by Steve Bein
“And to think the sun and the moon didn’t think to give us anything. How scandalous!”
She broke the wax kiri blossom seal, and watched eagerly as Daigoro took it from her and read. “Oh, hell,” he said.
“Is that what the regent thinks of marriage? It hasn’t been bad so far.”
Daigoro chuckled, but only halfheartedly. “Tomo,” he said, not needing to raise his voice; unless the boy was off on some errand, he was always within earshot. “Find Katsushima-san for me, would you?”
“Is it trouble?” asked Akiko.
“The worst kind. An execution order.”
Akiko gasped. “The imperial regent wants you to commit seppuku?”
Daigoro shook his head, giving the letter a puzzled look. “No. He orders me to kill the abbot of Katto-ji.”
“What? Why?”
“It doesn’t say. It says only to send his head back to Kyoto.”
It was his wife’s turn to frown. She read the regent’s missive for herself, and by the end Daigoro saw her forehead furrow with the same consternation he’d felt as he was reading. “Who is this monk?” she asked.
“You met him briefly.”
“What, the old man who blessed our wedding?”
That and more, Daigoro thought. He admired the abbot. He knew the old monk had once been samurai, and that meant he might well have made some enemies on the battlefield. It was even possible that he had faced General Toyotomi. Could he have been involved in one of Toyotomi’s defeats?
Daigoro dismissed the thought. Even if it were true, all past offenses were absolved as soon as one took the cloth. Why should anyone call for his head now? And why would someone of such a lofty position even deign to remember that the abbot existed?
“Daigoro, this is dated two weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“He could have you killed just for failing to respond.” She shook the letter at him like a stick. “This is Toyotomi Hideyoshi we’re talking about. Patience and fair-mindedness aren’t what he’s known for.”
“I know, Aki. Just listen—”
“How did this happen? Does he send you so many letters from him that you can just forget one?”
Daigoro wasn’t accustomed to being reprimanded by a woman his own age. He wondered if this was what married life had in store for him, though he had to admit there was love in her agitation. After only seven days together, she cared enough for him to get upset when she saw him threatened.
Even so, he was glad to see Katsushima walk up behind her and snatch the letter from her fingers. He’d taken her entirely by surprise—his footfalls were as muted as his personality—and that made her catch her breath long enough for Daigoro to get a word in.
“Aki, listen to me. Suppose it took a week’s time for this to come from Kyoto. That would have it arrive on our wedding day—to be lost in the confusion, neh?”
“And then to be tossed in with all the other letters and gifts. . . . Merciful Buddha, Daigoro. What are we going to do?”
“Only the obvious,” Katsushima said. He reexamined the kiri blossom imprinted in the broken seal, studied the letter once more, then handed it back with a fatalistic shrug. “Best to get it over with.” Out of old and indelible habit, his thumb flicked out to loosen his sword in its sheath.
“I won’t,” Daigoro said.
Katsushima gave a curt bow. “I understand. It’s harder when you have a personal connection. Lend me a horse and I’ll see it done.”
“You misunderstand me. I have no interest in beheading an innocent man.”
“Buddhas have mercy,” Akiko said, “you don’t mean to defy the regent, do you? When she noticed the look she’d drawn from Katsushima, she glared right back. “Don’t you look at me like that. Do you think just because I’m a woman I can’t understand affairs of state?”
Katsushima snorted. “You’re a girl, not a woman. And the answer to your question is yes.”
Akiko was on her feet in an instant, fists on her hips. “If I am a girl, then my daddy is the most powerful spymaster between here and Kyoto.”
If Daigoro thought she had her hackles up before, that was nothing compared to now. She stood over him with all the tenacity of a she-wolf defending her cubs. Daigoro found he rather liked it.
And she wasn’t finished. “Do you think that sword of yours is the only kind of weapon? A precocious little girl can lower a man’s defenses in ways no sword ever could. I’ve served my father as a courier since I was old enough to count to ten.”
Katsushima wore an expression Daigoro had never seen in him before. He looked startled and chastised and bemused all at once, as if he’d knocked over a buzzing hornet’s nest only to release a swarm of angry butterflies. His look did not lessen Akiko’s temper.
“Aki,” Daigoro said, tugging her sleeve, “sit next to me, would you, please? I need you to tell me what you make of all this nonsense about the river and the flood.”
She gave Katsushima a defiant little squint and sat down, snatching the letter from Daigoro’s hand. He smiled and was glad she didn’t see it; her feistiness was adorable, but it wouldn’t do for her to know he felt that way. Not yet. “Here,” he told her, pointing to the passage in question. “Whatever is too heavy for the river to carry off is easily washed away by the floodwaters.”
“It sounds like His Lordship fancies himself a poet,” Katsushima said.
Akiko harrumphed. “It sounds to me like His Lordship offers you an ultimatum: either you take the abbot’s head or he’ll send a battalion to come and get it.”
“And perhaps conduct other business while they’re here,” Daigoro said, filling in the rest. “Like flooding the house of any upstart lordling who defied his will.”
“It makes no sense,” Akiko said. She studied the letter again, as if she hoped to find some explanation that hadn’t been written there before. “Why should a daimyo halfway across the empire want this man killed?”
“I don’t know,” Daigoro said, but in truth he had no attention to spare for that particular riddle. He had questions of his own to answer. How had so much gone so wrong in so little time? His father had managed the squabbling lords of Izu for decades without mishap. Now, just a year after his death, Izu was fraying at the edges and the Okumas had drawn the ire of the most powerful warlord the islands had ever seen. Daigoro cursed himself. This was not the path his father had laid out for him. If Glorious Victory Unsought was too heavy for him to wield, leadership of the clan was heavy enough to crush him like an insect.
He could almost feel his father’s mantle hanging on him, a stone yoke pressing down on his shoulders and straining his heart. His bones ached under the weight of it. His only goal was to protect his clan and preserve their honor, and his every decision had achieved just the opposite.
“I cannot understand your hesitation,” Katsushima said. “The right path is clear.”
“It’s anything but,” said Daigoro. “Do you really expect me to ride up the hill and murder an innocent man?”
“Of course.”
Akiko let out a little gasp. A tiny, distant part of Daigoro’s mind wondered at the difference between true samurai and those whose families maintained the station but not the code. Akiko had a fierce heart, to be sure, and Daigoro grew fonder and fonder of her by the day, but her father was a craven who hid behind his walls, just like his father before him. Inoue Shigekazu was a potent ally, but never on the battlefield. Clearly he’d never spoken of killing and dying as Katsushima spoke of it, or else Akiko would not have reacted as she did.
It was enough for Daigoro that her father had his spies and informants—and, of course, his topknot. Had the Inoues not been samurai, marrying Akiko would never have crossed Daigoro’s mind. As well marry a pine tree as marry a peasant. The very concept didn’t exist, at least not in the true samurai’s mind. Katsushima was one of those. Daigoro’s father had been too, and it was Daigoro’s sole aspiration to become one himself. But in this case he could not emul
ate his new mentor.
“Katsushima-san, this is not the honorable path. I cannot agree with you.”
“And I cannot fathom how your morality can prevent you from doing the right thing.” It was clear in his tone that his patience was fading fast. “Why are you afraid to do what is necessary?”
“And why are you so bold as to speak to my husband that way?” Akiko was back on her feet. “You are a servant of this house!”
For his part, Katsushima showed admirable reserve—or else Akiko’s outburst made his dwindling patience seem admirable by comparison. He only looked up at Akiko, who, since she stood on the veranda and he stood in the garden, loomed over him like a giant—but one made of flower petals, as far as Katsushima was concerned.
Daigoro touched Akiko gently on the hand. “He is no servant. He stays because he is welcome to stay, and because he chooses to. I count him as a friend and a counselor, but Katsushima-san has never sworn an oath to my banner.”
“Nor will I,” said Katsushima. “But if you ask me to, I will ride to Katto-ji and return before sundown with the old man’s head in a sack. If you would not have your own men spill his blood, send me.”
“And if I don’t send you? Will you do it of your own accord?”
Katsushima did not need to think about it for long. “No. The decision is yours. I will not make it for you.”
Daigoro nodded, relieved that he would not have to find a way to restrain a man he respected. “It’s wrong, Katsushima-san. He’s committed no crime.”
“Are you sure of that? Sure enough to kneel beside him before the kaishaku? Because that’s what you’ll be doing if you defy the regent: you’ll sentence yourself to execution.”
Once again that tiny, distant voice in Daigoro’s mind voiced its observations about the differences in social stations. Only a ronin would speak of being sentenced to death. Daigoro, lord of his house, would not wait for a higher lord’s sentencing; if he’d done wrong, he would already have plunged his sword into his belly.
But for all of that, Katsushima made a good point. Daigoro had no idea what history the regent and the abbot shared. For that matter, he didn’t even know the abbot’s name. How many conversations had he ever shared with the old man? Three? Four? The abbot had impressed Daigoro from their first meeting, and had offered him valuable spiritual guidance, but for all of that Daigoro didn’t really know anything about him. He had been samurai, yes, but for whom? He had seen battle, yes, and he’d even faced Daigoro’s own father, but how had he conducted himself on the battlefield? With honor? Without? Had he dishonored the great Toyotomi himself? How?
Daigoro could answer none of those questions. All he could do was order a horse to be saddled so he could pay a visit to Katto-ji.
10
“Okuma-dono,” the abbot said when he opened the gate in the temple’s garden wall. “What a surprise! It’s late.”
He held a thin taper; its flickering flame caused his many wrinkles to deepen with shadow. The evening had become quite chilly, but the bald abbot wore neither a hat nor an overrobe. “May I come in?” Daigoro said.
“Of course, of course.”
Upon stepping through Katto-ji’s gate, Daigoro saw the moonlight playing on the broken skin of the huge, twisted, ancient pine that dominated the courtyard. The rocks surrounding the pine had been raked to form concentric waves around the fat, gnarled roots, like ripples retreating from stomping feet in a shallow pool. Here and there a candle flame quivered behind paper windows, but for the most part the abbey was dark and still.
“Please, sit, Okuma-dono. What can I do for you on this beautiful night?”
The abbot sat down on a short staircase that ascended to the meditation hall. Daigoro lowered himself to sit beside him, his right knee wobbling as he did so, his right hand protesting loudly as he used it to balance himself as he sat. He looked at the abbot, whose unbroken hands rested on two good knees, and found himself envious of the old man’s health. And just how old was he? Sixty? Eighty? Daigoro couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he himself was just sixteen and this wizened abbot got around more easily than he did.
“I’ve received a missive,” said Daigoro. “From General Toyotomi, the new regent.”
Daigoro studied the abbot’s face as he delivered this news. The abbot’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Toyotomi. Then his face became even more serene than it was already—and that was saying something, for this was a man who could teach the moonlit stones in the rock garden about serenity.
“Do you know him?” said Daigoro.
“The answer to that depends on what you mean by ‘know.’ I’ve never met him face-to-face.”
“But you met him on the battlefield.”
Again the eyebrows rose. “Ah,” said the abbot. “Now, that’s an interesting insight. What led you to it?”
“He wants me to deliver your head in a sack.”
“Does he, now?”
Daigoro marveled at the abbot’s tranquility. Yes, the old man had been samurai, and yes, he had been practicing Zen for years, but even so, he might still have let slip a hint of distress upon learning that the most powerful man in the empire wanted him dead. Once again Daigoro found himself envious.
And yet he was frustrated too. The abbot had an annoying habit of not answering questions, and the answers to tonight’s questions might keep both of their heads firmly on their necks.
“So you met him in battle,” Daigoro said, prodding.
“Yes, you could say that. In a sense the battlefield is the only place where one can truly meet another man. There his true face is unmasked. But asking your question that way will cause my answer to mislead you.”
Daigoro didn’t feel misled, but neither could he ignore the abbot’s warning. He felt his frustration mounting and took a deep breath in an attempt to quell it. “Sir,” he said at last, “would you please enlighten me as to how you know Toyotomi Hideyoshi?”
“You asked whether I met him in battle. That can mean two things, neh? Did I fight him in battle? No. Did I see his true face in battle? Yes.”
“So you served under him.”
“Not under him. Under one of his commanders, a man named Shichio. You may not know of him, but I assure you, that letter you received was his, not Hideyoshi’s.”
“You say you’ve never met the regent face-to-face,” said Daigoro, “and yet you refer to him and his commander by their first names. Why?”
“Shichio is Shichio. Hideyoshi is not Hideyoshi, but he is not not-Hideyoshi.”
Again the frustration swelled in Daigoro’s belly. He felt it pulsing in his neck, hot enough to choke him. It pulsed in his broken fingers too, biting at their sore and swollen flesh. It was all he could do to retain the thinnest shell of politeness. “You’ll have to tell me what you mean by that.”
“Shichio is Shichio because he has no other name. He comes from peasant stock. Have you ever heard of a peasant with a surname?”
“Of course not.”
“And Hideyoshi has as many names as the sky has stars. ‘Hideyoshi’ is as good as any of them.”
Daigoro was ready to growl. More than anything he wanted to shout, Damn you, unclog your doddering ears and listen to me. Instead he said, “Perhaps I should be clearer. A man with hundreds of thousands of troops at his beck and call wants me to kill you. If I refuse, he’ll call for my head as well. I need for you not to speak in riddles anymore.”
“Oh, but I’m not,” said the abbot, his face as innocent as a newborn kitten. “The man you call ‘the regent’ changes names as often as most men change clothing. When I fought under him his name was Hideyoshi. Before that it was Hashiba, and before that the Bald Rat, and before that it was Kinoshita, and before that it was who-knows-what. Now it is the Monkey King, or Imperial Regent, or Chief Minister. Most recently it is Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Who knows what name his mother gave him? I call him by the name he had when I met him.”
“Very well,” said Daigoro. “I am grateful for
your explanation, but you’ll forgive me if I feel I’m no closer to understanding why this man should want me to deliver your head.”
“I’ve explained that already, neh? He doesn’t. Shichio does.”
Daigoro closed his eyes. It was all he could do not to strangle the abbot. “All right,” he said through gritted teeth, “so why does Shichio want your head?”
“I expect he’s recently met a man with a scar across his forehead. Years ago I watched that man receive his scar. As a result, an army of ghosts handed Shichio a defeat, and because Shichio was routed, Hideyoshi lost the day as well. And if Hideyoshi were ever to learn of this story, I expect he would seek Shichio’s head, not mine.”
Daigoro pounded his knee with his fist. “Damn you and your bewildering words! Is this as plainly as you can speak?”
“My lord, if you’ll just wait one moment more—”
“I’m through with waiting. Don’t you understand? I could end this conversation with one stroke of my sword. And I’d be better off if I did it, too. I have only to deliver your head and life will suddenly become very easy—for me, for my family, for the whole damned peninsula. Yet you want to play more word games. Enough with these stories and fairy tales! I don’t want to hear another word of any ghost armies.”
“Not even if it was your father’s ghost army?”
Daigoro groaned, massaging his forehead with his left hand. He was ready to shout at the old monk again—how dare he play on Daigoro’s heartstrings by dredging up memories of his father?—but then he remembered: his father and the abbot once faced each other in war.
Daigoro knew virtually nothing of that encounter, nor of any of his father’s battlefield exploits. His father had never spoken much of war; he’d always been careful not to glorify it overmuch for his sons. He’d never been one to test his mettle by entering into needless combat—or so was Daigoro’s impression anyway. Daigoro’s guesses vastly outweighed what he knew for certain.
And with the pressures of running the clan pushing in on him from every side, now more than ever Daigoro needed to know what his father was like. His father had always known what to do. The right path had always been clear to him, and so what Daigoro needed was to know his father’s mind.