Black Wind

by F. Paul Wilson

  Shimazu chose one of the latter variety. There must be no hint of foul play here. Meiko Mazaki's death must appear to be from purely natural causes.

  Tomorrow was the Hatsu-U-Mode festival. Hiroki had mentioned that the Okumo and Mazaki families would be there.

  Shimazu would be there, too.

  * * *

  Matsuo caught his first glimpse of her outside the Kameido Tenjin Shrine during the Hatsu-U-Mode festival. He was seated with his father and brother in the special section reserved for noble families. He had been agog at the colorful banners and streamers swirling through the air, and the flower-decked floats rolling through the streets. Here was the Japan he sought, even though the effect was spoiled somewhat by the reality of the surrounding city.

  And then he saw her in her cherry blossom-pink kimono with the flying crane embroidery and the pure white obi around her waist, standing slim and straight as she watched the procession with her wide, magnificent eyes. She was perfect. He had never dreamed that someone as lovely as she could exist. It seemed to Matsuo that the gods had created this delicate creature as an affront to all other members of her sex, to make all other women weep with envy.

  He saw little of the remainder of the procession. Red elephants in green kimonos would have passed him unnoticed. His eyes were for her alone, his mind consumed with devising a means of closing the gap between them.

  But before he had formulated a plan, the procession ended. He was ready to do something desperate. And then she was standing and turning his way and walking toward him with her parents close behind and actually smiling in his direction.

  Could this be happening? Could this vision possibly find him one tenth—one hundredth!—as attractive as he found her? It wasn't possible. This could only happen in a dream.

  But Matsuo wasn't dreaming. The vision and her parents stopped before him and bowed. She was even more lovely close up than she had been at long-range. Her eyes . . . he could lose himself in those eyes. Matsuo suddenly realized he was gaping and he hurriedly returned the bow along with his father and brother.

  "Count and Countess Mazaki," his father said, "kindly honor me by allowing me to introduce my son, Matsuo, recently returned from America."

  Matsuo followed through with the bowing and the amenities, all the while thinking, That name—Mazaki—why does it sound so familiar?

  Then his father said, "And this is their daughter, Meiko."

  Matsuo's stomach lurched and his knees suddenly felt weak. Meiko Mazaki. Of course he knew that name. Hiroki had mentioned it so many times. She was his betrothed. His bride-to-be!

  "Hello, Matsuo," she with a voice that was music, a choir of samisens playing a divine melody. "It is a long-awaited honor to meet Hiroki's brother."

  Matsuo bowed and stammered something as unintelligible to himself as it no doubt was to everybody else. He felt as if he were going to be sick. He wanted to die. Was there no justice in life? Not only was Hiroki allowed to grow up in Japan, but he was betrothed to the most beautiful woman in the world. It wasn't fair.

  He looked up and down the street—anywhere but at Meiko. He saw a mendicant monk moving their way through the crowd. He wore an inverted wicker basket over his head. He held the mouthpiece of a flute under the basket but was not playing. A fascinating figure, but Matsuo's eyes were drawn back to Meiko.

  * * *

  Shimazu wove his way through the crowd outside the shrine. He could see quite well through the woven wickers of the basket over his head. On those rare occasions when he had to leave the temple, he found it most convenient to pose as a mendicant monk. The inverted basket covered him from the shoulders up and allowed him to see but not be seen. He would stop near a crowd, slide his wooden flute up under the basket, and play a few tunes. It amused him to collect a coin or two, and then move on.

  He loathed leaving the temple unless absolutely necessary. But this was one of those crucial occasions. The removal of Meiko Mazaki was not something he could entrust to anyone else. No one but he would know the origin of the slow but relentless illness that would sap her strength over the next few weeks, and then take her life.

  He continued weaving through the crowd, searching for her, the doku-ippen waiting in a fold in his kimono.

  * * *

  So this is Matsuo, Meiko thought as she surreptitiously appraised him. The Son Who Went To America.

  If the younger Okumo was any example of what life in America produced, she wanted no part of it. He didn't know how to act. She had noticed him staring at her with unabashed vulgarity throughout most of the procession. And he didn't even know how to bow properly. He was like a barbarian who had been taught the motions but none of the sensibilities of good behavior. His every thought could be read in his face, as if someone were painting them there in big bold ideograms.

  Father couldn't send her to America—he simply couldn't. What if she returned like Matsuo Okumo?

  And yet ...

  She could not deny something endearing about his awkwardness. A certain innocence. A certain vulnerability. She could sense how hard he was trying to please, trying to act properly, and almost against her will, her heart went out to him. He had been exposed to the Western world all his life. It was inevitable that some of its barbarisms would leave their mark.

  She spoke briefly to the baron and to Hiroki, who seemed preoccupied. The two families began strolling along the street with the rest of the festival goers. She returned her attention to Matsuo.

  Certainly he was not unpleasing to look at. He resembled his brother in his muscular build and facial features, but his eyes were softer, less intense, less driven. Right now those eyes were gazing at her. Maybe a few questions would help him compose himself.

  "Is it good to be in Japan after all that time in America?" she asked.

  His mouth fell open and he glanced left and right as if to assure himself that it was he she was addressing. Finally, he said, "Oh, yes. Very good. Wonderful to be in Japan."

  He did not elaborate. Meiko wondered if his was typical of the conversational skill she could expect in America. She tried again.

  "How did you like America? Would you want to return?"

  Again, he hesitated, but this time she sensed that he was unsure of what to say. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hiroki lean closer, a concerned look tightening his features.

  "It is a very interesting country. Very . . . different from Japan. If my father wishes, I will return there. But I would rather be in Japan than anywhere else in the world."

  As he spoke, she thought she saw a wave of pain pass through his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. She wondered what it could be, then gave a mental shrug. Being raised in a country like America was probably more painful than she could imagine.

  Ahead to her left she saw a mendicant monk with a wicker basket over his head. He was moving against the flow of the crowd, angling in her general direction. He held a wooden flute in his one hand as he reached the other into the folds of his worn and tattered kimono. He looked so poor. She wished she had a coin to give him. She turned toward Matsuo again.

  "Will you be going to the Peers' School?" she said, trying her English on him.

  He made the language switch without dropping a beat. "I start there next week."

  His English sounded different from her instructors', all of whom had studied in England.

  "Would you help me with the American dialect?"

  His face brightened. "I would be honored."

  The adoration that shone from his eyes when he raised his head made her blush. She turned away and was startled to see the basket-headed monk almost beside her.

  * * *

  Shimazu had the doku-ippen ready, held firmly between thumb and forefinger, poised to strike. Just a scratch was all that was required. A barely noticeable scrape of the point along the back of her hand as he passed. That was all. Tomorrow she would have a chill. The following day she would begin to run a fever. After that, her days would be numb
ered.

  He was about to step closer for the strike. He would pretend to be jostled by a passerby, would brush against her, bow low in abject apology, then be off. Then he saw the younger Okumo's face as he spoke to her.

  He's infatuated. Utterly enthralled by her.

  Something stayed Shimazu's hand. He stopped and let them pass. He had never anticipated such an attraction between Meiko and Matsuo.

  This could be useful.

  The Mazaki girl could serve to divide the two brothers. A little friction would be good. Not too much; just enough to drive a wedge between them. That would be perfect. He did not want Hiroki to grieve too deeply when Matsuo died.

  For now, he would let the Mazaki girl live and wait to see what developed between Matsuo and her. He had time. After all, she was going away to America for four years. She might possibly return equally infatuated with Matsuo Okumo.

  Wouldn't that be interesting.

  FEBRUARY

  This was it. He had found one!

  Hiroki's hands trembled as he scanned the ancient ideograms cascading down the yellowed paper. This scroll was of Kakureta Kao origin. Now he knew why he had been forced to learn so many esoteric ideograms during his education in the temple—Shimazu had been preparing him for this moment.

  He had come to this temple in Nando because he had learned that its library held many ancient scrolls. Some of those scrolls were rumored to be of Kakureta Kao origin, but no one was sure because it was so difficult to translate the ancient ideograms. So Hiroki had rushed here and had spent every spare hour of the past month sifting through the ancient, crumbling documents to find the one he sought—the one that held the secret to the Kuroikaze.

  And this could be it.

  Barely able to control his excitement, he began translating bits and pieces. But wait . . . what was this? He leaped ahead in the text.

  No! It can't be!

  Suddenly enraged, Hiroki raised the scroll to hurl it against the wall, but forced himself to stop.

  Another fruitless search. Another false lead. Another month wasted. He looked at the clutter of ancient scrolls and manuscripts around him and wanted to scatter them across the floor and kick them into dust. That was all they were worth.

  Slowly, he lowered the scroll and replaced it on the table.

  No, that wouldn't do at all. This was the fifth temple he had searched since last summer, and if he wanted the cooperation of the various Buddhist sects who maintained them, he had better comport himself with the utmost propriety. Word would spread quickly that the Okumo-san from the Kakureta Kao was belligerent and destructive. His inquiries after old manuscripts would go unanswered. His requests for time in the temple libraries would be refused.

  Not that it would matter if the other scrolls he found were like this one. Oh, it was a Kakureta Kao document, all right—lists of the purchases for an ancient monastery's kitchen. Hardly what he was looking for.

  It seemed an impossible task. How could he search all the thousands of temples, shrines, and monasteries in Japan? He needed a staff of underlings, but he could not employ even one. No one must know that the Order had lost the secret of the Kuroikaze. So how could he ask someone to aid him in the search if he could not tell them what they were looking for?

  He had thought of Matsuo but discarded the notion. The Seer had predicted that someone of noble blood would rediscover the secret of the Black Winds. Matsuo and he shared the same noble blood. He did not want to tempt fate by providing the wrong Okumo with an opportunity to find the scrolls.

  He was becoming fond of Matsuo. After all these years as an only child, he found he enjoyed having a brother. Matsuo had the rough edges of an uncut diamond. But it was not Matsuo's fault that he had been raised in America. It was a handicap he was struggling valiantly to overcome. And beneath it all, Hiroki sensed a heart that was firm and true in its devotion to the family and to the Emperor.

  Hiroki let out a tired sigh and began shoving the crumbling scrolls back into their respective slots in the storage box. How many temples and shrines were there in Japan? Had anyone ever counted them? Perhaps better not to know the total. For as daunting as the task seemed, he would not give up. He would keep on looking. And he would find the secret of the Kuroikaze.

  He had to find it. The future of Japan depended on it.

  He wondered if Yajima was doing any better. He hoped not.

  APRIL

  SAGAMI BAY

  Matsuo stood in the cold wet sand, his toes inches from the waters of the bay.

  Spring.

  He turned in a slow circle. In the distance, a gentle plume of steam rose into the pale blue sky from the flat, snow-capped top of Fujiyama; at his feet, Sagami Bay stretched away into the Pacific; and up the slope from the shore the cherry and apple trees were blooming with a riot of pinks and white.

  Was there a more beautiful place in the world than Japan in the spring? He could not imagine it.

  A sudden splash drew his attention to the water again. Father had surfaced and was wading toward shore, holding his net in the water before him.

  "Bring the glass jar, Matsuo."

  Matsuo grabbed the quart container from the sand and hurried out into the water to meet his father. It was cold, but easily bearable. He held the jar underwater as Father pushed the contents of his net into it, then held it up in the sunlight. A tentacled, rubbery creature, smaller than his hand, darted in nervous circles within.

  "An octopus!"

  "Look at its tentacles. See the blue tips? I've never seen anything like it. And neither has the Emperor, I'll wager."

  "The Emperor?"

  Father stared at him. "Of course, you don't know. How could you? The Emperor and I have long shared an interest in marine biology. The summer palace is nearby in Hayama and for many years while he was Crown Prince we collected specimens together in these very waters. I may be more than two decades older than he, but I believe he considers me a friend."

  While his father toweled off, Matsuo considered this new revelation. Emperor Hirohito—a friend. No wonder Father always spoke with such confidence about his two sons becoming Imperial advisors. Matsuo stared out to sea again and wondered at his good fortune to be born into a wealthy, noble family, to have a father who shared a personal interest with the Emperor Himself.

  He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Father was dry now; his jet-black hair, finely streaked with gray, combed straight back. He was dressed in the old, frayed kimono he used when working in his garden. His dark eyes were bright and gentle.

  "What are you thinking, my son?"

  "I'm thinking that I never want to leave here."

  Instantly he regretted it. He knew his father planned for him to finish his education in America, and it was his oya-no-on—his obligation to his parents—to follow that plan without question. Once again, the American that hid within him like a snail within its shell had spoken through his lips.

  "But separating myself from this serenity," he quickly added, "will only serve to make it even more beautiful when I return from college in America"

  "It will sadden me to see you go. But we must be honored that we serve a higher purpose."

  "I understand."

  But he didn't. Not really.

  "I want you to travel during those four years. Attend your classes and learn your American business courses well, but whenever you can, travel. See the country. Develop a sense of America and its people. That knowledge may prove to be of immense value to Japan in the future."

  "Business courses, Father?"

  His father's hand nudged him into a walk along the waterline. They left the specimen jar behind.

  "Yes. We will be at war with America at sometime in the future. How near or far in the future I cannot say, but there will be war."

  "But what good will business courses do in a war?"

  Father smiled. "Did I say it would be a shooting war? It may well come to that, I fear. Many of the military believe so, and th
ey are itching for it, especially after the offense of the American Immigration Act. And if a military war is necessary for Japan, then so be it. We will fight."

  He stopped to pick up a scallop shell, white with deep red stripes. He rinsed it off and handed it to Matsuo.

  "A beauty, isn't it. Hold it for me." He began walking again. "But there are ways other than military war for Japan to assume its proper station as leader of all nations. We can dominate the world with trade."

  Matsuo's expression must have registered his inner puzzlement, for his father laughed.

  "You're not the first to look at me that way, my son, and I'm quite positive you won't be the last. But think: If you make the best products in the world, and you make them faster and finer than anyone else, the monies of the world will flow into your coffers. You will be exacting a tribute from all the other nations without unsheathing a single sword, without firing a single shot."

  Matsuo gazed into the bright calm eyes that faced him and suddenly realized the greatness of his father. He remembered the pride in Hiroki's voice when he’d spoken of Father that day he had beaten him in the bokken exercise. He had not been fully able to appreciate that pride then. Now he could. Now he could see his father for what he really was: a man of vision, who could not only see the future, but devise ways to shape it.

  "Are there many who agree with you?"

  He nodded thoughtfully. "A few. At this juncture the country seems to be divided into those who want to turn their backs on the world and return to the samurai days, and those who want to Westernize Japan until she is indistinguishable from the other industrial nations. Me . . . I'm influenced by the writings of Yoshida Shoin, the man who almost single-handedly sparked the Meiji Restoration. He believed firmly in contact with the West, trade with the West, but not total surrender to the West. He died almost seventy years ago, but his wisdom lives on. We must keep one foot in the past—we must never forget our cultural heritage, for it is the richest in the world. But we must keep the other foot in the present, for that is where we live. And our eyes . . . our eyes must always be looking ahead."