Cloud of Sparrows (9 page)

Heiko bowed, being careful that her smile was just right, acquiescent without being eager. “Yes, that is quite so.”

“You would have no difficulty in overcoming your affection for him?”

Heiko laughed gaily. “You toy with me, Lord Kawakami. I am in his bed because you put me there, not because of any supposed affection for him.”

Kawakami frowned. “Be careful, Heiko. When you are with him, that truth must remain unknown even to you. You must love him, completely, even hopelessly, or he will know you for what you are, and you will be useless to me.”

Heiko bowed down to the floor. “Yes, lord. I hear and obey.”

“Good. Now what about Lord Genji’s uncle? Have you discovered his whereabouts?”

“Not yet. Since Lord Shigeru left the castle, he has not been seen at any other lordly dwelling place within Akaoka Domain. It is possible he is a fugitive from his own clan.”

Whatever the cause, that would be good news indeed. The uncle was much more dangerous than the nephew. Shigeru was a fanatical practitioner of all the ancient samurai arts. He could kill with and without weapons, and had. It was widely known that he had engaged in fifty-nine duels and won them all, only one short of the record established by the legendary Miyamoto Musashi two hundred years in the past. The sixtieth and sixty-first duels were set for the last day of the old year and the first day of the new, but it was unlikely now that they would ever take place. Shigeru had disappeared.

“Tell me what you have learned.”

Heiko began doing so without delay. If she thought too much about what she was saying, she would be unable to continue. Pieces of information had come to her from several different sources. She believed she had put the story together correctly, but she hoped with all her heart she was wrong.

The small Buddhist temple on the grounds of Suzume-no-kumo Castle was built in the long-ago thirteenth year of the Emperor Go-hanazono. Unlike all others, it was not dedicated to a particular sect. This was because Lord Wakamatsu had built it to atone for his destruction of three dozen Jodo, Nichiren, Tendai, and Shingon monasteries, and the slaughter of five thousand monks, together with their families and supporters. The heavily armed faithful had ignored the lord’s command to cease their religious quarrels and political machinations.

Shigeru knew about the temple in considerable detail. Ever since his childhood, it had figured prominently in the most gruesome of his recurring dreams. Knowing that these dreams were fraught with omens, and understanding none of them, he had spent years studying the history of the temple in the hope of finding guidance from past events and personages. None had been forthcoming.

Now, too late, he understood. That was the way omens always unlocked for him. Too late. He knelt in the dim light of a single lamp and lit the one hundred fifth stick of incense. With a reverent bow, he placed it on the funerary altar of his father, Kiyori, the late Lord of Akaoka.

“I am sorry, Father. Please forgive me.”

For the one hundred fifth time, he said the same words. Then he lit the one hundred sixth stick. Fumes from the overabundance of burning incense filled the temple with a smokey miasma. He ignored the searing pain in his eyes and lungs.

It was said the realms of hell were sixteen in number. He knew better. One hundred and eight were the afflictions that man brought on himself through his endless greed, hatred, and ignorance. One hundred and eight were the repentances that brought lost souls to the light of Buddha. One hundred and eight was the number of lives Shigeru would live in one hundred and eight hells for his unthinkable crimes. When one hundred and eight sticks of incense had been lit, he would begin.

“I am sorry, Father. Please forgive me.”

But he would not be forgiven, this he knew. Lord Kiyori’s spirit might forgive him for his own murder. But not for the others. No one would forgive him.

“I am sorry, Father. Please forgive me.”

Shigeru was amazed. Somehow, he had kept count. Despite the monstrous visions that kept him from sleep, that filled his head with such pressure he expected his skull to burst open at any moment, that mocked his very existence, he had kept count. This was the one hundred eighth stick of incense.

“I am sorry, Father. Please forgive me.”

He pressed his forehead to the floor. The incessant thumping of wingless flying machines filled his ears. Behind his closed eyes, great lanterns burning without fire blinded him. His throat choked with the acrid taste of colorful, visible air.

He was, he knew, completely mad.

One person in every Okumichi generation was cursed with the gift of foreknowledge. In the previous generation, it had been his father. In the next, it was Genji. In his own, the misfortune had befallen Shigeru himself. The one who saw always suffered, because seeing did not always lead to understanding. For him, it never led to understanding at all, only suffering. The event occurred, unrecognized by him until it slipped from future to past. And suffering was followed by more suffering.

If he were mocked only by prophetic dreams, life would be bearable. But then the waking visions began. A samurai truly disciplined in the martial ways could endure much, but the relentless flow of consciousness unrelieved even by sleep could be endured for only so long.

The sky turned to fire and fell to the ground, burning screaming children. Swarms of metallic insects crawled over Edo, stuffing their bellies with human flesh, spewing fumes noxious with the stench of their prey. Dead fish floated in their millions in the poisoned silver waters of the Inland Sea.

What he saw in his mind overlay what he saw with his eyes. Always. There was no relief.

Shigeru paused at the entrance of the temple. He bowed to the bodies of the two slain nuns, taking care not to slip in the twin pools of their coagulating blood as he stepped past. The full moon had been high above the castle when he crossed the courtyard earlier. Now, returning to his family’s quarters, he saw the night still brightened by moonlight, but the orb itself was out of sight behind the walls of the castle.

His wife’s bed was empty, the coverlet thrown hastily aside. He checked the children’s rooms. They, too, were gone. This he had not foreseen. A grim smile distorted his face. Where were they? There was only one possibility.

He went to his personal armory and dressed himself.

A metal helmet with a red horsehair plume and wooden horns.

A lacquered face mask to protect his cheeks and jaw.

A
nodowa
to shield his throat, and two
sodé
to do the same for his shoulders.
Donaka, kusazuri,
and
haitaté
made with steel plates solid enough to deflect musketballs girded his torso, loins, and thighs. In addition to his swords, he stuffed five single-shot English flintlock pistols into his sash.

Shigeru was commander of this night’s watch. He had no difficulty getting his horse from the stable. No one questioned his appearance. When he ordered the gate opened, it was opened, and he rode swiftly from the castle.

The compound of his father-in-law, Yoritada, lay in the mountains to the east a short distance away. When Shigeru arrived there, he found Yoritada and a dozen of his retainers waiting for him outside the walls. They were dressed as he was, in full armor. Six of the samurai held muskets at the ready.

“Approach no closer,” Yoritada said, “or you will be shot down.”

“I have come for my wife and children,” Shigeru said. “Send them out and I will leave in peace.”

“Umeko is your wife no longer,” Yoritada said. “She has returned to my house and begged protection for herself and her children.”

Shigeru laughed as if the notion were utterly ridiculous. “Protection? From what?”

“Shigeru,” Yoritada said, his voice gentle with sadness, “your mind and spirit are unwell. I have seen this for many weeks. Tonight, Umeko came to me in tears. She says you have taken to whispering constantly, day and night, of the bloodiest tortures of hell. The children tremble in your presence. I beg you, ask Lord Kiyori for guidance. Your father is a wise man. He will help you.”

“He will help no one,” Shigeru said, watching closely for an opening. “Lord Kiyori was poisoned tonight with blowfish bile.”

“What!” Yoritada stumbled forward a step, stunned by Shigeru’s revelation. The news had a similar effect on the other samurai. Now. This was the decisive moment.

Shigeru spurred his horse into a charge, firing his pistols and discarding them as rapidly as he could. He was not a good shot and hit no one. His intention was only to further distract Yoritada’s men.

In this he was successful. Only two of the musketeers came close to their target. Both balls struck his horse, causing the animal to fall.

Shigeru leaped from the saddle, landed on his feet at a run, and decapitated his father-in-law with the first stroke of his katana. Slashing with the katana in his right hand and stabbing with the
tanto
in his left, Shigeru killed or mortally wounded everyone who opposed him before the dust had settled from his horse’s fall.

Inside the gate, his mother-in-law, Sadako, waited with four of her attendants. Each held a
naginata,
the long-blade lance favored as a weapon by samurai women.

“Accursed demon.” Sadako spit out the words. “I warned Umeko against marrying you.”

“She should have listened,” Shigeru said.

He found Umeko and his children in the teahouse of the inner courtyard. When he leaned forward toward the door, a child-sized katana came stabbing through the rice paper that covered the wooden frame. The blade sliced open his left brow, barely missing his eye.

“Enter and die!” a brave little voice declared, without the slightest waver of fear. It was the youngest child, their six-year-old son, Nobuyoshi. Shigeru could picture the scene inside. Nobuyoshi guarded the door, his katana extended in front of him, its point at eye level. Behind him, Umeko and their daughters, Emi and Sachi.

Shigeru used the tip of his katana to open the door. Nobuyoshi saw him and gasped. The child quickly retreated. It would have been better strategy to hold his ground, since the small doorway limited Shigeru’s freedom of movement when he entered. But he could not blame the child. He knew he must look horrible. He was drenched from head to foot with the blood of eighteen people. Nineteen, if he counted himself. Blood dripped from the wound in his neck where his mother-in-law had struck him. If she had cut an inch lower, she would have killed him.

Shigeru’s heart filled with pride as he looked at his son. In his short life, he had learned his lessons well. His sword was held at the proper angle, with the proper poise. His posture was balanced, allowing for movement in any direction. And, most important, he placed himself where his own life stood between the attacker and his mother and sisters.

“Well done, Nobuyoshi.” Shigeru had said the same words many times before, after hard practice sessions with sword, spear, and bow. Nobuyoshi said nothing. His attention was focused entirely on Shigeru. His son was looking for an opening, seeking that decisive moment. He deserved to die like the true samurai that he was. Shigeru allowed himself to stumble as he stepped into the small space.

“Aaaiiii!” With a loud shout expressing full commitment, Nobuyoshi lunged at the gap in the armor at Shigeru’s throat. His son did what every samurai must do. He vanished into the attack, without a single thought of self. In that liberating instant, Shigeru cut so swiftly, Nobuyoshi’s body continued forward in midstride while his head fell to the floor behind him.

Emi and Sachi cried out and clutched each other, tears streaming down their childish cheeks. “Why, Father, why?” Emi said.

Umeko held a dagger in her left hand. In her right hand was a derringer. She raised this and fired. The ball rang against the steel of his helmet and bounced off. Umeko dropped the pistol and replaced it with the dagger.

“I save you from further sins,” she said. With two swift movements, she slit her daughters’ throats. Their blood gushed onto the pale silk of their bedroom kimonos. Then Umeko looked straight into Shigeru’s eyes. “May the Compassionate Buddha lead you safely to the Pure Land,” she said, and plunged the dagger into her own throat.

Shigeru sat on the floor of the teahouse, in the bloody ruins of his life, a sword in each hand. He watched the small doorway. Soon he would hear the sound of horses bearing troops from the castle. He began to laugh. He was still doomed. But he had freed his beloved wife and children. They would be untouched by the coming horrors promised by his prophetic dreams and visions.