The Tokaido Road (1991)(528p)

by Lucia St. Clair Robson

  A long silence followed, and Cat knew Kasane longed for details of Cat’s affair but was far too shy and polite to ask.

  “We met in the springtime while my maids and I were on an outing to the countryside to hear the first song of the cuckoo.” Cat remembered an incident from Lady Shonagon’s Pillow Book and revised it to suit her purposes. “We picked branches of saxifrage, all covered with white flowers. We wove them into the wickerwork of our palanquins until they looked as though white quilts had been thrown over them. We were so pleased with the effect, we ordered the bearers to take us to the country house of my mother’s first cousin.

  “We arrived at his gate, all of us laughing and shouting for him to come see. My beloved happened to be visiting. When I saw him I knew I would never be happy with anyone else.”

  “How wonderful.” Kasane sighed at the prospect of actually loving the man with whom she shared her life. “My husband-to-be was born in the year of the Rat.”

  “That’s good,” Cat said. “That means he’s thrifty and will prosper.”

  “But I don’t know which year of the Rat.”

  “Ah.” Cat sighed in sympathy. Kasane’s groom could be twenty or thirty-two or forty-four or fifty-six. She and Kasane were silent for a long time, each with her own bitter thoughts.

  Kasane remembered sitting, head bowed, while her parents and the go-between haggled over her and the gifts to be given the groom’s family. Kasane knew that even if she could return home, even if the groom’s family accepted her, she would only have to leave again. She would become the servant of her mother-in-law. She would live out her days among strangers.

  Cat remembered the first man she had known. There had been nothing romantic about it. He had paid Old Jug Face a great deal for the privilege of being the first. As she sat waiting for him Cat had almost regretted her decision to enter the Yoshiwara. But she had reminded herself that she would have had to pillow with a stranger in any case, even if she had married.

  The night wind carried the sound of a drum and samisen and voices singing in one of Okitsu’s many inns. Okitsu was a popular resort. The partying would go on most of the night.

  Cat recognized the song. It was from a play about this beach.

  “At a time now past,” Cat said, “a fisherman found a robe of feathers hanging in one of these pine trees.”

  “Who did the robe belong to?”

  “A beautiful princess. She appeared to the fisherman and pleaded with him to give it back to her. Without it she couldn’t fly to the moon where her home was.” Cat put down her pipe, draped her new travel cloak over her shoulders, and moved out onto the beach.

  “She promised the fisherman that she would perform for him a dance known only to the immortals.”

  With the bay and its reflected glitter of stars behind her, Cat danced in time to the distant music. As she bent and swayed she wove an intricate pattern in the air with a pair of folding fans.

  “She danced under the pines to a heavenly music until the wind caught her robe and lifted her. She flew past Mount Ashitaka. Past Mount Fuji. She was never seen again.” Cat ended her performance by kneeling. She extended her arms behind her and fluttered the fans as she bowed until her forehead almost touched the sand.

  Kasane clapped her hands. “You dance like a princess, mistress.”

  Cat returned to her seat by the fire. She pulled the cloak close around her. They were almost into the twelfth month, and the wind was cold.

  As the wind shifted, the music and laughter from Okitsu faded. They were replaced by the steady murmur of the surf and the low rustling of the pine boughs overhead. Tomorrow, Cat vowed, tomorrow they would be on the road before dawn.

  She had already set her plan in motion by dropping some of the priest’s paper talismans on the beach where the children would find them. The charms were of the simplest sort, slips of paper inscribed with an invocation to the Fox god. The poor folk pasted them above their doorways as protection against robbers.

  While Kasane cooked supper, Cat had cut her paper handkerchiefs into strips and written out fifty or sixty more of them. She hoped the Lord Buddha would understand her desperation and forgive the sacrilege.

  Tomorrow she would leave the papers along the road. She would surreptitiously tuck them into the loads of passing pack horses. She would plant a rumor to go with them. The chances of the ruse working were slim; but if she couldn’t lose the rMnin from Tosa, at least she could try to make his job more difficult.

  Hanshiro was proving difficult to lose, and not just because he was as persistent as boiled rice on the sole of her foot. His face and his presence were beginning to haunt Cat. Someone, somewhere, was playing a bamboo flute. Perhaps it had summoned the memory of him.

  As Cat lay on her narrow mat with her head cradled on her arm and listened to the melancholy song and to the constant rush and murmur of the waves, Hanshiro returned. His dark face, shaded with the stubble of his beard, was almost gaunt.

  Tosa dog! Cat thought.

  She remembered him as he had looked in the lantern light of the abbot’s poetry gathering. Shadows lay under the arches of his prominent cheekbones and in the deep hollows around eyes that glittered like ice on obsidian. His face was rugged, cold, ruthless as the mountains. And like the mountains he was remote, mysterious, and beautiful.

  CHAPTER 45

  CROSSING AT A FORD

  “Ditch planks!” By the time Cat arrived at the edge of the river outside Okitsu, the two porters were wading the swift, shallow current as it meandered through the boulders and across the shingle of the riverbed.

  “Wooden privy shoes!” She raged at their naked, moxa-scarred backs and their buttocks, which were clad only in faded gray cotton loincloths.

  She would have waded in after them had not Kasane held on firmly to her sleeve. Cat jerked it from her grasp.

  “I would rather be attacked with swords than made a fool of.” Cat hitched up her own loincloth under her trousers, as though about to go after them anyway. “Robbers in every country, rats in every house,” she muttered.

  “For a warrior of your skill to attack them would be like skinning a louse with a spear, Hachibei.” Kasane was diplomatic, but surprisingly firm. She feared her mistress’s aristocratic temper would draw attention.

  The porters had demanded seventy coppers each, thirty over the usual rate, to carry Cat and Kasane across the river. The river was deep and treacherous, they said. They deserved the extra pay, they said. And the river had been deep. Kasane had been terrified as the man carrying her on his back struggled against the rushing water. The cold water had pushed past her thighs, soaking her to her waist.

  Shrouded in gray clouds, the sun had just risen above the horizon when they reached the shore. The porters had found no return fares at such an early hour, so they had wandered upstream, around a sharp curve. Cat had grown suspicious and followed them. She’d arrived at the bank as they were wading across the real ford, which was much shallower. The river had shifted in its bed recently, moving the sand bank away from the highway’s crossing. Cat had been gulled.

  “Cockroaches!” Cat shouted one more imprecation at them while she untied the sandals hanging from her belt and put them on. She pulled the left front opening of her jacket farther across the right and tightened her sash. “Baka!” she muttered.

  “We’re on our way back, Your Honor,” a voice called from above. “We can take you cheap as far as Mariko.”

  The two hostlers were the ones who had sold their hats to Cat and Kasane at the base of the climb to Satta Pass. Now they were sitting on a bench in front of an open-air tea stand among booths selling sugared rice cakes, ear shellfish, and gift-wrapped packages of dried bonito and papery seaweed. The tea stand and the bench were on a rise, commanding a view of both the actual and extortionary fords. The postboys’ mare was tied to one of the shop’s front corner posts.

  Cat knew Kira’s men were questioning all the hostlers and kago bearers. Traveling back and forth
as they did, they were in the best possible position to act as spies and informers. These two had big grins on their faces, which made Cat even warier. Oishi had always said a laughing person could not be estimated.

  “Your offer is kind.” Cat bowed politely. “But we shall ride the knee chestnut-haired horse.”

  “Well, then, walk if that suits you.”

  The hostlers looked so much alike, they must have been brothers. They had thick mustaches and goatees. A disorderly fringe of dusty hair stood out around the shaved crowns of their heads. They wore the small topknots of laborers. Their patched and faded bluejackets were dirty at the collars and frayed at the sleeve hems. Curly black hair showed at the diagonal front openings of the jackets.

  “Walking is very good for the circulation.” The second man grimaced in ecstatic concentration as he dug in his left ear with a long-handled, ladle-shaped ear pick.

  Cat glanced at Kasane. The swelling in her ankle had gone down some, and she was maneuvering well with her crutch; but Cat still felt terrible about making her walk.

  “You understand why we can’t hire a horse, don’t you?” she said in a low voice.

  “Yes. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Boss Viper sends greetings,” one of the men called out as Cat and Kasane started back toward the main road.

  “The kago man?”

  “The very one.”

  Cat took a firm grip on her staff, looked around for trouble, then climbed the steep path to the tea stand. Once she got closer she could see that the two men had drawn a grid in the dirt. While they drank their morning tea, they used river pebbles as markers for a game of Six Musashi. One moved the “parent” stones with a long bamboo withe. The other had removed one of his sandals and was using his toes to grip and move the “child” pieces.

  “I’m BMshk.” The stouter one bowed as he sat cross-legged with his feet tucked under his thighs. Cat knew that BMshk wasn’t his name, of course, but the province from which he came.

  “This hirsute love child of a bow-legged badger,” BMshk continued, “is my brother, Hairy.”

  Cat was in no mood for what passed as wit among the laboring class. “How do you know Viper?” she asked.

  “He’s Boss.” BMshk seemed surprised Cat didn’t know that.

  “Everyone knows Boss Viper,” Hairy added.

  “He instructed us to look out for you,” his brother said. “Though he wears rags, Viper has a heart of brocade.”

  Cat beckoned with her staff to a tall thicket of bamboo. The BMshk brothers abandoned their game and untied their shaggy chestnut pony. As the mare followed them her hoofs clattered on the stony path.

  Cat looked around to make sure no one else was close by. “What did he tell you about me?”

  “It’s as they say, honorable sir,” BMshk said. “ ‘Word of an evil deed travels a thousand ri before good news leaves the gate.’ Boss Viper sent word to those he trusts that you’re the son of a poor but honorable warrior confined to his bed by a lingering illness. You’re on a quest to recover a treasured pair of swords stolen from your father’s house by his evil steward. The steward has since fled to the Western Capital. The thief’s henchmen are pursuing you to keep you from recovering what’s rightfully yours.”

  Kasane listened attentively to this latest version of her mistress’s adventures. Cat wore a neutral expression, but she was impressed with Viper’s creativity. Whether he and the BMshk brothers knew Cat’s real identity was a mystery, however.

  “How did you like the view from Satta Pass?” BMshk untied the straw horseshoes from the saddle and began tying them on the mare’s feet. It wasn’t an easy task. The pony stamped and fidgeted. She drew her purple lips up over her long yellow teeth, twisted her neck sideways, and nipped at him as he worked.

  “So you were the ones who left the barring-stone,” Cat said.

  And tied the crossed feathers of my father’s crest to it, she thought.

  “We noticed the Edo sharks swimming upstream.” BMshk and Hairy managed to look both noncommittal and conspiratorial.

  “How much would you charge to take us to Mariko?” Cat asked.

  “Because you’re the first customers of the day and we’re going that way anyway, we’ll give you a bargain for luck. Only two hundred coppers each.”

  “Two hundred coppers!” Cat narrowed her eyes and shifted the staff she was leaning on, a warning not to cheat her. “You said Father Viper told you to watch out for me.”

  “He didn’t say we had to starve doing it.” Hairy led the mare in front of the stone wall that kept the hillside from sliding onto the road. With a merry jingling of the brass bells on her bridle, the pony turned to glare balefully at Cat through her long, disheveled forelock, white as mulberry threads.

  Cat felt a tug on her sleeve.

  “Please, Hachibei,” Kasane said. “You ride. I’ll walk.”

  Cat handed her bundle to Hairy and climbed onto the retaining wall. “We should take advantage of this opportunity to wash our clothes while the devil’s away.” She held out a hand to pull Kasane up.

  The saddle was a rickety affair consisting of two oaken arches front and rear with two thick pads of cloth-covered straw between them. A pair of open wooden frames large enough to hold one passenger each hung on either side of it. The panniers’ bottoms, with their bars and knobs and the ridges formed by the rope lashing them together, were padded with a pair of shabby, thin quilts, folded to fit. The horse’s blanket was decorated with large black characters spelling “good luck.” From the looks of the saddle, “good luck” was an appropriate sentiment.

  With a great deal of chivvying and clucking and whipping of his bamboo rod, BMshk kept the mare in one place long enough for Cat to lower herself into the nearest box. Then he turned the horse so Kasane could clamber into the one on the other side. He tightened the straw rope that served as a cinch and compensated for the differences in the passengers’ weight by dangling stones from Cat’s pannier. But the entire contrivance looked as if it might come apart or slide under the horse’s belly at any moment.

  Hairy tied Cat’s and Kasane’s bundles across the mare’s haunches, but Cat rested her staff along the rim of the box so it would be close at hand. She wedged the soles of her sandals against the corner pieces to brace herself for the jolts to come. She shifted about gingerly in a futile effort to fit her shoulder blades under the frame’s crosspiece.

  BMshk jerked on the nose rope, and the mare lurched forward with a tinkling of bells and a great explosion of wind. As Cat’s pannier rolled and pitched to the rhythmic jingle of the pony’s brass bells, she thought of the river porters again. Musashi wrote of crossing at a ford in his Fire Book.

  Crossing at a ford occurs often in a lifetime, he had written. It means setting sail even though your friends stay in harbor. It means discerning the enemy’s capabilities and attacking at his weak point. If you succeed in crossing at the best place, Musashi had said, you may take your ease.

  “BMshk,” Cat said, “do you know of a maker of weapons between here and Mariko?”

  CHAPTER 46

  HE WONDERS IF HE OUGHT TO WASH HIS CLOTHES

  Shichisaburo’s assistant was waiting for Hanshiro when he left the police office and walked out into the dawn’s pale light. The troupe was packed and waiting to leave when he arrived at their quarters on the temple grounds. Shichisaburo was understandably nervous. He knew that Hanshiro knew he had been sheltering a miscreant, a crime for which he could be severely punished.

  Even if Hanshiro didn’t inform on him, Shichisaburo expected the magistrate to change his mind and throw them all in jail until the officials in Edo gave a ruling. That could take a very long time, and conditions in the jail were worse than execrable.

  While his people waited anxiously outside, Shichisaburo presided at a hasty meal of tea and cold rice. “I so much regret the inconvenience you have suffered,” he said as he poured the tea.

  Hanshiro leaned forward. Walls had ears. “No
one need be inconvenienced any more”—his calm voice contained a calculated menace—”if you tell me how that person escaped and where that one’s going next.”

  Shichisaburo blanched under his light, daytime makeup. “An old tunnel.” His hand shook, spilling a few drops of tea, which he hastily mopped up with one of his embossed paper napkins. “I truly don’t know where the person plans to go, other than up to the Western Capital.”

  “Don’t worry.” Hanshiro took pity on him. After all, Shichisaburo had, at great risk to himself, helped the woman who had snatched away Hanshiro’s heart. “I wish to serve the person’s cause.”

  Shichisaburo regarded him so warily, Hanshiro laughed out loud. “You think that’s setting a cat to guard dried bonito, don’t you.”

  “I’m only a wretched riverbed beggar, honorable sir. My opinions are worth nothing.”

  “But your help is worth something.”

  “We are in trouble already.” Shichisaburo’s voice held an entreaty. He had more than discharged his obligation to Lady Asano. He didn’t want to live out his life in exile for a woman with whom he hadn’t even pillowed. “We must be beyond the town borders before the hour of the Dragon or face penalties.”

  “If you won’t intercede with our mutual acquaintance on my behalf, at least allow me to accompany you. Seeing me in your company might help persuade the person of my honorable intentions.”

  Shichisaburo bowed an unhappy acquiescence.

  “Of course, I can count on your discretion in this matter,” Hanshiro added.

  “ ‘If a thing is said’ ”—in a voice barely above a murmur, Shichisaburo quoted Basho—” ‘the lips become very cold, like the autumn wind.’ ”

  By the time the troupe reached Okitsu, Hanshiro was beginning to regret his decision to travel with them. The members of the Nakamura-za trailed for nine cho behind Hanshiro and Dragonfly. They were all afoot. Because of government restrictions on those they called riverbed beggars, not even Shichisaburo, the head of the most popular theater in the Eastern Capital, could legally hire a horse or a kago.