The Convict's Sword (27 page)

Akitada glanced at the book. The writing looked pretty simple to him. “Why? He has been studying with Seimei for two years now. At least he can guess at some of the words. Here, Yori. What is it that the frog says to the rabbit?”

Yori bent over the page and giggled. “‘Why don’t you jump into the pond, silly rabbit?’ And the rabbit says, ‘I don’t like to get my fur coat wet!” He giggled again and rolled the scroll to the next picture.

Akitada firmly returned to the picture and said, “That’s not at all what is written here. Try again.”

Yori stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t want to. I like my story better.”

“Yori,” said his father sternly, “you cannot always have things the way you want them. We must learn to read and write so that we can carry out our duties to the gods and our emperor when we grow up. Now read!”

But Yori could not or would not. He ran to his mother and hid his face against her shoulder.

“Why is he refusing a simple request?” Akitada asked his wife.

Tamako sighed. “Yori is still practicing his Chinese characters and cannot read grass writing yet. He tries, but it’s very difficult. I well remember how I struggled and how ashamed I was when my father . . .” She stopped when she saw Akitada’s face and said, “He’s still very little.”

“He is nearly five. I could read when I was his age. Girls are not expected to learn as quickly.” A sharp pain shot through Akitada’s head. “It seems to me that you pamper Yori too much. Seimei tries to make him do his work, but you only sit and look at pictures with him and so, of course, he runs to you when he should be hard at work. I’m not pleased with his progress.” He glared at Yori in his mother’s protective embrace. The realization that Yori preferred her company rankled.

“Oh,” Tamako cried, “I do try. It seems to me if you make a child hate learning, he’ll never make an effort, but if you show him how entertaining it can be, he’ll be much more open to instruction.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Akitada. “Such an attitude merely turns him into a weakling and a dawdler. He can look at pictures after he has practiced his characters. This trifling must stop.”

“We would have practiced writing,” Tamako said, “but there was very little paper left, the ink cake is almost gone, and a brush broke. I have sent Genba to get more.”

“Genba has more important things to do. How can this household be out of paper and ink? Yori?” The child looked at him. “Did you waste the paper and ruin the brushes?”

Yori’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to, Father.”

Tired and with a pounding head, Akitada suddenly felt overwhelmed. “Why must I keep an eye on the smallest details of this household?” he demanded. “And where’s Seimei? Why is he not teaching the child? Heaven knows I am too busy to do everything myself.”

Tamako pulled the sobbing Yori into her arms, irritating her husband further. “Seimei was not well today. He was feverish. I made him lie down in his room.”

“Oh. That’s another matter,” Akitada conceded, wondering just how ill Seimei was.

Encouraged, Tamako added, “I worry about smallpox. What if he has it? Yori must not go near him until we’re certain it’s not.”

Akitada finally lost his temper completely. “I have told you before that there’s no truth to this imaginary epidemic. Don’t you think I would take precautions if I feared for your safety? Do you doubt my word in everything?”

Turning his back on them, he lit a small pottery lamp and stalked along the dark corridor to Seimei’s room. To his surprise, this was in darkness also. The old man was dozing, his thin frame wrapped in a quilt, his elbow propped on an armrest, and his head supported in his hand. He had not heard the sound of the sliding door or noticed the flicker of the oil lamp. Akitada sat down beside him. The room seemed excessively warm and stuffy because someone had closed the shutters to the outside. No wonder, he thought, that he is feverish in this hot room, wrapped up in layers of wadding-stuffed blankets. He reached out and touched the wrinkled hand. The skin felt hot and dry, and Seimei jerked awake.

“Oh,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracking, “you are home, sir. Sorry, but I must have dozed off for a moment.” He began to peel back the quilt and tried to get up. “Your tea? Shall I make it for you?” he quavered.

Akitada restrained him. “No, Seimei. I came to see how you are. My wife told me that you felt ill.”

Seimei shook his head. “It was nothing. I’m quite all right. Just a touch of tiredness, that’s all.” He swallowed and started to shake. “How cold it is all of a sudden,” he said through trembling lips.

Akitada was beginning to feel concerned. He touched the old man’s forehead and found it burning with fever. “You’re ill, old friend. You treat all of us for the slightest complaints, and yet you do not treat yourself. How is it that you didn’t read the symptoms and prescribe the correct remedy?”

“It is nothing,” Seimei said again.

Akitada looked around the room. It was as neat as only a man with lifelong habits of tidying up after others could keep it, but there was not a single sign of anyone else having visited with tokens of concern. No small brazier heating water for his tea stood by his side, no flask of wine, not even a water pitcher to refresh the feverish tongue.

A sudden and violent anger seized Akitada. Apparently the panic about smallpox had seized Tamako to such a degree that she had neglected a sick old man whose devotion to the family deserved her loving care. At least Yasugi had left his wife a maid before deserting her. The shock of this discovery made him physically ill.

He leaned forward and, raising the lamp, gently undid the front of Seimei’s robe to look for telltale spots, but there was nothing.

Seimei croaked, “No, not smallpox. I would not have stayed.”

“Then I would have had to tie you down, old man,” snapped Akitada. “What utter nonsense. You belong here. I’m glad it’s not the disease, but you’re quite feverish.” He carefully covered the shivering old man again and got up to bring Seimei’s medicine box to him. “I want you to tell me what medicines are indicated and how to prepare them.”

Seimei revived a little as he fingered through his box, pulling forth this twist of paper and that container of salve. Eventually he instructed Akitada in the preparation of an infusion and the addition of other ingredients to a bowl of watery rice gruel. Then he attempted to get up for a trip to the privy. Akitada caught him before he could stagger out the door and supported him to the outdoor convenience and back again. The trip exhausted Seimei and he agreed to be put to bed.

With Seimei settled in his blankets, Akitada left for the kitchen. Tamako hovered in the corridor outside Seimei’s room.

“How is he?” she asked.

Akitada said coldly, “Very sick, but you can relax. It’s not your dreaded smallpox,” and brushed past her.

“I’m glad it’s not smallpox,” she cried after him. “Where shall you eat your evening rice?”

His stomach twisted again at the thought that she would have let the old man die rather than expose herself and the child to the disease. “I shall eat with Seimei,” he said over his shoulder.

In the kitchen, the cook greeted him with complaints about the lack of foodstuffs and the absence of both Tora and Genba. He ignored her and instead barked commands about hot water and gruel at her.

The rest of the evening he spent tending to the old man. When Seimei had drunk his hot infusion of herbs, claiming that he felt great relief, he ate some of the gruel. Akitada had tasted this in the kitchen and almost choked on the bitterness. They sat together after that and Akitada told him about Lady Yasugi, but speaking was painful for Seimei and eventually Akitada offered to read to him instead. Seimei demurred, but then pointed to the “Sayings of the Sage,” a ragged and much-thumbed scroll he kept nearby. Master Kung’s brilliance notwithstanding, Seimei eventually dozed off, and Akitada put away the book and went to his own room.

He could not remember when he had felt this miserable. He was dazed from the headache and tiredness and deeply distressed. As he lay under his quilts, the words of the Great Sage kept passing through his mind. “A man who does not plan against the future will find disaster on his doorstep.” Tonight he had found disaster, and tomorrow morning he must speak to Tamako, to make clear to his wife, before it was too late, what he expected of the mistress of his household and the mother of his son. But even though her heartlessness had deeply offended him, he must be mindful that angry words would arouse resentment. He thought of the beautiful Lady Yasugi, who lived in constant fear of her husband. “Severity,” Master Kung advised, “must only be directed at oneself.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE STOREHOUSE

 

 

 

When Tora woke the first time, he thought he had the worst hangover of his life. The world gyrated blearily before his eyes, which hurt almost as much as his head, and when his stomach heaved, he rolled quickly to avoid vomiting all over himself. After that he passed out again.

The next return to reality began the same way, but the vomiting produced only dry heaves and he remained conscious. He put a hand to his throbbing head, touched sticky blood, and reconsidered his condition. An injury? Cautious investigation confirmed that he had a large wound on his scalp, and a lot of dried blood not only on his head, which was too tender to explore thoroughly, but also on his face and neck, and on some ragged clothes he seemed to be wearing. The clothes brought back memory.

He was lying on a dirt floor, propped against a wall inside a storage shed. Bars of sunlight fell through the spaces between the boards that formed the walls and roof. In a corner lay a pile of sacks and boxes. Otherwise the shack was empty. It was daytime, but probably not the same day he had fought Matsue. That bastard!

Wondering if he was a prisoner, he crawled to the door and stood. For a moment the shack spun madly while the floor heaved under his feet. Afraid of falling, he got back down on all fours. The door was not locked, but he was exhausted and crawled into the corner with the sacks, rested his aching head on them, and closed his eyes.

He must have dozed off, because he next felt someone shaking his arm.

“Tora? It’s me. Kinjiro.”

“Wha . . . oh.” He struggled to a sitting position. “What’s going on?” he managed.

“I brought you some water and a bit of food. How are you feeling?”

“Thanks. Not too bad,” Tora lied. He took the pitcher and drank it nearly empty. After that he felt a little better, but he did not want the food, though it looked like good rice and vegetables. Kinjiro gobbled it down hungrily.

“I guess I made a fool of myself,” Tora said bitterly.

“No, you didn’t. They’re talking about how good you were. You slipped, that’s all. Matsue shouldn’t have struck you like that.”

Tora was grateful. Really, there was hope for this kid. “So what now?” he asked. “I don’t guess I’ll get the job.”

“There was talk last night. Kata
Sensei
and Matsue
Sensei
arguing. I couldn’t hear all the words. Matsue
Sensei
doesn’t like you, but Kata
Sensei
was very impressed.”

“He can’t be too impressed after what happened,” said Tora. “Who brought me here?”

“Two of the students and me.”

“Thanks. What about the students?”

“They think you should stay.” Kinjiro grinned. “They figure they can learn to beat you. Matsue
Sensei
won’t waste his time on them.”

Tora snorted and touched his sore head. “I guess he’s done me an honor then. That makes me feel a lot better.”

“Matsue
Sensei
’s a bit fanatical about being the best. You want to wash? There’s a lot of blood on you.”

“Make myself presentable to express my thanks for the welcome, you mean? I don’t think I’ve got the strength yet to deal with all those students who’re planning to challenge me.”

Kinjiro laughed. “You’re funny. I like you.”

Tora reached across and tousled the boy’s hair. “I like you, too. Thanks for bringing the water and food.”

Kinjiro flushed. “It was nothing,” he said gruffly.

Tora eyed him thoughtfully. “Tell me about yourself while I try to stop my head from acting like it’s about to burst open like a ripe melon.”

“There’s nothing to tell. What you see is what I am.”

“Not much then. But in time, with some proper food, you may fill out.”

“Yeah. I’m not stupid. They feed me here.”

“And they didn’t at home?”

The boy spat. “Home!”

“No parents? No brothers and sisters?”

“I wish!” This was said with such venom that Tora raised his brows.

“Oh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The boy moved impatiently. “What about you?”

“Oh, my family’s nothing special. They were peasants. We had a small bit of land at the end of the eastern highway. They’re all dead now.”