place on the Imperial Council that your father has planned for you. I feel you will be of greater service to the Emperor and to the Order in that capacity than as a monk progressing through the Inner Circles. But as you also know, I do not feel this is a good time for you to be married. You have two great tasks before you: to take your place in the political structure of the Empire, and to find the Kuroikaze scrolls. Marriage will divert your attention, dilute your resolve, distract you from your purposes. I trust you have come to a decision about your marriage."
Sudden relief flooded through Hiroki as he realized that a decision had indeed been made. Hiroki had not made it himself, but at least it was a decision that would please his master.
"I will not be marrying for years to come—not until Meiko returns from her college education in America."
Hiroki thought he saw a flash of anger in Shimazu's green eyes when there should have been approval. His voice remained neutral, however.
"That is good. It will give you extra time to consider the decision."
"Yes, sensei," Hiroki said, but he thought: Nothing will change my mind. I will marry Meiko Mazaki no matter what.
* * *
Shimazu remained seated in his cross-legged position after Hiroki left, nursing his fury. Shimazu had sent a messenger from the temple to Baron Okumo instructing him to cancel the marriage arrangements. But the baron apparently had other ideas.
Hiroki could not be allowed to have a wife, especially one to whom he might become emotionally attached. Had Hiroki been indifferent to his betrothed, Shimazu would not have interfered, but he had sensed the attraction Hiroki harbored for this Meiko Mazaki. Such a union could prove to be a serious distraction in the young man's life.
Especially now. So many divergent threads were weaving together to form the tapestry of the Empire's future. Dozens of the Empire's leaders in the government, the military, and the zaibatsu had received tutelage to varying degrees from the Order, and the number was growing with every year. Many future leaders were being tutored now. The loom was in constant motion. Shimazu had long sensed that Hiroki Okumo would be a central figure in the final pattern. He could not allow his head to be turned by a pretty face.
But the baron had defied the Order. Instead of canceling the match, he had done what he thought was the next best thing—he had persuaded the girl's father to send her to America for four years of education.
That seemed to be the baron's solution to problems of this sort: Go to America.
Not good enough, Shimazu thought.
This was not the first time the baron had defied the Order. He no doubt saw the sojourn in America as a compromise. But he of all people should be aware that Hiroki's future was not a game, not a political bargaining session. There could be no compromise. Misfortune befell anyone who stood in the way of the Order's mission to bring the Eight Corners of the World under Japan's roof.
Baron Okumo should know that better than anyone. Had he not seen misfortune befall those in the diet and in the various cabinets who stood in the way of Japan's transformation into a first-class military power these past twenty years? He knew it could not be purely accidental that so many of his opponents fell ill or were distracted by illness in their families at times of crucial votes? Or that a cabinet minister hostile to Japan's military growth should die in his bed of a snake bite on the eve of a critical decision involving army funding?
No. Baron Okumo had bargained with his firstborn for such accidents. He was a clever man. He had allowed the infant Hiroki to be brought to the temple for examination. Sensing that the Seer had found the child valuable, he had bargained hard: his permission to allow his son to be trained and educated by the Kakureta Kao in exchange for success in his political endeavors. The pact had been made because the baron shared the Order's outlook. He too wanted Japan to manage its own quarter of the world without Occidental interference.
As long as his aims and the Order's coincided, he would continue to receive its support. Shimazu's long-fingered hands balled into fists. But the ingrate needed a lesson in humility. He needed a reminder as to the wellspring of his current prominence.
The girl would sicken and die before she left for America. Shimazu rose to his feet and straightened his robe.
It was mealtime.
* * *
The masked, broad-shouldered guard opened the door for Hiroki and he emerged from the cool dank confines of the temple into the steamy air of Tokyo in summer. He was assaulted by the lunchtime clatter of people and vehicles in motion on the street, the smell of exhaust and cooking food in the air, and winced in the brightness of the midday sun.
"Hello, Hiroki."
He looked and saw Yajima sitting on the temple steps.
"Have you been waiting for me?"
"Yes." He moved closer and spoke in a hushed, hurried tone. "I know that you have heard the secret now, and I wish to make a pact with you. I don't want our separate searches for That Which We Cannot Name to come between us."
"I don't want to compete with you, Yajima," Hiroki said, and meant it. He had true affection for his pudgy friend.
"Nor I with you. But I think, for the sake of the Order, we should keep in close contact so that we do not duplicate our efforts."
Hiroki smiled. "An excellent idea. I am with you wholeheartedly."
"I warn you," Yajima said with a smile, "I will be searching as hard as I can. But I still wish you good luck."
"And I wish you the same."
They bowed to each other, then parted. Hiroki walked away thinking that he would have been overwhelmed by the prospect of searching for rolls of paper that had been lost for centuries had he not heard the Seer say they would be found. He swore that he would be the one to unearth them. And when he returned them to the Order, his name would be praised throughout the Empire.
And as a smaller but personally important bonus, at last he would hear the end of the incessant talk at home about Matsuo and all the wonderful things he would accomplish when he finally returned from America. He was sick to death of hearing about Matsuo. What about Hiroki and all the years he had spent with the Order to bring honor to the family?
Even his own sensei had inquired about Matsuo's return. Sometimes he thought he hated his younger brot
her.
DECEMBER
SAN FRANCISCO
Mick slammed the baseball bat into the cantaloupes again and again, smashing them to pulp.
Another fine Christmas! (SLAM!) Dad comes in drunk as a skunk, . . . (SLAM!) . . . gets Ma to crying . . . (SLAM!) . . . starts beatin' on me and the kids . . . (SLAM!) . . . Just another fine fucking Christmas! (SLAM!)
So much for the cantaloupes.
Mick staggered across the floor. He and the guys had got a bottle of bootleg Christmas cheer from O'Boyle's and had passed it around. Mick had had most of it. One thing had led to another and they wound up in Japtown. And here they were in the store where Chinky-boy worked.
"Closed For Christmas" the sign said out front. What kind of shit was that? A heathen Jap closed for Christmas. It was sacrilegious. So they’d busted in the back for some fun.
"Here, Mick! Batter up!"
He turned and saw Jerry underhanding an orange toward him. He took a wild home-run swing and missed, spinning and slipping in the smashed fruit all over the floor. The guys all laughed.
"Try me again!" Mick said, getting into a batter's stance.
Jerry tossed another orange and this time Mick connected, spraying everyone with juice, smashed rind, and pulp.
But their laughter was interrupted by a new voice: high-pitched, accented, angry.
"What you do? Aieee! What you boy do?"
The skinny old Jap who owned the place—where’d he come from? The guys began pelting him with fruit. The Jap picked up his broomstick and charged.
They had a good time for a while, dodging him up and down the aisles, dumping bins, tossing fruit and vegetables at him.
"You boy go away!" he kept shouting in his squeaky voice as he chased them in his wooden sandals, swinging his stick. "You boy please go away!"
Vinnie started it. He would see how close he could get to the old Jap without getting hit with the broomstick. Jerry tried it next, then Al. They all got within inches. Mick gave it a go, dancing up to the Jap and sticking his tongue out. But he lost his footing on the slippery floor and the old guy connected with a glancing blow to the head that sent Mick's cap flying. The guys roared.
Black Wind Page 6