I clutch the basket to my chest, cradling it like a child, and hurry down to the herbalist’s shop.
The herbalist is a prime example of the merchants who populate Kuramagi—the lowest caste, greedy and incapable of real work. Or so Father always says. (When he told me so, I don’t know, but like most clues, it seems to come to me as a matter of course.) He wears a dark men’s kimono, its hem frayed and muddy, and smells like he hasn’t bathed in some time. Brown nicotine stains spread across his fingers and his teeth as he leers at me.
“What brings a wretch like you to me?” he asks, leaning over his counter. “Don’t suppose you’re looking to make a trade.”
The way his stare sears across my flesh leaves no doubt in my mind about what sort of trade he means. I glare right back at him.
“Oh, don’t look so coy. Everyone knows what you’re like. What your worth is. Your papa may have the daimyo fooled, but he’ll know he’s buying damaged goods soon enough.” He bares a toothy grin. “Your goods are valid to me, though. I’m not picky.”
“I have nothing to sell to you,” I snap. “I just want some tea, some scallions, a package of sesame seeds. Dried mushrooms, if you have any.”
“It’s not a good season for them. It might cost you,” he says.
I grind my teeth together. “You can put it on my father’s tab.”
He stares at me a moment longer, then eases back from the counter. “You should get off your high horse,” he says as he starts assembling my purchases. “A failed Ohatsu. You’re no good to anyone now.”
“Fortunately, I don’t need anyone.” I snatch the bundle of herbs from him and stuff it into my basket, then turn precariously on my wooden sandals and totter away.
Misplaced shame burns hot on my face. I imagine the stray raindrops sizzling against my skin. What do I have to be ashamed of? What has Miyu done that is so terrible? The merchant seems to imply her purity had been compromised—an archaic concept that almost makes me laugh out loud, right in the middle of the street—but there seems to be more to it than that.
I try wracking my memory for clues. If some useful tidbits of knowledge come to me right at the moment I need them—like speaking Japanese, for starters, or understanding the complex system of ranks and caste and where I fit in it—then maybe if I concentrate I can dig deeper, find out more than just the most immediate information.
I try to focus, clear my mind, search for memories, but it doesn’t seem to work. It’s as if a steel door is blocking me from accessing my own mind.
As I avoid yet another woman’s stare on the street, I dart my free hand into my pocket and clench a fist around the stone. The woman ducks beneath a strand of the lightning-shaped paper shide that marks the entrance to a shrine. I don’t need any spirits to protect me. My fingers rub back and forth against the stone’s smooth surface. I have myself for protection. That’s all I need.
The stone warms under my touch, like a living, breathing thing. As if it’s my touch that brings me here, that pulls me into its gravity. I imagine that I am inside a bubble, where no sound can reach me. The silence buzzes in my ears, a comforting blanket of noiseless noise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I drop off the herbs with Yodo in the kitchen and set about helping her dish up a meal for the samurai. She drapes two small river trout across heated stones and waits for the sizzle of the fish to fill the room.
“You prepared the upstairs for your father’s guests?” she asks me, her tone low and urgent.
The upstairs? I have a feeling she means the secret room and not the room where Goemon and Jiro are staying. “It’s ready,” I find myself answering.
Yodo manages a tight, bitter smile as she churns the pot of rice. “Well, at least you aren’t completely useless.”
“A minor miracle,” I agree. Just to see what she’ll say. Has Miyu ever tried to counter her bullies before? Or does she slink away from their insults with the same urge I’ve felt in the streets?
Yodo tilts her head to one side; the loose bun on top of her head slides precariously as she does so. She reminds me of Hideki’s old cat, a grumpy, furry blob that hated any and all human interaction, with one exception—it could never turn down a fake catnip mouse to toy with. Finally, Yodo chuckles to herself. “You’re a strange one, Miyu.” She presses a pair of soup bowls into my hands. “Just don’t be strange around the hatamoto.”
The rest of the evening is a blur of hauling dozens of tiny dishes between the kitchen and the private dining enclave where Goemon and Jiro sit. Goemon’s toad-like expression rumples further each time I appear and kneel down before them, but Jiro smiles and bids me to wait while they eat the latest dish of raw fish or roasted fish or stewed vegetables or rice.
“Have you spent much time beyond Kuramagi?” he asks me, taking care to set his chopsticks down flat atop his bowl rather than skewering them upright.
I glance at Goemon first; I don’t want to draw his ire if he feels, like my father seems to feel, that girls like me are to be seen and not heard. But he is busy slurping down his udon noodles. “A bit, your lordship.”
Like, eighteen years away from here, I think.
“I’d like to see more of the world someday,” Jiro says. That earns him an arch glance from Goemon. “Later, of course. Perhaps if the shogun chooses to accept the trade offers of the foreigners.” Jiro loops a noodle around his chopstick. “I could serve as an ambassador to China, or America, or France.”
“We’ve gotten on just fine for hundreds of years without the barbarians’ trade,” Goemon says. “I see no reason to start.”
But Jiro is watching me; I feel his gaze on the bared skin at the nape of my neck like a warm ember. Have I worn my kimono too low in the back? Modesty dictates the collar be high up against my neck, like a pious Confucian woman. But Miyu does not seem inclined to worry about such things. “Perhaps it is your lack of experience with other cultures that prevents you from seeing their value,” Jiro says to Goemon. But he is smiling right at me, something dark in his grin. It comforts me. I know that darkness, too. “Not everyone ascribes to the same code as we do. I find it fascinating to learn how others live.”
“Well, here, we follow whatever code the shogun requires of us.” Goemon holds his empty bowl out to me. “Fetch me more.”
I offer him my sweetest smile and rise to bring him another round of noodles.
Why am I so intrigued by this life? I am treated about the same here as I am treated by Aki and her crew. Perhaps worse, given the open hostility I’ve encountered from people I don’t even know. In my normal life, I usually have to at least open my mouth to get people to hate me—from my ignorance of customs to my classmates back home who find me awkward, stilted, strange. I feel a certain grace as Miyu. The same wit I’ve displayed as an elven sorceress on the Legends of Eldritch Journey role-playing game forums shines through in this role as well, though I never can seem to use it as myself.
Maybe it is the anonymity—the sense that I am not myself. Like posting an anonymous, hateful comment on the internet, or wearing a mask. I am uninhibited as Miyu. People expect me to be sour and hateful, and so pay me no mind. Here there’s no Kenji around to chide me or Hideki to taunt me with guilt. As Miyu, my hatred can run free.
“You move slower than an ox,” Goemon grumbles, when I return with his bowl.
“My apologies, your lordship.” I kneel so low my forehead grazes the floor. “The cook is not young, you see.”
Goemon stuffs a chopstickful of noodles into his mouth and speaks around them. “A whole village of buffoons. Why did the shogun send us to this damned place again?”
Jiro catches my gaze for a splintered second before looking back to Goemon. “To review the daimyo’s records, of course—”
“Quiet, boy. I know why.” Goemon swallows. “At least tell me there’s a decent tavern nearby with a good supply of sake.” He gestures to his full cup. “This one tastes like rice farmer’s piss.”
I start to scoop t
heir plates up into my arms. “There is a lovely tavern on the lower level of the town, dono-sama. Just a few blocks to the north. I am sure you will find the company and drink there to your tastes.”
“Wonderful. Come, Jiro, let’s go. Maybe something in this town is worth the hassle.”
Jiro reaches for his wakizashi and tucks it into his sash. “Actually, I…” He lowers his head. “I thought I might get some rest.”
Goemon studies him for a moment. Propriety tells me I should leave now; leave the master and student to their little spat. But I feel compelled to stand by, to silently cheer Jiro on.
That is a mistake.
“Ahh,” Goemon says softly, and there is no missing the harsh scrape of his gaze across me. “Yes, of course you do. Very well. Just don’t forget what we’ve come for.” His voice lowers on that last. “Don’t forget your oaths.”
Goemon rises, mats creaking beneath his bare feet, and returns his weapons to his sash. Once more he studies me with a slimy smile on his face as he walks past me for the honjin entrance. I shudder, dishes rattling in my arms.
“I’m sorry about him,” Jiro says, as soon as his master departs. “But men like him always reap the poisoned harvest they sow.”
“You think so?” I ask. I want it to be true, but I have my doubts.
“I know it.”
I meet his gaze, my arms tingling. Again I hear the drumbeats, ringing through my thoughts. Vengeance. Perhaps Jiro follows their rhythm, too.
The moment passes, and he softens his expression. “Do you … would you like any help?”
I know he is only trying to be polite. But I shake my head. “No, your lordship. It is my pleasure to serve.” My father’s words taste vile in my mouth, but I smile all the same. Before Jiro has a chance to respond, I head for the kitchen.
Father is in an unfiltered, pinpricked rage over the samurai as soon as I enter. A tight pain in my gut tells me I ought to steer clear, but for once, his anger doesn’t appear to be directed at me. I dump the dishes into the washing basin and keep my head down to avoid his stare.
“The gall of that man. What a disgrace.” He whirls around the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Samurai these days are nothing but glorified clerks. Their oaths mean nothing. And what of the bushido? The whole vulgar system is teetering over the edge.”
“You should be glad for his idiocy,” Yodo says. “If he had a hair of sense on his head, he’d sniff us out for sure.”
I sit up straighter at that, washrag going still. What scheming is she afraid the hatamoto will sniff out?
“Don’t be so sure that they haven’t. Their timing couldn’t be worse.” Father snatches a pan from Yodo’s hands. “Why would they choose the festival day, of all days, to conduct this ridiculous review? When they know everything will be in an upheaval and out of sorts. It makes no sense—unless they’ve been warned in advance of our plans.”
“And who would warn them? The daimyo?” Yodo asks, then snorts.
They are afraid their conspiracy has been discovered, but they don’t know they aren’t the only village plotting against the shogunate. That’s what the docent at the honjin told me, anyway. I drop the pot I am scrubbing back into the washbasin with a weighty thud. “You’re both blind,” I say. “Convinced there are screens upon screens trying to shield you from the truth.”
My gut twists on itself. Memories ripple through me, puzzle pieces suddenly coming all at once, piling up against each other until I can no longer tell one from the next. “The samurai are here as a precautionary measure. After the attempted rebellions against the shogunate in Mito and Choshue, they are taking no risks.” When did I learn about the rebellions in Mito and Choshue? Another puzzle piece, offered up to me from nothingness. “They do not suspect you yet, but they are here to prevent exactly what you aim to do. Give them any reason to be suspicious, and they will find it. They’ll stop you.”
Father has ceased his restless movements; he and Yodo watch me like they expect something more to happen. I am shaking. Worn out from saying so much, from drawing on so many memories, all the ones necessary to pull together even that short statement.
But I am confident in my words. I know I heard snatches of conversations about the constant tug of war between the shogun and the emperor’s supporters—I know my father and his friends at the daimyo’s estate fall into the latter camp. I remember watching not only the shogun’s bannermen like Goemon and Jiro sweep through town, but also worse men than them. Men who demanded fealty to the shogunate. I worked hard to avoid such men; I learned how to carry myself to escape their notice. Others in the village were not so fortunate.
“You think you are so clever,” Father says, voice raspy and low, “that you can puzzle out things others can’t. But you miss what’s right in front of you.” He turns from me with a grunt. “You are dismissed.”
I gather up my robe’s hem. What is right in front of Miyu? I wish I knew.
Who are you, Miyu? I ask. What have you suffered through?
But I am only asking myself, it seems. There is no one else around to answer me.
CHAPTER NINE
Father’s co-conspirators arrive in silence, mist sweeping into the back door on their robes’ skirts and coiling at our feet as I admit them. They make no eye contact with me and speak no words; I stand back and let them guide themselves to the panel at the top of the back stairs. I’m quite certain that whatever they’re planning, I’m not invited to take part.
I go to my room, but I still can’t shake the sense that there’s something wrong here—that it is missing a vital organ, that it is lopsided, somehow. I dig through my drawers and unearth a poetry book and a few other personal effects, but half of the drawers have been emptied out. Very strange. I flop down onto my pallet, but don’t feel the slightest tug of sleep.
I am, as far as I can tell, in Edo-period Japan. And I am … bored.
I pull the stone from my pocket and turn it slowly in my hand. Is this the key to returning to my own life? I consider testing it, but I’m not sure I’m ready to go back yet. The only thing awaiting me is a night out with Aki and her friends at a stupid club. Or maybe I can find myself a fresh razor and start a new network of scars.
But I no longer feel like a water balloon stretched too tight, needing to burst open with pain. And I certainly want nothing to do with Akiko. Not now that I can hear how everyone really feels. And I can’t stand the way Kenji and Sierra prod at me, like if they tug on the right string, I might have something worthwhile to say.
I snatch the poetry book and head back to the garden, where I started out this trip.
A sour wind blows through the night, carrying the heavy scent of dying leaves up from the valley. I light the candles in a few paper lanterns along the walkway, though once I close the rice paper panels, the soft amber light glowing through the paper gives me light enough to read. I perch on the walkway’s edge, feet dangling over the grass, and open the book, flipping to the first poem.
I abruptly stop.
Oh, what the hell? The Japanese characters float on the page in front of me, but I can’t read them? In this world, I can understand Japanese but not read it. I squint at the characters. No, I’m mistaken—I can read some of it. The syllables in hiragana, and a few of the katakana ones besides. But all of the pictograms borrowed from Chinese, the kanji, remain dense, incomprehensible blocks of dashes and bars.
I plop the book into my lap and lean back. Well, of course. Women weren’t taught kanji in the Edo period. I groan—probably something else a proper Confucian woman isn’t supposed to do.
The wall panel behind me slides open. I scramble to sit up straight so quickly that the book tumbles out of my lap and lands in the garden below. “Oh!” Jiro cries. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—to startle you—”
“It’s not your fault.” I reach for my wooden sandals, sitting beside me on the walkway ledge. “I’m the one lurking out here in the half-dark.”
H
e grins at that, then holds out his hand to halt me. “No, don’t get up. Let me fetch it for you.” He trots down into the garden and plucks my book up from the grass. “Poetry. You can read this?” he asks. His tone is light, flickering with wonder, perhaps; I feel sure he doesn’t mean offense. Still, his words sting, and I glance away from him.
“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean—” he says.
“It’s all right.” I force a smile. “Unless, of course, you’re the one who wrote the law.”
He laughs, a raspy sound like the rattling of bare branches. “Trust me,” he says, “I don’t hold that kind of power in the bakufu.” He hands the book back to me. “I’m sorry as well, though, for the way my master treated you earlier. He is…” Jiro hesitates, and I see again that tension in his face. “He is not always an honorable man.”
“I’m used to far worse.”
Jiro’s smile looks like it aches. He hops onto the walkway and sits as well, leaving enough distance between us for propriety. “It wasn’t always like this, you know. I’ve heard about the old days in some of the epics, like The Tale of the Heike. Back before the shogunate came to power, men and women were regarded as equals. Your sex could own property, manage affairs, educate yourselves however you chose. It’s only in the past few hundred years that we’ve turned away from that. That we’ve let ourselves become so rigid.”
“Why the change?” I ask.
Jiro thinks for a moment. “Some of the men in the bakufu credit the influence of our trade with the Chinese. Of course, they see it as a good thing that we’ve hardened into the rigid structure that we have now … And yet, do you know what’s one of the first things they teach us, when they train us to wield the katana?” he asked.
I shake my head. “Don’t grip it by the blade?” I guess.
Jiro stares at me for a minute, then breaks into a grin. “That would be a good place to start, wouldn’t it?” He leans back against the wooden post of the walkway. “No. They teach us about how the blade is shaped. A sheet of steel, folded over itself dozens and dozens of times. But it isn’t perfectly rigid. It has to be able to bend and flex. Otherwise, it will snap clean off the moment you try to pierce with it.”
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