A series of booms rocked the earth as rockets shot up from the ship and burst in great showers of red, gold, and green stars. The crowd gasped and exclaimed. The colored light illuminated Liu Yun’s serene face.
“How and when did your brother die?” Sano asked, surprised that Liu Yun could speak of the death with such equanimity. His own father had died a year and a half ago, but a part of him would never recover from the loss.
“The story of my brother is really the story of recent Chinese history,” Abbot Liu Yun said. “I am seventy-five years old; he would have been seventy-three now. Thus we came of age during the decline of the great Ming dynasty. If you are familiar with Chinese history, you know that it follows a predictable cycle. A dynasty, founded by a strong leader, rises to power. The leader receives the Mandate of Heaven and becomes emperor. Eventually the dynasty loses its reigning vigor. The problems begin.”
“Bankruptcy, famine, civil unrest,” Sano said, remembering his lessons at Zōjō Temple. “And when government control over the country weakens enough, the emperor loses the Mandate of Heaven. Amid war and turmoil, a new regime rises to challenge the old. The cycle goes on.”
“Exactly,” Abbot Liu Yun said. “In this most recent instance, the challenge came from the northeast Manchurian nomad tribes. They conquered Fushun, Liaoyang, Mukden, Shensi, Honan, Shantung, Kiangnan, Kiangsi, Hupeh, Szechuan, Fukien, Chinchou, Amur, and eventually Peking. The chieftain proclaimed himself emperor and founded the Ching dynasty.
“Most of the population, including officials of the former dynasty, accepted Manchu rule. I was one of many who donned foreign costume and arranged my hair in a queue. But a few Ming loyalists would not concede defeat. A rebel named Kuo Hsing-yeh organized several thousand troops along the coast. They managed to take Amoy, Quemoy, Chinkiang, and the island of Taiwan. The Ching rulers recovered all the mainland territory, then hired the Dutch East India Company to help capture Taiwan. Taiwan fell seven years ago, in a fierce sea battle, after nearly two decades of war. My brother was one of Kuo Hsingyeh’s commanders—a broken old man and one of the last defenders of a lost cause. Jan Spaen was captain of the Dutch ship that destroyed his squadron. Spaen took my brother prisoner and tortured him to death. I suppose it’s understandable that people who know this story would believe I bear a grudge against the Dutch in general, and Spaen in particular.”
“You mean you don’t?” Sano asked skeptically. A samurai would take the torture and slaying of a brother as a personal insult, and seek revenge. Were the Chinese so different?
Aboard the junk, the acrobat executed an impressive backflip, then bowed to the abbot. Liu Yun raised his hand in a gesture of praise before turning a condescending smile upon Sano. “When I entered the monastery, I freed myself from the pain, suffering, and complications of earthly life. I relinquished my diplomatic career, my wealth, and my family to seek spiritual enlightenment. Once I would have grieved over my brother’s death. But in my present station, grief is an emotion that exists on a plane far below me. I feel only the joy of approaching nirvana—the eternal, ecstatic union with the cosmos.”
“So you didn’t blame Jan Spaen for killing your brother, or wish him dead?” Sano asked, still unconvinced.
The abbot’s chuckle sounded like a cricket chirping inside a brass temple bell. “I did not, and would not have even before I turned my back on secular life. It was my brother’s own stubbornness that really destroyed him—his refusal to accept that the Mandate of Heaven had passed to the Manchu rulers. Jan Spaen and the Dutch East India Company were merely agents of his fate.”
More rockets exploded; the smell of gunpowder scorched the air. Smoke veiled the sky. Sano asked, “Were you personally acquainted with Director Spaen?”
“Before I came to Japan, I managed a temple in the Dutch trade settlement of Batavia, Indonesia, where there are many Chinese sailors, merchants, and laborers,” Abbot Liu Yun said. “Jan Spaen was stationed there at the time. We met once or twice. But I did not know him well. My command of the Dutch language is far from perfect.”
In view of the priest’s fluency in Japanese, Sano couldn’t help suspecting that this gifted linguist had achieved equal facility in Dutch. “When did you learn of Spaen’s role in the conquest of Taiwan?”
“A year later. When a merchant ship brought the news to Batavia.”
“And did you renew your acquaintance with Spaen when he arrived here?”
The abbot turned toward Deshima, where lamps burned outside the guardhouse. Sano couldn’t tell whether Liu Yun’s imperfectly aligned eyes saw the island, or some private scene, but his tranquil expression didn’t waver. “I have not seen Jan Spaen since leaving Batavia. Chance brought us both to Japan, but there was no reason for us to meet again.”
Sano knew he must check the visitor’s log and question the governor’s staff to verify this statement, but could he trust either Nagasaki’s officials or their documents? Was it really a coincidence that both Spaen and Liu Yun had ended up in Japan, or had the abbot followed his brother’s killer?
“How did you happen to get assigned here?” he asked.
“The previous abbot had died,” Liu Yun said. “My superiors chose me to replace him because of my language skills and diplomatic background.”
“I see. Do you own a gun, Your Holiness?”
The abbot chuckled again. “Certainly not. My Buddhist faith prohibits violence and killing. I have no need of weapons.”
But he did have contact with his compatriots who owned them. Sano had seen the relatively lax security around the Chinese. It wouldn’t be difficult for a merchant or sailor to smuggle weapons into the Chinese settlement, then pass them to the abbot during a ceremony such as this. A search of the temple might be necessary if the divers didn’t find the gun off Deshima, evidence against other suspects didn’t materialize, or if Sano found witnesses to acrimonious relations between Abbot Liu Yun and Spaen. For now, Sano turned the conversation to the subject that had brought Liu Yun to his attention.
“You’ve also been mentioned in connection with strange lights that have been seen around Deshima,” he said.
The abbot nodded calmly. “I have heard this, certainly. The sailors bring me news of local events. But I have never seen the lights myself. Except on special occasions such as this, I retire immediately after evening rites at sunset, and do not venture outside my quarters until dawn. My attendants can confirm this, if you wish.”
“Then you don’t know the cause of the lights?” Sano said, disappointed. Even if the mysterious lights were indeed connected with Spaen’s murder, he had yet to find an explanation for them. And Abbot Liu Yun had just presented an alibi for the night of Spaen’s death.
A shadow of impatience crossed the priest’s impassive features. “There are many curious phenomena in this world. In my travels, I have seen crackling lights flash up and down the masts of ships. I have seen a fireball hurtle from the sky and burn a house. I have seen a whirlwind destroy a town, and a great sinkhole swallow an entire team of oxen. Such phenomena, including the lights in Nagasaki Harbor, are surely manifestations of the spirits. Some men may be able to evoke them. I cannot, for I am no magician.”
From the deck of the junk, the crew lowered two small boats into the water. Sailors rowed these up to the pier. The priests carefully placed the golden statue into the first boat. The sailor in the second boat called to the abbot.
“If you have any further questions, you can find me at the temple,” Liu Yun said. “But now I must accompany the sea god to the ship so he can bestow his blessings upon it.”
With a benevolent smile, he bowed to Sano, then allowed his subordinates to help him into the boat. Accompanied by chanting from the priests on the pier, bursting rockets overhead, and shouts from the waiting sailors, the boats glided toward the junk.
Sano didn’t believe Abbot Liu Yun was as indifferent to his brother’s death as he claimed. Chinese and Japanese cultures weren’t completely dissimilar; Confu
cian family loyalty dominated both, and could seldom be completely erased by religious fervor. That same loyalty could inspire a priest’s brethren to supply a false alibi for him. Liu Yun had access to weapons, and transportation available to carry him to and from Deshima by water. The Chinese, inventors of gunpowder, fireworks, and other magic, could surely create mysterious lights. Sano saw salvation in pinning Spaen’s murder on a foreign subject. Yet he couldn’t arrest Liu Yun on the strength of motive and rumor alone. Might he possibly locate witnesses who could place the abbot near Deshima the night before last?
The offshore commotion grew louder. A conch-shell trumpet blared insistently. Glancing up, Sano noticed that the new noise came from a barge docking at the nearby harbor patrol station. The crew disembarked, their panicky voices carrying across the water. A fearful premonition sent Sano hurrying up the pier. On the promenade, he caught a soldier who ran through the crowds toward town.
“What is it?” Sano demanded.
“Oh, good, it’s you, sōsakan-sama.” Gasping, the man said, “There’s trouble with the Dutch ship. I have terrible news for you!”
“Yesterday we gave the Dutch captain your message, and he was furious about the additional delay of the ship’s landing,” the soldier blurted. “Today he decided he doesn’t trust you to conduct a fair murder investigation. He thinks Japanese are slaughtering his countrymen on Deshima and intending to punish innocent Dutchmen for the crime. He says that if you don’t bring him the head of Jan Spaen’s Japanese killer and allow the crew ashore in two days, he’ll blast Nagasaki off the face of the earth!”
Speechless with horror, Sano looked out to sea. The Dutch had reacted as he’d feared; his distrust of Captain Oss had proved valid. The ambitious barbarian meant to use Spaen’s murder as an excuse for the Netherlands to declare war on Japan, plunder its wealth, and subjugate the citizens. Sano remembered the tales of Dutch conquests. Should he go out to the ship and try to avert the threat? No: The barbarian’s ultimatum left him no time for a long trip that might accomplish little anyway.
Hastily collecting his wits, Sano said, “Convey this reply to Captain Oss: ‘My investigation indicates that a Japanese shot Director Spaen. I shall do everything possible to identify the culprit and deliver him—or her—to justice. You have my promise that I will not protect a killer, regardless of nationality.”
It was a vow that endangered his own life, but which he hoped might placate the captain, especially since he now had even more reason to prevent the crew’s landing. Until he either proved that the Deshima guards were not involved in Spaen’s murder or identified and dismissed the guilty parties, he couldn’t trust them to maintain security. He must keep the Dutch ship away.
“Tell Captain Oss that I will come to him in two days, with the head of Spaen’s killer. Until then, I respectfully request his patience.”
“Yes, sōsakan-sama.” The soldier bowed.
“I’ll inform Governor Nagai about what’s happened,” Sano said. Retrieving his horse, he rode into town. Fatigue weighted his limbs; the old wound in his arm ached, as did his head when he thought of all he must do in the next two days: Force the truth out of Chief Ohira and the Deshima guards; pursue the murder’s Christian angle; and follow up on his interviews with Peony, Urabe, Kiyoshi, and Abbot Liu Yun, whose stories he needed witnesses to confirm or disprove. All this, with the threat of war hovering over him. And he must discipline Hirata, whose help he desperately needed but could not accept.
The sun’s fiery disk dropped below the horizon; the sky darkened from bruise-red to black. As Sano passed tumbledown houses and dark alleys, a sense of danger prickled his skin. At three hours till midnight, Nagasaki’s early rising fisherfolk had long ago retired. The only lights came from lanterns above neighborhood gates. The only pedestrians Sano saw were raffish-looking peasants and samurai. Wary of bandits and outlaws, he kept his hand ready to draw his sword. He forced his tired mind to stay alert and his horse to trot faster.
The road ascended the hills. At the top of an incline, Sano looked back to see how far he’d come. In the sky above the harbor floated a lopsided ivory moon whose radiance shimmered on the black water and defined the silhouettes of anchored ships. Darkness cloaked the waterfront, interrupted only by weak lights at the harbor patrol station and Deshima guardhouse. As Sano scanned the scene, his heartbeat suddenly accelerated.
Far out on the water, toward the eastern cliffs, a green light flashed rapidly five times. Then a flashing purple light took its place, followed by bursts of brilliant white. While Sano watched, the lights repeated their sequence, moving steadily toward Deshima.
Sano turned his horse and hurtled downhill. His meeting with Governor Nagai would have to wait. Here was a chance to investigate Nagasaki’s mysterious lights, and determine their role, if any, in Jan Spaen’s murder.
The twisting road led him on a roundabout path to the harbor. Sano looked across the water and saw the lights flashing from a point halfway to Deshima. He passed unguarded gates whose keepers must have fled in fear. Pedestrians had vanished. The night seemed unnaturally hushed, as if holding its breath until the danger passed. Sano reached the waterfront and found it deserted. Were the harbor police also hiding from the ghosts? A slither of dread crept into Sano’s bones. As a veteran of the shogun’s unsuccessful hunts for ghosts, he had good reason to doubt any existed, but now his ingrained superstition prevailed. To dispel fear, Sano sought a rational explanation for what he’d seen.
If the lights were a man-made device meant to scare people away from the harbor, then they’d certainly succeeded. Even if they were a natural phenomenon, as Abbot Liu Yun had suggested, any crime—including murder—could take place under their cover.
Sano rode down the promenade to the harbor patrol station, which stood dark and silent. “Hello! Is anyone there?” he called.
No answer. Sano abandoned the idea of alerting the authorities and getting help catching the lights. Slapping the reins, he sped down the promenade. Several hundred paces ahead, two sentries stood outside the Deshima guardhouse. Facing inland, they seemed unaware of the lights. Sano looked across the open firebreak and over the harbor to his right. The lights flashed brighter now, drawing nearer the island’s water gates. He urged his horse to go faster.
A sharp hissing sound came from his left. Something whizzed past his face and landed with a clatter not far away. Sano ducked. His horse faltered, skidding to a stop. Heart hammering, Sano cautiously looked around. He’d recognized the sound immediately, from past attempts on his life. He didn’t need to see the arrow to know someone had shot at him.
In the direction from which the arrow had come, shops and houses crowded close to the promenade’s inland side. Amid the rooftops and firewatch towers, Sano saw a shadow move. Then he looked seaward. The lights floated up to the Deshima water gates. Black smoke drifted from them. Excitement leapt in Sano’s throat. Instead of taking cover, he rode toward Deshima.
A second arrow soared just over his head. Sano rejected the idea of calling the Deshima guards. The archer might be someone who didn’t want him near Deshima while the lights were there; someone associated with the staff, and perhaps involved in Jan Spaen’s murder. Sano turned his mount in the opposite direction. He squinted at the rooftops, trying to locate the archer, but failed. After traversing a considerable distance without attracting more missiles, he hoped the assassin thought he’d changed his mind about going to Deshima. Yet when he doubled back toward the island, another arrow almost clipped his foot. Sano glanced over his shoulder and saw the mysterious lights flashing purple, green, and white at the Deshima water gates. He veered left, up a street leading inland through a neighborhood of closely spaced houses. He paused to look around.
The street was deserted. Jutting balconies obstructed the moonlight. Sano stiffened at a rhythmic tapping sound. Footsteps on a tile roof overhead? He relaxed when he saw a loose shutter flapping in the wind, but his extra sense detected a threatening presence. Staying
in the shadows beneath the balconies, Sano continued inland, as if going home. He braced himself for another onslaught of arrows. None came. He scanned the surrounding rooftops and saw no one. Encouraged, he turned right, following a road that paralleled the waterfront.
Instantly an arrow hummed over his shoulder and hit the wall of a nearby building. The assassin had guessed his purpose, but Sano refused to turn back. The mysterious lights must be on Deshima now. He had to catch them and determine their cause.
Now Sano could hear footsteps pounding above him as he rode. He saw the archer, clad in black, long bow in hand, kneel on a roof and take aim. The arrow struck his right shoulder with a bone-shuddering impact. Tumbling off his horse, Sano landed hard on his hip. He cried out as horrible pain flashed down his arm and into his chest. He felt along the shaft to the head embedded at an angle just below the outer edge of his collarbone. Warm blood flowed over his hands. He didn’t dare yank out the arrow for fear the bleeding would increase. Vigorous activity would worsen the damage. Yet he couldn’t stay here for another, fatal shot.
Sano lurched to his feet. Then he heard the archer’s steps, fleeing across the rooftops. A sudden fury gripped Sano. “Come back here!” he yelled, reaching for his sword.
The movement sent fresh agony shooting through his shoulder. In his condition, he would never catch his assailant. Without prompt medical care, the injury could prove permanently disabling, if not deadly. He hated to abandon his pursuit of the mysterious lights, but he had to get home, now.
Wincing, Sano remounted his horse, clasped a hand over his injury, then began the long, slow ascent through the hushed streets, wondering who had shot him—and why the person had left without finishing him off. He suspected an assassin sent by Chamberlain Yanagisawa, the rival responsible for past attempts on his life. How he hated the bakufu for allowing such crimes! But it could have been Jan Spaen’s murderer, because he was getting too close to the truth. Or someone else who didn’t want him to discover the secret of the mysterious lights.
The Way of the Traitor Page 14