Shogun (22 page)

“Work through the night. Bring the priest to the pit at once.”

Omi glanced at Igurashi, Yabu’s chief lieutenant, who was still looking out toward the headland, his face stretched, the livid scar tissue over his empty eye socket eerily shadowed. “You’d be welcome to stay, Igurashi-san. My house is poor but perhaps we could make you comfortable.”

“Thank you,” the older man said, turning back to him, “but our Master said to return to Yedo at once, so I will return at once.” More of his concern showed. “I wish I was on that galley.”

“Yes.”

“I hate the thought of Yabu-sama being aboard with only two men. I hate it.”

“Yes.”

He pointed at
Erasmus
. “A devil ship, that’s what it is! So much wealth, then nothing.”

“Surely everything? Won’t Lord Toranaga be pleased, enormously pleased with Lord Yabu’s gift?”

“That money-infected province grabber is so filled with his own importance, he won’t even notice the amount of silver he’ll have stolen from our Master. Where are your brains?”

“I presume only your anxiety over the possible danger to our Lord prompted you to make such a remark.”

“You’re right, Omi-san. No insult was intended. You’ve been very clever and helpful to our Master. Perhaps you’re right about Toranaga too,” Igurashi said, but he was thinking, Enjoy your newfound wealth, you poor fool. I know my Master better than you, and your increased fief will do you no good at all. Your advancement would have been a fair return for the ship, the bullion, and the arms. But now they’ve vanished. And because of you, my Master’s in jeopardy. You sent the message and you said, ‘See the barbarians first,’ tempting him. We should have left yesterday. Yes, then my Master would have been safely away by now, with the money and arms. Are you a traitor? Are you acting for yourself, or your stupid father, or for an enemy? For Toranaga, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. You can believe me, Omi, you dung-eating young fool, you and your branch of the Kasigi clan are not long for
this earth. I’d tell you to your face but then I’d have to kill you and I would have spurned my Master’s trust. He’s the one to say when, not me.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Omi-san,” he said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you soon, but I’ll be on my way now.”

“Would you do something for me, please? Give my respects to my father. I’d appreciate it very much.”

“I’d be happy to. He’s a fine man. And I haven’t congratulated you yet on your new fief.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Thank you again, Omi-san.” He raised his hand in friendly salutation, motioned to his men, and led the phalanx of horsemen out of the village.

Omi went to the pit. The priest was there. Omi could see the man was angry and he hoped that he would do something overt, publicly, so he could have him thrashed.

“Priest, tell the barbarians they are to come up, one by one. Tell them Lord Yabu has said they may live again in the world of men.” Omi kept his language deliberately simple. “But the smallest breaking of a rule, and two will be put back into the pit. They are to behave and obey all orders. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

Omi made the priest repeat it to him as before. When he was sure the man had it all correctly, he made him speak it down into the pit.

The men came up, one by one. All were afraid. Some had to be helped. One man was in great pain and screamed every time someone touched his arm.

“There should be nine.”

“One is dead. His body is down there, in the pit,” the priest said.

Omi thought for a moment. “Mura, burn the corpse and keep the ashes with those of the other barbarian. Put these men in the same house as before. Give them plenty of vegetables and fish. And barley soup and fruit. Have them washed. They stink. Priest, tell them that if they behave and obey, the food will continue.”

Omi watched and listened carefully. He saw them all react gratefully and he thought with contempt, how stupid! I deprive them for only two days, then give them back a pittance and now they’ll eat dung, they really will. “Mura, make them bow properly and take them away.”

Then he turned to the priest. “Well?”

“I go now. Go my home. Leave Anjiro.”

“Better you leave and stay away forever, you and every priest like you. Perhaps the next time one of you comes into
my
fief it is because some of
my
Christian peasants or vassals are considering treason,” he said, using the veiled threat and classic ploy that anti-Christian samurai used to control the indiscriminate spread of the foreign dogma in their fiefs, for though foreign priests were protected, their Japanese converts were not.

“Christians good Japanese. Always. Only good vassals. Never had bad thoughts. No.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Don’t forget my fief stretches twenty
ri
in every direction. Do you understand?”

“I understand. Yes. I understand very well.”

He watched the man bow stiffly—even barbarian priests had to have manners—and walk away.

“Omi-san?” one of his samurai said. He was young and very handsome.

“Yes?”

“Please excuse me, I know you haven’t forgotten but Masijiro-san is still in the pit.” Omi went to the trapdoor and stared down at the samurai. Instantly the man was on his knees, bowing deferentially.

The two days had aged him. Omi weighed his past service and his future worth. Then he took the young samurai’s dagger from his sash and dropped it into the pit.

At the bottom of the ladder Masijiro stared at the knife in disbelief. Tears began coursing his cheeks. “I don’t deserve this honor, Omi-san,” he said abjectly.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

The young samurai beside Omi said, “May I please ask that he be allowed to commit seppuku here, on the beach?”

“He failed in the pit. He stays in the pit. Order the villagers to fill it in. Obliterate all traces of it. The barbarians have defiled it.”

Kiku laughed and shook her head. “No, Omi-san so sorry, please no more saké for me or my hair will fall down. I’ll fall down, and then where would we be?”

“I’d fall down with you and we’d pillow and be in nirvana, outside ourselves,” Omi said happily, his head swimming from the wine.

“Ah, but I’d be snoring and you can’t pillow a snoring, horrid
drunken girl and get much pleasure. Certainly not, so sorry. Oh no, Omi-sama of the Huge New Fief, you deserve better than that!” She poured another thimble of the warm wine into the tiny porcelain cup and offered it with both hands, her left forefinger and thumb delicately holding the cup, the forefinger of her right hand touching the underside. “Here, because you are wonderful!”

He accepted it and sipped, enjoying its warmth and mellow tang. “I’m so glad I was able to persuade you to stay an extra day,
neh?
You are so beautiful, Kiku-san.”

“You are beautiful, and it is my pleasure.” Her eyes were dancing in the light of a candle encased in a paper and bamboo flower that hung from the cedar rafter. This was the best suite of rooms in the Tea House near the Square. She leaned over to help him to some more rice from the simple wooden bowl that was on the low black lacquered table in front of him, but he shook his head.

“No, no, thank you.”

“You should eat more, a strong man like you.”

“I’m full, really.”

He did not offer her any because she had barely touched her small salad—thinly sliced cucumbers and tiny sculptured radishes pickled in sweet vinegar—which was all she would accept of the whole meal. There had been slivers of raw fish on balls of tacky rice, soup, the salad, and some fresh vegetables served with a piquant sauce of soya and ginger. And rice.

She clapped her hands softly and the shoji was opened instantly by her personal maid.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Suisen, take all these things away and bring more saké and a fresh pot of cha. And fruit. The saké should be warmer than last time. Hurry up, good-for-nothing!” She tried to sound imperious.

Suisen was fourteen, sweet, anxious to please, and an apprentice courtesan. She had been with Kiku for two years and Kiku was responsible for her training.

With an effort, Kiku took her eyes off the pure white rice that she would have loved to have eaten and dismissed her own hunger. You ate before you arrived and you will eat later, she reminded herself. Yes, but even then it was so little. ‘Ah, but ladies have tiny appetites, very tiny appetites,’ her teacher used to say. ‘Guests eat and drink—the more the better. Ladies don’t, and certainly never with guests.
How can ladies talk or entertain or play the samisen or dance if they’re stuffing their mouths? You will eat later, be patient. Concentrate on your guest.’

While she watched Suisen critically, gauging her skill, she told Omi stories to make him laugh and forget the world outside. The young girl knelt beside Omi, tidied the small bowls and chopsticks on the lacquer tray into a pleasing pattern as she had been taught. Then she picked up the empty saké flask, poured to make sure it was empty—it would have been very bad manners to have shaken the flask—then got up with the tray, noiselessly carried it to the shoji door, knelt, put the tray down, opened the shoji, got up, stepped through the door, knelt again, lifted the tray out, put it down again as noiselessly, and closed the door completely.

“I’ll really have to get another maid,” Kiku said, not displeased. That color suits her, she was thinking. I must send to Yedo for some more of that silk. What a shame it’s so expensive! Never mind, with all the money Gyoko-san was given for last night and tonight, there will be more than enough from my share to buy little Suisen twenty kimonos. She’s such a sweet child, and really very graceful. “She makes so much noise—it disturbs the whole room—so sorry.”

“I didn’t notice her. Only you,” Omi said, finishing his wine.

Kiku fluttered her fan, her smile lighting her face. “You make me feel very good, Omi-san. Yes. And beloved.”

Suisen brought the saké quickly. And the cha. Her mistress poured Omi some wine and gave it to him. The young girl unobtrusively filled the cups. She did not spill a drop and she thought the sound that the liquid made going into the cup had the right quiet kind of ring to it, so she sighed inwardly with vast relief, sat back on her heels, and waited.

Kiku was telling an amusing story that she had heard from one of her friends in Mishima and Omi was laughing. As she did so, she took one of the small oranges and, using her long fingernails, opened it as though it were a flower, the sections of the fruit the petals, the divisions of the skin its leaves. She removed a fleck of pith and offered it with both hands as if this were the usual way a lady would serve the fruit to her guest.

“Would you like an orange, Omi-san?”

Omi’s first reaction was to say, I can’t destroy such beauty. But that would be inept, he thought, dazzled by her artistry. How can I
compliment her, and her unnamed teacher? How can I return the happiness that she has given me, letting me watch her fingers create something so precious yet so ephemeral?

He held the flower in his hands for a moment then nimbly removed four sections, equidistant from each other, and ate them with enjoyment. This left a new flower. He removed four more sections, creating a third floral design. Next he took one section, and moved a second so that the remaining three made still another blossom.

Then he took two sections and replaced the last in the orange cradle, in the center on its side, as though a crescent moon within a sun.

He ate one very slowly. When he had finished, he put the other in the center of his hand and offered it. “This you must have because it is the second to last. This is my gift to you.”

Suisen could hardly breathe. What was the last one for?

Kiku took the fruit and ate it. It was the best she had ever tasted.

“This, the last one,” Omi said, putting the whole flower gravely into the palm of his right hand, “this is my gift to the gods, whoever they are, wherever they are. I will never eat this fruit again, unless it is from your hands.”

“That is too much, Omi-sama,” Kiku said. “I release you from your vow! That was said under the influence of the
kami
who lives in all saké bottles!”

“I refuse to be released.”

They were very happy together.

“Suisen,” she said. “Now leave us. And please, child, please try to do it with grace.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The young girl went into the next room and checked that the futons were meticulous, the love instruments and pleasure beads near at hand, and the flowers perfect. An imperceptible crease was smoothed from the already smooth cover. Then, satisfied, Suisen sat down, sighed with relief, fanned the heat out of her face with her lilac fan, and contentedly waited.

In the next room, which was the finest of all the rooms in the tea house, the only one with a garden of its own, Kiku picked up the long-handled samisen. It was three-stringed, guitarlike, and Kiku’s first soaring chord filled the room. Then she began to sing. At first soft, then trilling, soft again then louder, softer and sighing sweetly, ever sweetly, she sang of love and unrequited love and happiness and sadness.

* * *

“Mistress?” The whisper would not have awakened the lightest sleeper but Suisen knew that her mistress preferred not to sleep after the Clouds and the Rain, however strong. She preferred to rest, half awake, in tranquillity.

“Yes, Sui-chan?” Kiku whispered as quietly, using “chan” as one would to a favorite child.

“Omi-san’s wife has returned. Her palanquin has just gone up the path to his house.”

Kiku glanced at Omi. His neck rested comfortably on the padded wooden pillow, arms interlocked. His body was strong and unmarked, his skin firm and golden, a sheen there. She caressed him gently, enough to make the touch enter his dream but not enough to awaken him. Then she slid from under the quilt, gathering her kimonos around herself.

It took Kiku very little time to renew her makeup as Suisen combed and brushed her hair and retied it into the shimoda style. Then mistress and maid walked noiselessly along the corridor, out onto the veranda, through the garden to the square. Boats, like fireflies, plied from the barbarian ship to the jetty where seven of the cannon still remained to be loaded. It was still deep night, long before dawn.