Bundori

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Rounding the corner from the firebreak and climbing up the slope toward them came a procession of at least fifty people—foot soldiers, mounted samurai, servants holding umbrellas over silkgarbed officials. At its head, six bearers carried a palanquin emblazoned with snarling dragons.

  “Chamberlain Yanagisawa.” Sano breathed. An incredulous laugh burst from him as he slicked the rain from his eyes. He’d set a trap for the killer—and caught all three suspects. What schemes or passions had brought Yanagisawa here? Sano crouched, sword ready. For Chūgo was backing away from the procession, obviously deciding that his two pursuers posed a lesser obstacle.

  “Sano Ichirō!” The shout snatched Sano’s attention from Chūgo, who faltered, also arrested by the familiar voice of authority. Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s head protruded from the palanquin. “Sano Ichirō, listen to me, you miserable fool!”

  Heedless of the wind that whipped his brilliant silk garments and the slanting rain that drenched them, Chamberlain Yanagisawa jumped out of the palanquin. He ran up the slope, his high wooden sandals sliding in the mud.

  “So you think you’re clever, do you?” he shouted at Sano. “You think that because a witness saw my palanquin near Zōjō Temple—where I went to worship on the night of the priest’s death—that you can frame me for murder. You think you can trap me with a fake letter and a nonexistent sword.” His streaming face twisted with anger and hatred. “I am the man who rules the land. I know everything; I’m all-powerful. You dare deem me a killer? You dare match wits with me?”

  Yanagisawa slipped and went down on one knee. He righted himself, his fury undiminished. “Well, I’m here to ruin your transparent, pathetic little scheme. And to destroy you once and for all!” He pushed past Chūgo, whom he didn’t appear to notice, and stood tall and regal on the path before Sano. “You won’t catch the Bundori Killer. And you will never, ever take my place as the shogun’s favorite!”

  The wind swirled the chamberlain’s vivid garments; the rain swept around him. With lightning dazzling his angry face and thunder punctuating his words, he seemed like an avenging god. Belatedly Sano understood that jealousy, not guilt, had motivated Yanagisawa to sabotage him.

  “I will see you dead before I let you seize my wealth, power, or position,” Yanagisawa raged.

  With sudden terrifying prescience, Sano knew what would happen the instant before it did. “Look out, Chamberlain Yanagisawa!” he shouted.

  His warning came too late. Before the last syllable left his mouth, Chūgo was standing behind Yanagisawa, with one arm locked around the chamberlain’s chest and the blade of his sword in front of Yanagisawa’s shocked face.

  “Nobody move!” Chūgo ordered. “Come any closer, and I’ll kill him.”

  Sano froze in midstep, his mind a blank sheet of horror. Down the slope, the foot soldiers who had drawn their weapons and the horsemen who had leapt from their mounts halted in their rush to save their master. Lightning illuminated their stricken faces; thunder echoed their outraged shouts.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Yanagisawa demanded. “Release me this instant!”

  He twisted around to face his captor, and for the first time really seemed to see Chūgo. The anger on his face gave way to startled recognition, then fearful understanding. “Chūgo Gichin? The captain of the guard … the Bundori Killer? He caught you in his trap?”

  Yanagisawa began to struggle, straining away from the sword by his face, trying to pry Chūgo’s arm off his chest. “I’m your commanding officer, Chūgo. Let me go!” Panic robbed his order of authority. “Guards! Help!”

  His thoughts in a hopeless tangle, Sano cast wildly about for a way to subdue Chūgo without harming Yanagisawa. He saw the reckless determination in Chūgo’s eyes, and Chūgo’s unwavering hand forcing the sword ever closer to Yanagisawa’s face. He sensed the entourage’s growing panic. Infusing his voice with a calm authority he didn’t feel, he said, “Chūgo-san, he’s your kin—a fellow descendant of General Fujiwara. He’s not your enemy.” Focusing his entire concentration on the captain, Sano was barely aware of the rain streaming over him, or the sudden hush that fell over his audience. “He’s not responsible for Oda Nobunaga’s murder—or for the trap you walked into.”

  Chūgo neither spoke nor changed expression, but Sano sensed an inner response to General Fujiwara’s and Oda Nobunaga’s names. Now if only no one would interfere.

  “I’m the one who tried to prevent you from carrying out your ancestor’s wishes. It’s me you want, Chūgo-san.” Sano thumped his chest. “We can settle this, you and I, alone. Kill me, and you’re a free man. The case against you dies with me; the evidence goes with me to my grave.”

  Chūgo and everyone else remained silent. Blinding cracks of lightning split the heavens; more thunder rattled the ground. Rain fell in great sheets, blurring the city into the drowning sky. Choppy waves smacked the riverbank, and the tossing boats strained their moorings. Then Chūgo lowered the sword almost imperceptibly. Encouraged, Sano eased himself into a defensive posture, preparing for Chūgo’s assault. Spirit of my father, give me strength!

  Then Yanagisawa shouted, “This is all your fault, Sano Ichirō! Guards! Seize him!”

  His cry, choked off by Chūgo’s encircling grip, thwarted Sano’s attempt to transfer the captain’s malevolence from the chamberlain to himself. Chūgo jerked the sword closer to his captive’s face. Yanagisawa screamed, and the entourage became a chaotic mob. Cries of “What shall we do?” and “Let’s get him!” rose from its midst.

  “Look out, sōsakan-sama!” Hirata stepped between Sano and the advancing horde.

  Sano barely registered the threat to himself, for Chūgo, his intention unmistakable, was propelling the ranting, cursing Yanagisawa down the path. The bottom dropped out of Sano’s stomach.

  “Try to stop me, and I’ll kill him,” Chūgo spat.

  “You’ll die for this, Sano Ichirō!” Chamberlain Yanagisawa howled, his face wild with anger and terror. “You impertinent lackey, you despicable fool, you—”

  “Shut up!” Sano yelled.

  The chamberlain did, his mouth agape as Chūgo continued to shove him along the path toward the boat. Sano didn’t wait for Yanagisawa to recover from the shock of being addressed so rudely. “Chūgo. You can’t escape,” he said. “Soon everyone will know you’re the Bundori Killer. You won’t be safe anywhere.”

  He darted in front of Chūgo, running backward as the captain bore down at him and Yanagisawa glared in outrage. Beyond them, he could see Hirata trying to hold off Yanagisawa’s shouting, sword-waving entourage.

  “If you let the chamberlain go, you’ll be allowed to commit seppuku, or even live under house arrest.” Sano heard himself babbling whatever came into his head. “Endanger him, and you’ll be tortured and executed like a common criminal. Surrender, Chūgo. It’s over. Do you hear me? It’s over!”

  They reached the Shimizu dock, where Matsui, whom Sano had almost forgotten, lay while his surviving bodyguard pumped water from his lungs. Hastily the guard dragged him out of the way and into the river again.

  Giving no sign that he’d heard Sano’s pleas, Chūgo made for the gangplank. Frantic to avert disaster, Sano blocked the captain’s way, but Chūgo only gripped Yanagisawa tighter. The chamberlain gasped, his hands locked on his captor’s arm, eyes fixed on the blade in front of his face.

  “Sheath your weapon,” Chūgo ordered Sano. He thrust his sword against Yanagisawa’s lip. The chamberlain screamed as blood welled from the cut and washed away in a flood of rain. “Now get out of my way, or I’ll cut him again.”

  “Do as he says,” Yanagisawa pleaded.

  Sano sheathed his sword. “Chūgo—”

  “Move!”

  The chamberlain’s retainers swarmed past Hirata and onto the dock. Their shouts rang above the thunder, wind, and rain. Chūgo spun around to face them, pulling his prisoner with him.

  “Stand back, or he’s a dead man.”

  Sano leap
ed forward, intending to grab Chūgo, wrest the sword away, and free Yanagisawa, but the chamberlain’s shriek and the retainers’ fresh outcry stopped him. When Chūgo turned back to him, he gasped.

  The blade had slashed Yanagisawa’s left eyelid. Blood poured over his face, which had gone completely white. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sounds came out. Then his eyeballs rolled up into his head. His hands let go of Chūgo’s arm and dropped. His legs buckled.

  “You can’t hurt him, Chūgo-san. He’s your lord’s representative.” In growing desperation, Sano appealed to the guard captain’s samurai values. “You’re honor-bound to protect him. Let him go. If you want a hostage, take me instead. Don’t—”

  “Move. Now.” Chūgo’s gruff command cut him off. The sword now pressed against the limp and unconscious Yanagisawa’s throat.

  “Do as he says!” The command issued from Yanagisawa’s entourage.

  “Chūgo, if you take the boat out in this storm, you’ll both die. Please—”

  The words froze on Sano’s tongue when he saw from the captain’s hard, merciless stare that he’d passed beyond reason. With defeat crushing his heart, Sano stepped off the gangplank and out of Chūgo’s way. Helplessly he stood on the dock with Hirata and the stunned, silent crowd as Chūgo dragged Yanagisawa up the gangplank and aboard the boat. He’d failed in the shogun’s mission; he’d failed to fulfill his promise to his father. The Bundori Killer was escaping, and Sano was responsible for Yanagisawa’s certain death—a disgrace that would result in severe punishment and everlasting dishonor.

  With Yanagisawa draped over his arm like a broken puppet, Chūgo slashed the boat’s mooring ropes. It drifted free of the dock. He sheathed his sword, then pulled up the gangplank and unfurled the sail. The wind slapped the tall, rectangular hempcloth sheet open. The boat rocked and pitched, moving down the river.

  Merciful gods, if Chūgo managed to get all the way down the Sumida into open sea … The flimsy pleasure craft would never survive the strong currents and rough waves. Not even the most expert crew could maneuver it around the treacherous reefs that had sunk many better ships.

  The crowd surged down the path after the boat. Sano groaned as Yanagisawa’s archers let fly a spate of arrows at Chūgo, who now stood in the stern, working the ropes stretched from the billowing sail and over the cabin roof. Killing the guard captain now wouldn’t solve the problem: Without a sailor, the boat might founder and sink before they saved Yanagisawa. Sano ran after the entourage.

  “No! Get help! The police, the navy—”

  No one listened; more arrows flew. Sano saw that he must stop Chūgo and rescue Yanagisawa himself. He squeezed past the crowd. Through windblown sheets of rain, he ran down the farthest dock, which the boat was just passing. He heard Hirata yell, “Go, sōsakan-sama! I’ll get help!”

  Whispering a prayer for strength and courage, Sano gulped a deep breath, then dived headfirst into the river.

  35

  The icy water claimed Sano with a heart-stopping splash. Gasping, he swam through the choppy waves after the boat. His clothes hindered his movements; his swords weighed him down. The rain still poured from the sky; every time he raised his head for a breath, he inhaled as much water as air. His muscles ached, and the cold quickly penetrated to his bones. The tossing swells nauseated him. How different this was from the stylized exercises he’d practiced in the castle training pond, at which he’d never excelled anyway, even when in the best of health. The water, not his natural element, fought his every effort to conquer it. He forced his legs to keep kicking, his arms to keep stroking. A cramp gnawed his left side. The river burbled in his ears, louder than thunder, while lightning blazed around him.

  Yet every time his eyes cleared the waves, he was closer to the boat. At last, his hands smacked the hull. But the smooth wood offered no way to climb up. Sano groaned. The boat was pulling away from him. Utterly exhausted, he could swim no more. The Bundori Killer would escape; Yanagisawa would die. Having failed in his duty to his father and his lord, Sano knew that Bushido demanded he die, allowing his disgrace to perish with him.

  Then something rough slapped his cheek: one of the boat’s mooring ropes, which Chūgo had cut before setting sail. Sano grabbed it. Too weak to climb aboard, he simply hung on.

  Aboard the rocking, listing boat, Chūgo struggled to control the sail, whose lines the wind strained taut against his hands. Rain sluiced the deck and lashed his face. The boat heeled perilously. With all his strength, Chūgo heaved. The sail turned; the boat veered right, leaving the Kanda and sailing into the Sumida River, where the current carried it southwest, seaward.

  Triumph roared inside Chūgo as he tacked, guiding the boat on a zigzagging course against the wind. He’d escaped the angry mob, and the foolish sōsakan who’d interfered with his mission for too long. Looking starboard, he saw only the rainswept warehouses and deserted docks that bordered the Sumida’s west bank, and the distant misty marshes opposite. All other boats had taken shelter from the storm. The river was a wide-open channel to freedom. He would live to complete General Fujiwara’s blood score. Filling his lungs with air, he shouted into the storm:

  “Honorable ancestor! I will kill every last member of the Endō and Araki clans!”

  For by a stroke of pure luck, he had a guarantee of continued survival.

  Chūgo released the lines from his raw, bleeding hands and secured them, leaving the boat to move with the current. He strode into the cabin. The rain battered the roof like rounds of gunfire. Outside, the thunder boomed like mighty cannon. Water streamed off Chūgo and onto the floor around his hostage.

  The great Chamberlain Yanagisawa lay on his side, eyes closed, arms and legs bent—a wet, pathetic heap of garish garments. Blood from his cut lip and eyelid still trickled down his white face. His knotted skein of hair had come undone; it dangled onto the floor like a dead black snake. Chūgo eyed the chamberlain with contempt. Such a disgrace to General Fujiwara, this coward who fainted because of two harmless little cuts! Who stole his lord’s authority, and indulged his unseemly passions for wealth and sex. The very antithesis of Bushido! To acknowledge him as kin mortified Chūgo. Never had he foreseen the day when he would find value in the foul creature.

  Yanagisawa groaned. Weakly, he flopped over on his back. His eyelids fluttered open. The dark, dazed eyes grew huge with fear as he stared up at Chūgo.

  “Where—where am I?” he asked hoarsely. He tried to rise, but his twisted clothing held him down.

  Chūgo snatched up a coil of rope that lay conveniently on a bench. In an instant, he had Yanagisawa’s hands and ankles tied behind him.

  Yanagisawa writhed and thrashed. “Chūgo! Are you mad? Untie me at once!”

  A wave rocked the boat, and he rolled sideways, slamming his head against the bench. “Oh, no, the river …” Panic blurred his voice. “Where are you taking me?”

  Chūgo ignored him. Quickly he searched the cupboards, then went outside and examined the hold. A grim smile touched his lips when he found plenty of provisions. He could sail down the coast—a dangerous journey, but he could make it; he was invincible. After dumping Yanagisawa at sea, he would put ashore at some distant province, where he could lie low, disguised as a rōnin, until the manhunt died down and the bakufu realized that the chamberlain was no great loss. Then he would make his way across the country, finishing his work.… Returning to the cabin, Chūgo closed his eyes, the better to anticipate his imminent victory.

  From the floor, Yanagisawa spat a steady stream of threats: “Every soldier in the country will be looking for you, Chūgo. And when they find you, they’ll crucify you, then cut off your head. They’ll leave your remains on the execution ground to be gawked at by every lowly peasant who walks by!”

  For Chūgo, the chamberlain’s voice had less meaning than the buzz of an insect. His surroundings blurred as imagination and desire transported him into the past …

  … to Oda Nobunaga’s encampment, where the great wa
rlord sat in his curtained enclosure. Today he’d won the Battle of Nagashino, his greatest victory. He had finally vanquished the Takeda clan, his most powerful foes, and added their territory to that which he already ruled.

  Chūgo’s spirit inhabited General Fujiwara’s body; he wore the general’s armor. Fierce pride ignited his blood as he knelt before Oda and spoke the words his ancestor must have spoken that night so long ago.

  “Honorable Lord Oda, please accept these as my tribute to your supremacy, and proof of my loyalty and devotion.”

  As Lord Oda surveyed the severed heads that Chūgo—General Fujiwara had brought him, his gaze lingered most fondly on those of the hatamoto, Kaibara Tōju; the rōnin, Tōzawa Jigori; and the priest, Endō Azumanaru: trophies from the present that had accompanied Chūgo into the glorious past.

  “You’ve done well, Fujiwara-san,” Lord Oda said. “In recognition of your service, I shall reward you now.”

  Chūgo’s spirit soared with his ancestor’s. Now he would experience the culmination of General Fujiwara’s career. He reached out to accept from Oda the two magnificent death’s-head swords—

  Suddenly a stabbing pain gripped Chūgo’s ankle. He shouted in angry protest as his fantasy ended. He was back in the boat’s cabin with the storm howling outside, and Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s teeth sunk into his flesh. With a vicious kick, Chūgo shook Yanagisawa loose. How dare this scum interrupt his vision?

  “If you think you can escape disgrace by committing seppuku, you’re wrong, Chūgo,” Yanagisawa shouted. “You’ll die like a common criminal. You—owww!”

  The chamberlain’s body jerked when Chūgo kicked his ribs. His voice rose in shrill panic. “How dare you hurt me? You’ll die for this, you will!”

  Now Chūgo saw the man he’d always suspected lived behind the chamberlain’s suave facade: weak, frightened, and small. Yet the discovery evoked no sympathy in him. He kicked Yanagisawa again and again—in the stomach, thighs, and groin.