The Way of the Traitor

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Sano walked boldly up to the door, as would a guard on official business. He passed through the entry porch and into a dim, empty corridor with low ceiling, bare plank floor, and mullioned paper walls. From the first room to his right came the rustle of paper. Sano froze outside the door and listened.

  The ceiling creaked above him: someone upstairs. But the first floor seemed vacant, except for this room. A furtive glance inside revealed a spacious office with a study niche on a raised platform at one end, furnished with a large desk and built-in shelves, iron chests, wooden cabinets and screens, and a row of smaller desks beside the windows. At one of these knelt a young samurai. His profile to Sano, he wrote on a scroll, frowning in concentration.

  Remembering his past career as a clerk and scholar, Sano experienced a sharp pang of nostalgia. He steeled his heart against the youth who evoked those peaceful, bygone days. Drawing his short sword, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. The clerk looked up. A cry of surprise died on his lips as Sano grabbed his collar and put the sword to his throat.

  “Don’t scream, or I’ll kill you,” Sano said in the clerk’s ear.

  Held immobile against Sano, the youth whimpered, “Yes, master.” His upturned face was white; his eyes rolled. Sano could feel the thin body trembling. His own heart was racing. Please let me not kill this innocent man!

  “The records of the goods brought to Japan by Director Spaen,” Sano said, keeping his voice low, calm, and authoritative. As commanding officer of Deshima, Chief Ohira had the responsibility for keeping an inventory of Dutch imports. “Where are they?”

  The clerk gulped. His rapid, panicky breaths sounded as loud as screams. Sano glanced toward the door, afraid the other staff members might hear. “Be quiet, and I won’t hurt you.” He pulled the blade back so it no longer touched the man’s throat. “Show me the records, and I’ll let you go.”

  “There. Over there …” The clerk’s shaking hand pointed to the study niche, where a long scroll, covered with inked characters, lay open on Chief Ohira’s desk.

  “Is that all of them?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  Still gripping the clerk tight, Sano sheathed his sword. Then he untied the clerk’s sash, bound his ankles with one end, wrists with the other.

  “No,” moaned the clerk. “Please …”

  Sano wadded a sheet of paper and stuffed it into the clerk’s mouth, muffling his voice. He hurried over to Chief Ohira’s desk and examined the scroll, which was dated two years ago. Chinese silk, British wool, and Indian cotton, he read; Cambodian deer hides; nutmeg from the Spice Islands; Dutch spyglasses … Each item was described in detail. But Sano was more interested in what was missing from the list. As he’d hoped, he found no mention of the firearms or clocks found in the smugglers’ cave. And the scroll bore Chief Ohira’s round, red personal seal—proof that he’d falsified the warehouse inventory, leaving out goods he knew would be sold illegally and thus never reported to Edo.

  Elation surged in Sano as he rolled the scroll and tucked it under his loose-fitting armor tunic. This was the evidence he needed to convince the tribunal of his innocence; evidence that proved the smuggling had preceded his arrival in Nagasaki, and incriminated one of the chief witnesses against him.

  Then, before he turned to leave, he saw on the desk a sheet of paper partially filled with characters: an unfinished copy of the inventory. From between entries Sano had already read, descriptions of the smugglers’ loot leapt out at him. The paper was clean, white, and crisp; the calligraphy Ohira’s. The chief, anticipating an audit of his records, had been preparing a new inventory that accounted for items missing from the original.

  The placement of both lists, side by side and out in the open, intrigued Sano. Of course, with the whole Deshima staff in on the conspiracy, Ohira had no reason to hide compromising documents. But Sano glimpsed a deeper motive for Ohira’s action—one he could exploit. He folded the page, tucked it inside his armor, and started to leave the room. The sound of the front door opening stopped him. Hurrying footsteps pounded the corridor. Sano whirled and ran for the window.

  “There’s a trespasser on the island!” shouted a familiar voice. “Everybody get out and search for him. Now!”

  More footsteps; excited voices. “He knocked out the man who was guarding the barbarian doctor,” Sano heard Nirin explain to someone. Desperately he rattled the window bars, which held firm. The office door flew open. Sano turned as Nirin burst into the room.

  “Kenji, go to the mainland and fetch Chief Ohira immediately,” the commander ordered. “Tell him—” His startled gaze took in the clerk, bound and gagged, and Sano at the window. Fury suffused his face. “You.” He spoke on a disgusted laugh. “I might have known.”

  In a motion so fast that his image blurred, Nirin whipped his sword from its scabbard and lunged. The blade whistled through the air, straight toward Sano’s neck. Sano had his stolen long sword ready, but its unfamiliar weight and grip disconcerted him. He almost failed to parry Nirin’s stroke. Their blades met in a jarring clash of steel. Swinging his sword free, Sano tried a cross-body cut.

  His blade glanced harmlessly off the commander’s armor tunic. Nirin laughed and launched another assault. Sano, unaccustomed to fighting in armor, found himself at a serious disadvantage. He saw that Nirin was no better a swordsman than himself; his own helmet, tunic, and leg and arm guards shielded him. But this style of combat demanded a different strategy. All strikes must target an unprotected area of his opponent’s body: face, neck, thighs, or upper arms. As Sano thrust and parried and circled, his wounded shoulder grew sore. The tunic chafed against the bandage. And he could tell that Nirin knew about his handicap.

  The commander centered his attack on Sano’s upper body, forcing him to fight with his sword raised, which strained the injury even more. Sano managed few counterstrokes while Nirin chased him around the room. He leapt backward over desks, bumped cabinets and screens. He heard shouts from the doorway. Clerks and guards burst into the room.

  “Stand back,” Nirin told them, slashing at Sano. “He’s all mine.”

  Sano was gasping in pain, sweaty and panting with exertion. Warm blood trickled down his chest. Nirin, not even winded, closed in on him. Completely on the defensive now, Sano dodged and parried. His shoulder weakened. Nirin aimed a cut at Sano’s neck. Their blades crossed, locking Sano’s arm in a high, awkward twist. Pain shot from his shoulder to his hand. He let go the sword, and the spectators cheered. Nirin raised his weapon in both hands. Sano leapt backward just in time to avoid the slice. He drew his short sword, but with his reach reduced, he couldn’t get close enough to Nirin to score a cut. The commander’s longer, heavier sword battered his. If this continued, the fight was lost.

  Ducking a swipe aimed to sever his head, Sano kicked a screen into Nirin’s path. The commander stumbled, throwing out his arms to regain his balance. Sano didn’t use the chance to slay his opponent: He needed Nirin alive. Darting behind the commander, Sano grabbed the back collar of Nirin’s armor tunic and jerked him upright. He jammed his sword under the commander’s right arm, with the tip of the blade touching the unprotected armpit.

  “Drop your weapon!” he ordered.

  Nirin went rigid. Slowly he turned to Sano, eyes sharp with terror and hatred. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Cries of dismay issued from the men at the door. When Sano repeated the order, Nirin dropped his blade.

  “Now unsheathe the other one, and throw it over there,” Sano said. “Good. Now fold your arms.”

  Nirin did, and his wide sleeve fell, hiding Sano’s sword.

  “Let him go,” blurted a guard.

  Ragged breaths tore Sano’s chest as his body fought to restore its depleted energy. “We’re going to walk off the island together,” he said to Nirin. Holding the commander by the armor, Sano marched him toward the door. “Out of the way,” Sano told the guards and clerks, “or he dies.”

  Mouths agape in shock, the
men didn’t budge. Sano thrust the blade upward, felt it bite flesh. Nirin flinched, croaking, “Do as he says.”

  The men sprang away from the door. Sano propelled Nirin down the corridor and out of the house. “Don’t follow, or I’ll kill him,” Sano called over his shoulder, halting the guards’ rush across the garden after them.

  “If you think you can get away with this, you’re crazy.” Outrage and fear mingled in Nirin’s voice. “There are troops all over the island. You’ll never get past them.”

  Sano fought his own doubt. “Yes, I will, because you’re going to help me.” He kicked open the gate and shoved Nirin through. “Not one word, unless I tell you to speak.” His heart seized when he saw guards swarming the street, hunting the trespasser.

  “Over here!” Nirin called. “He’s got me.”

  All heads turned toward them; all sound and motion stopped. Then came the outcry. Guards surrounded Sano and Nirin, swords drawn. Sano remembered a hostage incident he’d once resolved. Now he was the villain. A nightmarish sense of unreality fell over him.

  “Let us through, or I’ll kill him,” he shouted.

  He jerked his sword forward, exposing the hilt. The crowd quieted, looking to their leader for orders. Nirin sucked in his breath as the blade poked his armpit, then forced a laugh. “You can’t kill me. You need me to escape. Don’t listen to him. He’s bluffing.”

  The crowd stirred, but Sano felt Nirin’s uncertainty, and saw it on the other men’s faces. He knew what they were thinking: Anyone mad enough to break into Deshima was mad enough to murder his hostage. Finally the crowd parted. Sano and Nirin proceeded, step by step, down the endless street.

  “Where is Chief Ohira?” Sano asked Nirin.

  The commander shot a venomous glance at Sano. “My superior’s whereabouts are none of your business,” he said as they neared the main gate. “I will tell you nothing. And you have to keep me alive to get past the bridge guards.”

  “Where is Ohira?” Sano jabbed Nirin again, provoking a stifled groan. After the bridge, he must pass the main guardhouse, the heavily occupied promenade, and the troops in town, but he would handle one thing at a time. “I’ll hurt you if I must.”

  They reached the gate. “Open it!” Sano ordered the sentry. “And make sure no one follows us.”

  Nirin stiffened; sweat ran down his face. It was clear that he feared maiming more than death. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Do as he says.”

  The sentry opened the gate. Sano marched his prisoner onto the bridge. “Where is Ohira?”

  “All right. All right!” Nirin was trembling now. “He said he was going to the Daikoku Shrine.” At Sano’s prompting, he gave the location. “What do you want with him?”

  The truth about Spaen’s murder and the smuggling operation, Sano thought. Chief Ohira’s cooperation was the key to freedom for himself and Hirata.

  As Sano and Nirin crossed the bridge, the sentries bowed to their commander, frowning at Sano. “Tell them I came to Deshima with your permission,” Sano whispered, keeping the sword hidden beneath the commander’s sleeve. “They’re to make sure no one else leaves the island.”

  The commander repeated the lie in a thin voice so unlike his normal one that Sano feared his ploy would fail. He sensed Nirin’s mind racing through possible strategies for escape, all of which led to his own death. When the sentries let him and Nirin pass, relief flooded him. They got through the guardhouse without the customary exit formalities. On the promenade, they blended with troops dressed in similar uniform.

  “You won’t get away with this, because I’m going to kill you,” Nirin said, dragging his feet.

  “Was it you who shot me?” Sano asked. “Did you burn my house?”

  “No, but I wish I had, because then you’d be dead now!”

  “Did you kill Jan Spaen or Peony?”

  “No!”

  Sano knew he couldn’t restrain Nirin indefinitely. As they moved up the street past clusters of departing townspeople, he cast about for a way to shed his hostage without a fight to the death. Then he quickened his pace, forcing Nirin to walk faster.

  “Where are you taking me?” Nirin demanded.

  Sano marched the commander to the well at which he’d gotten the water buckets. “Out of the way,” he ordered the bearers gathered around it. Then, to Nirin: “Jump in.”

  Struggling in Sano’s grip, Nirin gave an incredulous laugh. “I will not. You’re mad!”

  Another jab with the sword, and he climbed onto the well’s stone rim, cursing. A hard push from Sano sent him over the edge. He disappeared down the shaft, a long scream trailing after him. There was a splash as he hit the water. His terrified cries echoed from the depths of the well. “Help! Help!”

  Citizens flocked to see who’d fallen into the well. Police came and shouted for rope, for strong men to help rescue the victim.

  In the confusion, Sano slipped away before anyone could stop him, and headed for the Daikoku Shrine.

  The Daikoku Shrine was located on a wooded slope near the edge of town, off the main highway leading beyond the hills. Between the double crossbeams of the torii gate, an engraved stone tablet bore the name of Daikoku, god of fortune.

  Sano entered the gate along with a stream of peasant, merchant, and samurai families who had come to seek the god’s blessing during the anticipated war. He climbed a flight of stone steps to the shrine precinct, a clearing sheltered by cypress trees. A flagstone path led to the main shrine building. Worshippers clustered around refreshment and souvenir stands. A stone statue of Daikoku, plump and smiling, carried a sack of treasure and the magic mallet with which he granted wishes. He sat upon two rice bales gnawed by carved rats—his earthly messengers—amid flowers and other offerings. Priests dressed in white robes and oblong black caps mingled with the crowd. The fresh mountain air carried the sweet, musky perfume of incense. Over the children’s laughter, the clack of wooden soles, and chanted prayers, a bell rang, deep and clear. Above the city, the sun’s rays pierced the clouds like spokes of a gleaming silver fan. As Sano washed his hands in the stone ritual basin, the tranquil atmosphere of the shrine lifted his spirits. His problems seemed remote; he could almost forget that he must cause immense suffering to the man he’d come to find.

  Scanning the precinct, he saw Chief Ohira standing at a stall that sold lucky figures and candy, colorful strings of origami flying cranes, which signified longevity, and wooden prayer stakes. Alone, in his somber clothing, the chief looked out of place among the brightly dressed families. As Sano approached, Ohira bought a stake. He inked one of the brushes set out for the customers’ use and wrote a prayer on the stake. Engrossed in the task, he didn’t notice Sano come up beside him.

  “Please protect us from evil, and replace our troubles with blessings,” Sano read over the chief’s shoulder. The names of Ohira’s large family followed. It was a commonplace prayer, but poignant under the circumstances. Sano hated what he must do, but Chief Ohira had earned his own destiny.

  Now Ohira looked up and saw Sano. “You again,” he said wearily. “How dare you disturb me in a sacred place?” He seemed more gaunt than ever, as if his flesh had withered around a core of pain, all that was left of him. “What do you want? How did you find me?” Turning away, he walked to the statue of Daikoku.

  Sano followed. “Your commander told me where you were.”

  Ohira’s steps faltered. “You’ve been to Deshima? But how?… Your pass was revoked.” He stared, then shook his head when Sano’s appearance offered no clue.

  Before coming to the shrine, Sano had discarded the stolen armor. His clothes had dried in the afternoon heat, and with his lone short sword at his waist, he looked like any ordinary low-rank samurai. Now he didn’t waste time explaining his escapade to Ohira, who would find out soon enough anyway. The Deshima guards would report what he’d done. Troops would be searching for him. He must act fast.

  “How I got to Deshima isn’t important,” Sano said. “It’s what
I found there that matters.” He pulled the scroll and the unfinished copy out of his kimono. “The tribunal will be interested in these, don’t you think?”

  Recognition flared in Ohira’s eyes. A shudder ran through him. Then he squatted and pushed his prayer stake into the ground amid others at the stone god’s feet. His hands trembled.

  “So I am in your power now,” he said, despair reflected in the slump of his shoulders, the melancholy timbre of his voice. He touched the stake. “I’ve sent my prayers too late for them to do any good.”

  The moment seemed as fragile as a priceless porcelain tea bowl Sano had once used at an Edo Castle tea ceremony: thin, translucent, its surface crazed by the heat of the kiln. He took a deep breath, seeking the wisdom to handle the moment without damage. “Or maybe your prayers have already been answered,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Ohira rose, avoiding Sano’s gaze.

  “You left these documents out in the open, as if you hoped someone would find them and punish you, although there was little chance of that on Deshima. You’re not really sorry I found them.” Sano tucked the scroll and copy back in his kimono. “The gods are wise. Sometimes they know and grant our deepest, most secret wishes.”

  Ohira emitted a humorless laugh. “Through you, the agent of my fate? Do you think I wish public disgrace and dishonorable death? I can assure you that’s not the case.”

  He stalked down the path to the main shrine building, a wooden hut with a thatched roof and railed veranda, elevated on wooden posts and surrounded by a picket fence. Sano followed Ohira up the stone steps. “When your boyhood friends died, you swore to uphold the law and prevent others from committing crimes,” he said, referring to the story Ohira had told him yesterday. “By breaking your vow, you destroyed your own honor. You couldn’t openly confess and endanger your family, but you crave punishment.” He paused as Ohira pulled the rope that hung from the eaves, ringing the bell to summon the god. Leaving their shoes outside the door, they entered the shrine. “And you can’t bear to live while your son dies.”