Yasutoki had attempted to circumvent the shogunate’s refusal by meeting with various ministers. They had politely received him but still denied the access he wanted. What news of the Khan’s plans? How many years to rebuild an invasion fleet after the devastation of the previous year? How long to replenish the tens of thousands drowned in the typhoon?
After so many months of fruitless effort, even Yasutoki—the single most determined man he had ever known—was growing discouraged, wondering if coming to Kamakura had been the right decision. He had been so confident in his powers, in his ability to see his wishes carried out, that the curtailing of those wishes vexed him. Perhaps it should be a lesson in humility. Perhaps he should return to his days as an ambitious young thug, carving out his empire one ruthless play at a time.
These were his musings across the idle hours.
Yasutoki was still sitting before his uneaten breakfast when a messenger arrived, summoning him to the shogun’s court.
Such a summons had never before occurred. It suggested a breakthrough with the emissaries. Through the months here, Yasutoki had heard rumors of meetings between the bakufu and the emissaries, but the content of any meetings remained secret.
The summons directed Yasutoki to come at the Hour of the Horse, noon, to the parade ground outside the shogun’s palace, which lay near the shrine of Hachiman and the tomb of Minamoto no Yoritomo, at the northern terminus of Young Prince Avenue. The summons specifically allowed him and his and entourage to travel upon the grand avenue, which lent weight to the significance of the event.
From his palanquin, as his servants bore him up Young Prince Avenue toward the great shrine of Hachiman, he saw other processions, those of court nobles and samurai lords alike, converging upon the appointed place.
This mass of august personages gathered at the appointed place in the bright, autumn sun. Special ministers of protocol directed the personages to specific locations on the parade ground, a broad expanse of open earth before the shogun’s grand palace. The locations indicated the degree of importance the bakufu placed on the visitor; the closer the visitor to the palace, the more important. These locations had been carefully marked.
The shogun’s palace reared three stories high, with swooping, tiled roofs; thick, wooden pillars; and iron-studded gates. It was the palace of a warrior, not a noble: utilitarian, imposing, an edifice of the shogun’s authority—which had been seized at the point of a sword. Near the palace gates, a tall dais stood, festooned with banners of the Minamoto and Hojo clans.
The gathering continued for almost an hour. Parasols bloomed like flowers out of season. Servants scurried here and there.
Yasutoki’s place—as representative of the Otomo clan, one of the clans deemed most loyal to the shogunate—was situated respectfully close to the stage, just beyond imperial nobles from the capital. Yasutoki found this interesting, considering that the imperial court and the bakufu had long considered Kyushu a troublesome backwater. Perhaps the bakufu was wooing greater support from the lords of Kyushu, who maintained a greater autonomy than those on Honshu.
Across the parade ground, Yasutoki noticed three men wearing Chinese-style robes. Two wore long flowing beards and mustaches, their hair lifted into carefully styled buns, fixed in place with combs and wooden pins. The third’s head was shaved in the fashion of a monk, and he wore plainer robes than the other two. They sat in a place of higher honor than many of the other lords present, which meant they were, indeed, honored foreign dignitaries.
These must be representatives of the Sung, the kingdom of southern China that had resisted the Khan’s dominion for almost fifteen years. Yasutoki had to grant the shogunate respect for their political acumen. Their response to the Khan’s emissaries, in light of this new development, was not likely to be conciliatory.
A great drum began to sound from somewhere, deep and sonorous.
Armored guards marched onto the parade grounds and assumed a formation lining the approach to the palace. The ponderous palace gates swung open, and two columns of guards, with spears and full armor, marched out to surround the dais. A solemn procession of nobles emerged behind the guards and mounted the dais, men in high, black caps and immaculate robes.
The last to mount the dais was a boy of ten years, glowing in his resplendent robes, the seventh shogun, Minamoto no Koreyasu. Looking small among the grown men around him, he sat in the center of dais upon a general’s camp stool, which was too tall for him.
Beside him stood Hojo no Tokimune, the regent, the true ruler of the country, grim and self-assured in his power but still young and impetuous, only twenty-four. His head was shaved after the fashion of Buddhist monks, because of his adherence to the Zen sect of Buddhism.
The taiko drum’s rhythm ceased, and the murmurs of the gathering fell silent.
The Hojo chamberlain stepped to the front of the dais and raised his voice for all to hear, “Bring forth the emissaries.”
The five emissaries appeared from the edge of the parade ground, escorted by eight guards, four ahead and four behind.
The sight of the emissaries brought back Yasutoki’s journey as a young man to China, where he and his father traded with the Mongols, learned their barbaric customs, saw how different they were from the Chinese. The Chinese nobles and ministers he had encountered were as weak and inbred as the imperial court in Kyoto. That the Mongols had conquered them was no surprise.
Of these emissaries, three were Mongols and two were Chinese. Even though they were all dressed in court robes, an innate toughness suffused the Mongols. It showed in their gait, in their stance. They were wolves in silk robes.
Then the emissaries spotted the Sung across the parade ground, and their steps faltered. They traded glances ranging from anger to nervousness.
The Chinese emissaries approached the dais with great solemnity and grace, the Mongols with chin-high defiance.
They all bowed low.
Hojo no Tokimune stepped forward, and his voice thundered over the parade ground. “Emissaries of the barbarian chieftain across the sea...”
Yasutoki’s fists clenched at the contempt in the regent’s tone.
The regent continued, “We have heard your demands for tribute. We have heard your demands for submission. And we have heard your insolence. We will allow you to take our message back to your barbarian chieftain.” He nodded to the guards surrounding the emissaries.
The guards seized the emissaries, amid their cries of protest, and forced the emissaries to their knees, arms cranked painfully behind their backs, bending them over at the waist.
One of the Chinese, a fat, shaven-headed man, wriggled free and tried to flee. The nearest guard drew his sword and slashed with a single, backhanded motion. The emissary’s head tumbled to the earth. The body staggered forward for a moment, then toppled.
The Mongols struggled, shouting rage and curses, but their captors held them fast.
Then a single guard stepped forward, drew his sword, and, one by one, struck off the heads of the remaining emissaries.
The sizzling rage in Yasutoki’s belly increased with each blow. By the time the last one fell, he wanted to charge the dais and slaughter everyone there.
Unfortunately, as thin as he had become, his strength was much diminished.
Murmurs at the brutality of it all rippled over the throng.
Hojo no Tokimune raised his voice again. “These men will indeed carry our answer back to the barbarian emperor. We will bow before no one!”
The twitching bodies emptied their blood onto the parade ground earth, forming a broad, crimson puddle, and as the puddle grew, so did Yasutoki’s fury at his helplessness.
On the last long road
When I fall and fail to rise...
I’ll bed with flowers
—Sora, death poem
Ken’ishi clutched his thick coat tighter and tucked his hands under his arms. Snow fell in flakes like drifting butterflies, covering the roofs of Hakata in blankets of whi
te. He had not seen such a snow since leaving the north so many years ago. He had picked a poor day for this particular purpose. The snow was coming down so thick, it obscured sight beyond fifty paces. The streets were empty, the air filled with wood smoke as people huddled at their firepits.
Storm slogged through streets of cold mud, stout of heart, uncomplaining, even as the snowflakes gathered in his mane.
Ken’ishi marveled at how quickly the city had been rebuilt. Just over a year ago, much of it had been little but charred rubble. A crop of newly built homes, shops, and warehouses, especially in the areas nearest the bay, had replaced the devastation.
In a part of town spared much of the damage, he directed Storm up a narrow street. The familiarity of it all came back to him with a host of dreadful memories. He reined up beside a modest gate. The house within the fence looked dark and empty, as did the small, attached stable. Snow collected on a bed of old straw.
Ken’ishi opened the gate, led Storm into the stable to shelter him from the snow, and approached the house, thankful for his geta that raised his stockings above the wet snow. He rapped on the door and listened for movement within. Hearing nothing, he rapped again.
“Shirohige!” he called. “Junko!”
Still no response. Hage had told him they had escaped the initial onslaught of the invasion, but much could have happened since.
He tried to open the door, but found it barred from within. He called their names again. “It is Ken’ishi!”
After a time, slow footsteps shuffled toward the door.
A familiar, crow-like voice said, “Ken’ishi, did you say?”
“I did, Junko.”
The bar slid aside, and the door opened. An ancient, toothless face emerged, eyes dark and rheumy but full of shrewdness.
“By all the gods and buddhas!” Junko said. “It is you! And you’ve even gone respectable.” She looked him up and down. “Come back to pay me for that armored shirt, have you?” A pink tongue darted out and wet her sunken lips.
Ken’ishi smiled and bowed to her. “Among other things.”
“Oh, joyful news! My nethers haven’t had any meat between them in far too long!” She stepped back and admitted him. Her tattered, colorless kimono hung on her like an overlarge sack.
As he slipped off his geta, a tremulous, male voice came from another room. “Is that him?”
The old woman said, “It is, Brother. Hale and hearty as ever.”
“Then clap some manners over that awful tongue of yours, hag. We don’t want to make him ill. Bring him inside.”
She winked at Ken’ishi, waggled her tongue at him lasciviously, and then gestured him to follow her into the house.
Near the firepit, a frail, old man levered himself up onto an elbow from under a tattered blanket. Shirohige’s beard was longer, whiter, and matted as if he had not cleaned it in far too long. What little hair remained to him was wispy and unkempt. Dark bags hung under watery, bloodshot eyes. In the year since Ken’ishi had last seen Shirohige, he looked to have aged a decade and lost half his size.
Shirohige’s effort to sit up evoked a bout of wet, ragged coughing. When he recovered, he spat into the firepit and groaned. The coals in the firepit were few and dim, insufficient to keep the cold at bay. Shadows and dimness filled the room. In the corner, snow melt dripped into an overflowing wooden bucket.
Shirohige’s face was pale and drawn. Dark bags hung under yellowed, watery, bloodshot eyes. “Forgive me, Ken’ishi, but I’ve been ill. I would offer you tea, but we have none.”
Ken’ishi withdrew a bundle wrapped in paper. “We shall have tea anyway.” He offered the bundle up to Junko.
Her eyes sparkled as she accepted it, then her excitement waned as she said to Shirohige, “What’ll we do for wood to heat the water?”
“Isn’t there any of the fence left?”
“There’s one more plank.”
“Well, go get it. We must offer our guest some warmth.”
Junko sighed and hurried out the back door.
“Soon,” Shirohige said, “we’ll be burning the house down around us to keep warm.”
“But why?” Ken’ishi said. “Has business been so poor?”
“There’s no business at all.” Shirohige coughed again. “The government ordered austerity, as you’ll recall. Every copper piece on Kyushu went into building that damned wall. Nothing left for old peddlers like me. People are afraid, and when they’re afraid, they sit in their houses and use their old crockery. They patch their buckets, and patch the patches on their clothes. Ah, I used to sell such pretty things.”
Ken’ishi remembered the beautiful porcelain crane that he had taken as an omen to travel with Shirohige in search of Silver Crane. “What about the lotus?”
“My supply of lotus dried up before the invasion. There isn’t any to be found on Kyushu. No doubt the lotus-eaters are mightily vexed. The Hakata docks are practically deserted. Many of the ships in the barbarian fleet were trade vessels they commandeered from the Koryo.”
Ken’ishi thought about the wreckage of hundreds of ships, thousands of drowned men, choking the shores of Hakata Bay. Deaths that weighed upon his soul.
Shirohige brought up a wad of phlegm and spat into the coals again. “There are no vessels to ship anything, even if anyone wanted to buy. The only trade ships from China nowadays are from the Sung, and they’re so far south that the routes are slow and dangerous.” Shirohige sighed and shook his head. “I had to sell the wagon to buy food.”
“Where is Pon-Pon?” Ken’ishi asked.
“We had to eat poor Pon-Pon.”
A pang of sadness went through Ken’ishi. The lethargic black ox had pulled the wagon that carried him from Hita town all the way to Hakata. He would never forget the inexorable plod of the ox’s haunches—or its earthy wisdom. “That is a pity.”
“The meat and the money we made from selling it kept us going a long time. But it’s long gone. We even considered putting Junko back to whoring, but there just aren’t that many blind men around.”
Junko burst back through the rear door carrying a weathered wooden plank, which she took into the kitchen.
Ken’ishi said. “I’m sure your illness will soon pass. Junko still looks very energetic, however.”
From the kitchen came sounds of chopping and crackling wood.
Shirohige coughed once and wiped his lips. “She’s too evil to die. The Hells wouldn’t want her.”
“I heard that, you old cripple!” came Junko’s shrill retort. “Watch your tongue, or I’ll leave you to starve!”
“Her voice is like a band of deaf oni minstrels, is it not?” Shirohige muttered.
Ken’ishi smiled.
“But tell me of you,” Shirohige said. “You hardly look the part of a ronin nowadays.”
Ken’ishi told him of his position with Lord Tsunetomo. Junko returned with arms full of freshly split plank, which she arranged in the firepit, along with a handful of twisted straw, atop the coals. Then she fanned it and listened to Ken’ishi’s tale of the Wild Woman, and how that terrible victory had granted him the promotion to captain.
She grinned with pride in him. “See? I knew we did well in nursing him back to health. He’s become a great man.”
Then he told of how he was helping construct the fortifications. “It’s because of that I managed this visit,” he said. “My lord was generous enough to grant me a few days of rest.”
“I won’t live to see that project finished,” Shirohige said.
“Of course, you will. You must brace up. Spring will come soon.”
Shirohige grunted noncommittally. “Where are they getting all those workers, anyway?”
“Workers were brought all the way from Satsuma, peasants from Shimazu lands. All the domains of Kyushu are required by the bakufu to send hands.”
“All those damned foreigners,” Shirohige grumbled. “Can’t understand a word they say.” The dialects of southern Kyushu were indeed thick and at
times unintelligible, but no more or less so than those of the far north of Honshu, where Ken’ishi had grown up.
Ken’ishi said, “It will take a long time. We had to let the farmers go home for harvest, or there would be no food this winter. Construction will slow down again during planting season.”
“A bunch of over-proud samurai thinking they know what’s best for everyone. Oh, but they have the sharp swords, so they must be right. Bah! If you ever turn into one of them, I’ll disavow I know you.”
Ken’ishi bowed, “I try to keep my feet upon the Way, but in truth, I have much to atone for.” The scar on his chest began to burn and itch again, as it did more often. He rubbed at it.
“Nonsense!” Junko said. “You have only one thing to atone for, and that’s the armored shirt I gave you. So how about we go into the back and—”
“Silence, witch!” Shirohige said, rolling his eyes.
Junko snickered and winked at Ken’ishi. “Riling him up makes the days worth living.”
Ken’ishi said, “That’s why I’m here, actually. To thank you both for saving my life. I owe you a tremendous debt, far more than a hyakume of tea can repay.” He reached into his robes and withdrew a ring of coins, both copper and silver.
Two sets of old, rheumy eyes bulged.
It was enough money to feed them both for a long time, but also help rebuild their house, perhaps even buy a new ox. Ken’ishi had not known they were in such dire need when he set out this morning, but upon discovering how hard times had become for them, the amount no longer seemed sufficient.
How much was his life worth?
Would it be worth more if he could atone for the wrongs he had done? Would his burden be less?
They sat and talked for a while longer. He did not tell them about the yurei or the yin-yang master who had revealed what Ken’ishi might become. He did not tell them about the way he had had to defeat the yurei—slashing Kiosé open, severing her arm, driving his sword through her heart, this woman who had loved him so, and for whom he had felt great affection and tenderness. The memory tortured him most nights. It did not matter that she was already dead. He had killed her himself, once indirectly by his absence, and once directly.
Spirit of the Ronin Page 29