by Tom Hoobler
The five actors grouped themselves in a semicircle in front of the food stand. Tomomi stepped back into the road, a long sword in his right hand and a short one in his left. Suddenly, he leaped forward, and the five actors closed around him. Their swords cut through the air, but Tomomi parried every thrust. He danced backward and to the side, stabbing out with the short sword to strike down a man who came too close. The actor fell to the ground with a cry, and the other four circled Tomomi warily.
Seikei watched in fascination. He had seen Tomomi’s skill on stage during the performance of The Forty-Seven Ronin, but up close the actor was even more amazing. Every step he took was swift and sure, like a dancer’s. All the while, his hands moved with grace and speed, now defending, now attacking. His swords whistled through the air, cutting down a second man, and then another.
Seikei forgot that it was only play-acting, for the cries of the men who fell seemed real. Tomomi’s last two opponents split up, and approached him cautiously from either side. It seemed certain that one of them would strike Tomomi. But as they rushed him, he ducked low to the ground, dodging both sword thrusts, and then rose and whirled in a single movement. His two swords struck both his opponents’ necks at the same time.
Triumphant, Tomomi’s eyes blazed like a wild man’s. Now he danced toward the owner of the stand, holding his long sword at arm’s length. He touched the side of the owner’s neck with the blade, and the man’s eyes bugged out. “Your head?” Tomomi said. “Or the soup? Do you keep your promise?”
“Yes, Lord,” the man whispered, and the actors rose from the ground like men coming back from the dead. The owner rushed to fill bowls for them.
Tomomi casually handed his swords to Seikei. “Collect the rest of the swords and put them away,” he said, “and you can eat too.”
When they set out on the road again, Seikei walked alongside Tomomi. “It is true, then. You really are a samurai, aren’t you?” he said.
Tomomi turned his head slightly. “Just an actor,” he replied.
“Who then is Genji, the son of Takezaki Kita?”
Tomomi glanced sharply at him. “Who told you that name?”
“You did,” said Seikei. “In the floating world.”
“I must have been drunk,” said Tomomi. “Forget that name. It was a character from a play.”
“Only a man born to be a samurai could display your skill with a sword,” Seikei said.
“Do not think so,” Tomomi said, shaking his head. “Nothing about birth qualifies a man to use a sword— merely the shogun’s order that samurai alone may carry them. Skill with a sword is like juggling or playing an instrument. A man learns it through practice.” Tomomi gave Seikei a sly look. “I can teach you.”
The hair on the back of Seikei’s neck stood up. He reminded himself to be wary. “What would I have to do in return?” he said.
“Nothing much. Perhaps take a role in a play I am writing,” Tomomi said.
Seikei took a deep breath. “You mean act? On stage?”
“It will not be in a theater, nor will the audience be very large,” said Tomomi. “You will not find it difficult.”
Seikei hesitated, trying to think. The judge had told him to become a tree to catch the thief. Now Seikei knew the thief was standing before him. It seemed the correct path was to become an actor so that he would win Tomomi’s trust. “I agree,” he said.
15: Under the Komuso’s Mask
As they drew closer to Edo, the number of checkpoints increased. Mostly, however, the guards were examining those who traveled in the other direction. One of the ways the shogun kept his control over the country was by commanding the daimyos and their families to spend every other year in Edo. Though the lords were treated as the “guests” of the shogun, they were really hostages—guarantees that no daimyo would raise an army of samurai to rebel against the government. The checkpoints outside Edo were set up to prevent any of the wives or children of the daimyos from slipping out of the city without permission.
In the afternoon, as the actors were waiting in line at a checkpoint, rain began to fall. Many people in the line unfurled oil-paper umbrellas whose colors made them look like flowers blooming in the spring. But the actors’ only umbrellas were the ones they used on stage, and they were too delicate to use in a real rainstorm.
The line moved slowly, and Seikei’s clothing was soon soaked through. It stuck to his skin, chilling him. He thought again of the kago, where he would have been sheltered and dry.
That didn’t matter, he told himself. A samurai must be willing to endure any hardship, and a little rain was nothing. His master, Judge Ooka, had told him to follow the correct path. Seikei had indeed found the thief the judge was seeking, but now Seikei depended on the charity of the thief to survive. Perhaps, he thought gloomily, he would never see either the judge or his father again.
He gritted his teeth and forced such thoughts out of his mind. Follow the path, he told himself again. But was this really the right path?
Late in the day, they trudged down the steep mountain road that led to the town of Hakone on the shore of Lake Ashi. The sunset over the lake, seen from here, was famous for its beauty, but Seikei could see nothing but slate gray clouds that grew steadily darker. The scene matched his mood.
In Hakone they found a theater whose owner willingly invited the troupe to put on a play. Tomomi led the others inside. “We have little time to prepare,” said Tomomi. “So we will present a simple drama, one that always proves popular. Get out the costumes for the love-suicide play.”
While the actors dressed, Seikei and Kazuo were sent to spread word of the performance and draw people to the theater. Kazuo told Seikei to visit the inns along one side of the street while he took the other. “What am I supposed to do?” Seikei asked.
“Tell everyone you see that there will be a performance of The Double Suicide at Sonezaki at the theater. It’s a famous play. Even the farmers come to see it. Sneak inside the door of the inn and shout it in the hallway.”
“Won’t that disturb the guests?”
Kazuo shook his head impatiently. “Who cares? They won’t do anything but throw you out. Just make sure everybody hears you.”
Seikei approached the first inn shyly. Two pretty young women stood outside, trying to entice travelers inside. Seikei realized his task was similar to theirs, and remembered that his father always said inns that used such methods were inferior.
The women paid no attention as he slipped by them. But at the top of the steps he found his path blocked by a burly innkeeper. “Do you wish to stay here?” the man asked.
‘There is a play,” Seikei replied. He tried to raise his voice so that it would carry inside. “The ... the Double Love of Sonezaki. I mean Suicide. At the theater. Down the street.” He could not make himself shout, and he realized that no one but the innkeeper could possibly hear him.
The man pushed Seikei down the steps, nearly causing him to fall. “Go away,” he said.
“The Double Suicide!” Seikei cried, a litde louder this time because he was angry. “Come see!”
The innkeeper threw a stone at him. As Seikei fled past the two women, he realized that their voices were louder than his.
Glumly, he walked to the next inn. This one had no women in front. It looked a bit more elegant than the first one. Seikei was certain he would be thrown out as soon as he entered the door.
He hunched his shoulders and walked up the steps. Before he reached the door, it opened. A komuso stood there, like the other one, wearing a basket over his head. Seikei wondered again if this was the same komuso he had seen earlier.
The komuso raised his hand and gestured for Seikei to come inside. Seikei took a step backward, suspicious. He decided it would be just as well to go on to the next inn. As he turned, however, the man swept forward like a demon. He picked Seikei off the ground and tossed him over his shoulder as easily as if he had been a sack of rice.
Seikei struggled, but it was useless
against the man’s strength. As they moved through the doorway, Seikei caught sight of Kazuo entering a teahouse across the street. Seikei started to cry for help, but the komuso clapped a hand over his mouth.
The main hall of the inn was deserted. No one noticed as the komuso carried Seikei down a hallway. He slid open a door and plopped Seikei down on the floor. At once, Seikei jumped to his feet and reached for his sword, determined to give the komuso a fight.
“Hold!” came a loud voice. Seikei recognized it, and froze. He turned to face Judge Ooka, who was sitting calmly on a mat, a steaming pot of tea by his side. Seikei could not keep himself from staring.
“I thought you knew that a samurai only draws his sword in order to use it,” the judge said sternly.
“I intended to use it,” Seikei replied. He turned and pointed to the komuso. “This man meant to rob me.”
“Nonsense,” said the judge. “You have nothing for him to steal. Why not be patient and see where he was taking you? You owe him an apology. Kneel now and beg his forgiveness.”
Seikei hesitated only for a second. He knew he had to obey his lord without question. He knelt on the floor before the komuso. “I beg your forgiveness,” he said, bowing his head.
The judge clapped once. “You are acquiring discipline,” he said. “Now look at the man I sent to protect you.”
When Seikei looked up, he saw that the komuso had removed the basket from his head. It was Bunzo, the samurai who had showed him how to ride a horse.
Seikei’s astonishment showed on his face, and Bunzo grinned. “I told the judge how you continued on the road even though your feet were bleeding.”
“And much else,” the judge added. “Now I must hear what you have seen. Be quick, for I think we must soon part again.”
Seikei began to pour out the story of everything he had seen since he left the judge at the theater. He bowed his head in shame when he revealed that the actor had taken his sword, but the judge stopped him. “Tell me again the name he gave when you fought.”
“Genji, the son of the daimyo Takezaki Kita.”
“Takezaki Kita,” the judge repeated slowly. “A Kirishitan daimyo, who was executed when he refused to give up his faith.”
“Tomomi—or Genji—himself wears the cross of the Kirishitans around his neck,” Seikei said. “But I must tell you the rest. I know he stole the jewel, for I saw him with it the next morning at the shrine of Ise. He left it there as an offering to Amaterasu!”
“Of course,” the judge said. “What else would he do with it? It would be impossible to sell it.”
Seikei was disappointed that his report caused so little surprise. “He told me to tell you what I had seen,” Seikei said.
The judge nodded. He took a sip of his tea. “The fact that he wishes it known is significant. I think I see where his path will lead him.” He wagged a finger at Seikei. “But he must not know you have told me already,” he said. “Then he might change his plans. Go back to him now and do what he says.”
“Go back?” said Seikei. “But you know he is the thief. You know where the jewel is. Shouldn’t you—” he caught himself in time. It would be wrong to tell the judge his duty.
“The jewel is perfectly safe,” the judge said. “We must let Genji follow his own path. He has another performance in his mind.”
“That’s true,” said Seikei. “They say he is working on a new play.”
“Is that so?” said the judge. “Then I must be there to see it. There may be another criminal in the case. Genji will show me who it is.” The judge folded his hands across his stomach. “I am pleased that he trusts me so much.”
Seikei had a thousand questions, but the judge urged him to hurry. “There will be time later to examine the case in detail. Do whatever Genji tells you. Find out whatever you can about him. Bunzo will follow you as before, and keep me informed of your progress.” Judge Ooka smiled. “You have proved resourceful, a desirable quality in a samurai.”
Seikei silently glowed with pleasure as he bowed to the judge and left the room. As he hurried down the hall, he reached down and touched his wooden sword. For the first time, he felt worthy of wearing it. It did not matter that he had lost it once. He had pleased the judge.
I must continue to be resourceful, Seikei told himself. Do what Genji says. The trouble was, he didn’t have the slightest idea what Genji wanted him to do. He shrugged. The judge seemed to understand. All Seikei had to do was continue to follow the path, wherever it led.
16: The Magic of Kabuki
As Seikei stepped outside the inn, he found Kazuo waiting for him in the street. “What were you doing so long in there?” Kazuo asked.
“Telling the guests about the play.” Seikei responded quickly.
Kazuo looked at him suspiciously. “I guess they didn’t throw you out because you’re wearing a sword,” he said.
‘The innkeeper wasn’t around,” Seikei explained.
“Dumb luck,” muttered Kazuo. “At one of the teahouses, they threw boiling water at me.” He shrugged. “Let’s get back to the theater. There’s work to do.”
When they arrived, Seikei saw a scene of bewildering confusion. People were rushing about—some partly dressed in costumes, some setting up lights for the stage, some carrying tea utensils, paper screens, and other props. A group of musicians sat off to one side, playing their instruments and shouting at each other at the same time. Three of the actors, spotting Kazuo, yelled at him at once. “Where’s the scarlet makeup?” “What happened to the sandals for my costume?” “Find me a mirror!”
As Kazuo rushed off on three errands at once, Seikei wandered through the backstage area, trying not to bump into anyone. He felt a hand grab his sleeve. Seikei turned and nearly jumped at the sight of a fierce chalk-white face, with crimson and black lines around the eyes. “Get me a sword!” When Seikei hesitated, the actor pointed to a chest on the other side of the room. “The green chest. Get the sword with the plain black scabbard.”
Hurrying through the crowd, Seikei opened the green chest. It was filled with swords, daggers, spears, bows and arrows, bottles of poison—a treasure trove of deadly objects. As he examined them, however, he saw that they were only props. He slipped one of the swords from its scabbard and cautiously rubbed his thumb along the edge. It was as dull as the edge of a plate. A good thing, for as he knew, a real samurai sword was razor sharp and strong enough to cut a man’s body in two with a single blow.
He selected the proper sword and took it back to the actor. The man slipped it through the sash of his kimono and stood with his arms stretched out. The kimono was made from a deep purple cloth covered with silver and gold embroidered animals. The wide sleeves fluttered gracefully as the actor turned. “What do you think?” he asked Seikei.
“It’s . . . amazing,” said Seikei. Suddenly, the actor whipped the sword from its scabbard and raised it high. Seikei ducked instinctively, and the man laughed. “You’ll see that move again when I strike off Tomomi’s head,” he said.
Seikei looked around. “Where is Tomomi?” he asked.
“Oh, he thinks he’s too good to dress with the rest of us,” the actor said. “He’s hiding behind a screen somewhere, changing himself into a woman.”
“A woman?” said Seikei. “How can he do that?”
“The magic of kabuki,” the actor replied. “Don’t you know that the shogun forbids women from appearing on the stage?”
“Oh ... I think I did hear that,” said Seikei.
“A pity, for it was a woman, the immortal Okuni, who invented kabuki.” He gave Seikei a wink. “But it is all in the same spirit, for Okuni took men’s roles. In kabuki, you see, you can never tell what’s real.”
That was true enough, thought Seikei. He looked around, seeing the ordinary-looking men transforming themselves into strange and spectacular figures. One actor’s kimono was so immense that it made him look as broad as he was tall. In fact, two assistants crouched behind him, holding thin sticks t
hat supported the sides of the kimono. The three of them practiced now, stepping in unison so that the audience would not see the assistants.
The backstage confusion seemed to increase as the time of the play grew near. Seikei looked for a place where he could watch everything and not be in the way. Shyly, he followed the musicians. They took their places behind a platform where they could see the action on stage. Still arguing among themselves, they paid no attention to Seikei.
All at once, the argument stopped. The musicians looked toward the back of the theater. There, Seikei saw the actor wearing the purple kimono raise his hand. As he jumped onto the runway, one of the musicians picked up two thick wooden blocks. He clapped them twice, so loudly that Seikei put his hands over his ears. The actor began to run toward the stage. Drums rolled, bells tinkled, and the samisens played a lively tune. The play was on!
The story was not hard to follow. The actor in the purple kimono was Toshio, the son of a rich merchant. Seikei suddenly grew more interested. Toshio complained to the audience that his parents had chosen a bride for him, but he loved another.
In the first scene, Toshio’s father—the actor with the very wide kimono—waddled on stage. People in the audience jeered. He did look ridiculous, like an immensely fat man who had made a fortune off others. A typical merchant, thought Seikei ruefully.
For his son’s bride, Toshio’s father had chosen the daughter of another merchant. The father described the benefits of two great merchant houses uniting through this marriage. Toshio protested, but to no avail. His father’s word, like the shogun’s, was law. His children had to obey his wishes in all things.
The bride’s father and brother came to meet Toshio. The audience laughed as they sternly questioned the young man. He tried to make himself appear stupid, but they were pleased by his modesty. He confessed that he did not have a great liking for girls, but the relatives reassured him—the bride didn’t like men either.
From the standpoint of Toshio’s family, the important thing was that the bride was obedient. When the marriage took place, she would come to live in Toshio’s parents’ house. She would serve his parents as if she were their own daughter. The happiness of the bride and groom was of little importance. In time, they would have children to carry on the family name—and the business. The relatives departed, bowing deeply to Toshio and his father, who returned the gesture. The prospective groom had been accepted. No one except the audience saw Toshio’s misery.