by Tom Hoobler
Walking from theater to theater, the judge asked what type of entertainment was being offered. One woman told him acrobats and tightrope walkers, and Seikei thought this must be the place where the thief could be found. But the judge shook his head and moved on.
At one of the theaters, they learned that a kabuki troupe was presenting the play called The Forty-Seven Ronin. The judge nodded and paid the price of admission for them both. When they went inside, they found that the hall was already crowded. The best seats, on the floor in front of the stage, were already taken. But there were a few places left near the two wooden runways that actors used to go to and from the stage. Seikei and the judge sat down there.
The bright lanterns hanging over the stage cast a light over the audience. People talked loudly as they waited for the fun to begin. For many of those in the audience, the trip to Ise was the most exciting thing they would ever do in their lives. People in farm villages saved money for years so that a few of them could go, and then held a drawing to choose the lucky ones. They would return and describe to the other villagers everything they had seen and done.
“I know the story of this play,” said Seikei.
“Most people do,” said the judge. “Yet that does not seem to lessen its popularity. Some versions of the play take three days to perform. I hope we will not be here that long. The floor is hard.”
“Is it really a true story, as people say?” Seikei asked.
“Yes, and it happened not very long ago,” the judge replied. “I once met a man who claimed to have known one of the ronin. But remember, we are here to look for a criminal who may be one of the actors. Search their faces. Try to remember if any looks like the ghost who visited your room, or even like the young acrobat you saw earlier.”
“What made you choose this theater? There were acrobats performing at one of the others.”
“I have a feeling that this particular story is admired by the thief. If you pay close attention, you may discover something about his character—the reason why he became a bent tree while others grew straight and tall.”
Before Seikei could ask anything else, he heard the sound of two wooden blocks clapped together, the signal for the play to begin. A man ran down the wooden runway that led from the back of the theater. Suddenly he stopped and let out a wild cry—so loud that the audience hushed at once.
The actor turned and Seikei saw his face, which was covered with white paint. But his lips were bright red and his eyes outlined in black so that everyone could see his expression. He twisted his face in fear as he called out: “Oh, what terrible things have I seen!” He looked around as if he were alone. “Who will listen? Who shall I turn to? Our lord, our daimyo is dead! What shall I do?”
Musicians hidden behind a curtain began to play. Seikei recognized the plunking strings of the samisen, accompanied by drums and wooden clappers. Another actor appeared on stage and called, “What has happened?” One by one, more joined him there, all wearing the two swords that marked them as samurai.
The first samurai, still out on the runway among the spectators, began to tell his story, all the while weeping, shouting, and tearing his hair. His master, the Lord of Ako, had gone to the shogun’s court in Edo. As everybody knew, the shogun commanded every daimyo in Japan to live in Edo one year out of every two. That way, the shogun could keep his eye on them.
But this was the young Lord of Ako’s first visit. Coming from a distant area, he did not know the correct behavior of the court. He spoke plainly and simply, not understanding when to bow and how to speak during the ceremonies.
One of the shogun’s officials, Lord Kira, began to make fun of the Lord of Ako. Lord Kira called him a country bumpkin, a stupid man. The Lord of Ako ignored these insults as long as he could, but finally he heard Lord Kira question his honor.
No samurai could bear this. Although no one was permitted to wear weapons at the shogun’s court, the Lord of Ako carried a dagger in his robe. He drew it and struck out at Lord Kira, wounding him.
Such an act of violence, inside the shogun’s castle, was strictly forbidden. When the shogun learned of it, he commanded the Lord of Ako to commit seppuku, to kill himself. There was no other way, no appeal. The shogun’s command was law. And so the Lord of Ako died by his own sword. The wooden clappers offstage sounded loudly at the story of his death. The actors on stage froze in sorrow.
“Now that our master is dead,” cried the messenger, “what will become of us?” He had left Edo on horseback, riding without rest for many days to inform the other samurai of the fate of the Lord of Ako.
One of the men on stage stepped forward. Some of the people in the audience clapped, recognizing the character he played—the samurai Oishi. The actor was a short, wiry man, just like the acrobat Seikei had seen jump out of Lord Hakuseki’s way on the road. Seikei stood up to see him more clearly. But because the man wore makeup it was impossible to see if he had a scar on his face.
The actor’s voice rang throughout the silent theater. “We are ronin now,” he said, “samurai without a master.” He danced slowly down one of the runways into the middle of the theater, and the samisens played a mournful tune. “The shogun will take our lord’s lands and give them to another daimyo. We can stay here to serve him. We can forget the insult that our master died for.” He stopped, and turned to the others.
“Is that honorable?” His voice sounded like a clap of thunder, echoed by the drums.
Seikei could not stop himself from shouting, as many in the audience did, “No! No!”
The actor turned in a circle, staring grimly at everyone in the theater. Seikei could not tear his eyes from the man’s face. “Then we must agree to give up our lives, our families, everything else that we love. We must dedicate ourselves to one thing—to avenging our master’s honor, and our own!”
He ran back to the stage and then turned to face the audience. His eyes were fierce. “Do you agree?” he cried.
A great cry of “Yes!” arose. Then the Forty-Seven Ronin (there were not actually that many actors, but everyone knew how many there were supposed to be) ran off in all directions, disappearing from the stage.
Seikei felt his heart beating. He sank back onto the floor. Honor! The code that all samurai must follow, to the death. Since death came someday to all, it was more important to preserve one’s honor than to save one’s own life.
Yet during the next hour, each of the ronin who had served the Lord of Ako appeared to have abandoned all thoughts of honor. It was hard to watch. Oishi himself appeared, staggering as if drunk, his clothes dirty and his hair hanging down around his face. He fell to the ground in a stupor, and passers-by kicked at him and laughed. “That pitiful creature is Oishi,” they said. “He once served the Lord of Ako, but now he is a drunken fool.”
Seikei squirmed, feeling the insults as keenly as the forty-seven ronin did. He watched each of the actors play the roles that the real ronin had taken. They wandered alone, spending their time in wine-shops, begging for coins, and conducting themselves in the most disgraceful ways they could think of.
The only thing that made this bearable was that Seikei knew all this was part of Oishi’s plan. Finally, the last of the ronin shuffled across the stage, broken and disgraced. The lanterns overhead were snuffed out, leaving the theater in darkness. The music continued, and while the spectators waited for the next act to begin, many of them ate the food they had brought along.
But then new lanterns winked on over the stage, burning white like the light of the moon. Flakes of paper began to fall from the ceiling. It was snowing, and now the audience hushed in anticipation, for this was the wintry night when the ronin took their revenge.
One of them appeared from the shadows, clad all in black, his two swords hanging from his belt. His step was sure and purposeful. Another arrived with a rope ladder that he threw over a wall. More ronin appeared, stealthily climbing the ladder. Others surrounded the high wall. The music grew louder, and the audience tensed.
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br /> The ronin had met, as Oishi had planned, at the castle of Lord Kira, the man who had insulted their master and caused his death. Sword fights broke out as Lord Kira’s own samurai awakened and tried to fight off the intruders. Seikei gasped as the blades gleamed and clashed together. He had dreamed of taking part in such a fight, but he could not believe the skill and speed that the actors displayed. They danced across the stage, swinging their swords in a display of beauty and death.
Oishi—the actor who played Oishi—seemed to be everywhere at once, gliding as if his feet were wings, his silver sword flashing in the air. Two of Lord Kira’s samurai cornered him, and pressed forward with their swords raised to kill him. Then the audience gasped as Oishi flipped backward—once, twice, three times— without dropping his sword. Then, without pausing, he turned and ran it through the two samurai who had pursued him. Seikei knew then: this must be the man he had seen defy Lord Hakuseki.
The Forty-Seven Ronin could not be defeated, and soon the floor was covered with bodies. The ronin began to search for the man they had come for—Lord Kira. Each time they ripped aside a curtain or opened a door, the music swelled. But they could not find the lord. Children in the audience pointed to a small bamboo structure that stood at the corner of the stage. “There, look there!”
That was Lord Kira’s hiding-place—an outhouse, a toilet. At last Oishi threw open the door to reveal a man dressed in a crimson robe. Oishi dragged him out, and the other ronin surrounded him, a circle of black figures with the red one at the center.
Oishi’s eyes were bright with triumph. “Do you know us?” he cried. “We are the loyal men of the Lord of Ako. We suffered his disgrace at your hands. We did not forget.”
He offered his own long sword to Lord Kira, holding it under his chin. “You have one chance to save your own honor. This is the sword that my lord used to kill himself. I have used it to avenge him. Take it now, take it and kill yourself, as a samurai should.”
The silver blade quivered in the light. Lord Kira raised his eyes. They were filled with terror. He was, in the end, not worthy to be a samurai. He wriggled out of Oishi’s grasp and opened his mouth as if to scream for help. The music rose to a high pitch, and then paused.
Before Lord Kira could utter a sound, Oishi raised the sword and in a single swift blow cut off Lord Kira’s head.
The audience shrieked. The red-robed figure slumped to the floor, and Oishi reached down and picked up the head, holding it high. For an instant, Seikei thought it was real, but then saw it was a stuffed cloth head, dripping red.
The head was swiftly placed into a basket, and the ronin marched solemnly off stage, carrying it with them.
That was not the end of the story, as Seikei knew. The music played while the lanterns were changed again, and now the ronin reappeared, bringing their basket to the court of the shogun.
The shogun was respected and feared. In him rested all the ideals of the samurai, but he ruled Japan with an iron fist. The Forty-Seven Ronin knelt before him, and once more Oishi told the story of his lord’s disgrace and how he and the other ronin had avenged his honor.
The shogun, costumed splendidly in helmet and leather armor, listened in silence. When Oishi had finished his tale, the audience waited for the shogun to speak.
At last, he rose from his seat. “You have acted honorably,” he said. “You have done what any samurai should do. And yet...I cannot allow you to kill a daimyo without punishment. I have no choice.”
He bowed his head. “You know what honor demands. I release you.”
One by one, the lanterns were extinguished as the shogun and his courtiers left the stage. Only the Forty-Seven Ronin remained, standing under the single lantern that still shone.
The musicians played their terrible tune as the Forty-Seven Ronin unsheathed their swords. Many in the audience could be heard weeping, and Seikei wished silently that there could be another end to the story.
But there was not. The samurai committed seppuku, thrusting their swords into their bodies and falling lifeless upon the stage. The last to fall was Oishi himself. He turned his blazing eyes upon the audience and shouted, “Remember us! For we are the spirit of Japan!”
The last lantern went out as he used his sword on himself. For a moment, there was silence, and then the loud wooden clappers offstage began again— sounding forty-seven times. The music began again, and the lanterns winked on. The stage was empty, but the audience began to clap so loudly that the actors reappeared to bow and accept the applause.
Seikei stood to see as clearly as possible the actor who played Oishi. He was in the center of the stage, smiling and bowing. But he was too far away for Seikei to tell if he looked like the man he had seen in the Tokaido Road. “Where do the actors go after the play?” he asked Judge Ooka.
“I do not know,” said the judge. “Why do you ask?”
“Let’s follow them and see what that actor looks like without his makeup.”
The judge yawned. “The play was a long one, and I am tired. Why don’t you do it and come back and tell me what you found?”
Seikei stared. He could not understand the judge’s lack of concern. Hadn’t he picked out this theater himself? This might be the thief they were looking for!
Perhaps the judge was testing Seikei’s courage. If so, he must prove himself. Seikei nodded and began to make his way toward the stage.
11: The Floating World
Seikei found it hard to thread his way through the flow of people leaving the theater. By the time he reached the stage, it was empty. He climbed up and went behind the curtain that had concealed the musicians.
Seikei found himself in a confusing crowd of actors removing their costumes, musicians packing their instruments, and others collecting the props. He searched anxiously for the actor who played Oishi, but did not see him. One of the other actors took off his helmet and handed it casually to Seikei. Without thinking, Seikei took it.
He looked around. Another boy about his own age was packing the helmets into a chest. Seikei went over and stacked his on top.
“Not like that!” the other boy said. “I’ve got to fit them all inside.” He took the helmet and slipped it neatly over another one. Then he eyed Seikei.
“Who are you?” the boy asked. “I never saw you before.”
“I’m looking for the actor who played Oishi,” Seikei explained. “I...I have a message for him.”
The boy snorted. “From some woman, I suppose. Well, he’s gone. Didn’t even take off his costume, as usual.” The boy winked at Seikei. “He likes to wear it about the town, pretending he’s a samurai. I’ll have to go find him later to get it. Probably have to clean it too. He’s likely to end up drunk.”
Seikei thought for a moment. “If I help you here, will you help me find him?”
The boy shrugged. “Why not? Go pick up some of the robes. These actors will just toss them on the floor and blame me if they’re wrinkled at the next performance.”
As Seikei helped, he learned that the boy’s name was Kazuo. He constantly complained about the actors, but it was clear that he was proud of being part of the troupe. “Are your parents actors too?” Seikei asked.
Kazuo shook his head, smiling. “Haven’t got any parents,” he said. “I’ve always lived in the kabuki. Tomomi said they found me in a trunkful of costumes when I was a baby.” He shrugged. “Maybe I was a character from a play who came to life. Once in a while, they let me on stage, and I know that’s where I’m destined to be. Someday I want to play Oishi, when Tomomi retires.”
“Tomomi? Is that the real name of the actor?” asked Seikei.
Tomo Tomomi he calls himself,” replied Kazuo. “But who knows what his real name is? As Tomomi says, in kabuki anyone can become whoever he likes.”
Kazuo closed the last of the chests of costumes and locked it. Everyone else had left the theater. “You want to go find him now?”
Seikei nodded.
“He’ll likely be in the floatin
g world somewhere,” Kazuo said.
Seikei took a deep breath. The floating world! That meant the houses where lanterns shone far into the night. The pleasure quarters where beautiful geishas sang and played samisens, served cups of rice wine called sake, and comforted those who sought relief from their everyday lives. Seikei’s father would be horrified if he knew his son was going there.
“Let’s go,” Seikei said.
The streets of Ise were dark and silent now. The lines of people at the shrines would form early in the morning, and they would be long. Most of the pilgrims had already retired to their inns or lay snoring within the monastery grounds.
But Kazuo led him to a part of the town where the windows still glowed and soft, enticing music tinkled from within. The back of Seikei’s head tingled as he heard a footstep in the street behind them. He turned and saw a dark figure stepping into the shadow of an overhanging roof. Was it only his imagination, or did the figure really have a basket over its head?
“Someone’s following us,” Seikei whispered to Kazuo.
Kazuo looked, but the figure had disappeared. “You’re just nervous,” he said.
Seikei truly was nervous as they walked up to the entrance of one of the houses. He looked at its glowing paper windows and tried to imagine what lay behind them. When they stepped onto the porch, an older woman slid the door open and looked at them with disapproval.
Seikei stared at her kimono. Even in the dim light, he could see that it was made of beautiful blue silk, as fine as any he had seen on rich women in Osaka. “You boys go home to bed,” she said.
“I’m with the kabuki,” said Kazuo. “I’m looking for an actor.”
The woman sniffed. “No actors here. This is a respectable house. Only samurai.”
“He dresses like a samurai,” Kazuo said. “Brown kimono with white embroidery. He has a scar on his face, right here.” Kazuo drew his finger down his cheek.