The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn (19 page)

When Tomomi had held up the cross
with the red jewel, Seikei tensed himself again, knowing that Lord
Hakuseki would recognize it. Hearing the clatter of bamboo strips,
Seikei could not help looking in that direction. Lord Hakuseki had
withdrawn his hand, letting the screen snap shut.

Of course! Everything was suddenly
clear. That must have been Tomomi’s plan. Lord Hakuseki could not
interrupt the play with the shogun present. He would reveal that he
was humiliated by the scenes that were taking place on stage—by a
kabuki troupe that he had invited to perform at his own yashiki. He
had to control his anger, for a daimyo was forbidden to draw his
sword in the presence of the shogun. If Lord Hakuseki did so, he
would face the same penalty as the lord of the Forty-Seven Ronin.
He would be forced to kill himself.

So now, as the play drew closer to
its climax, Seikei understood how significant were the words that
he was to speak at the end of the scene. While the samurai of Lord
Shakuheki battered down the door, Tomomi clasped Seikei and led him
to the side of the stage.

Looking into the actor’s eyes,
Seikei felt himself drawn into the past. He became Genji, the real
Tomomi. He understood the sorrow and the anger that had made Tomomi
pursue Lord Hakuseki for years until this night, when he would
avenge his honor.

As his mother gave him his
father’s sword, Genji felt its strength flow into his arm. It would
sustain him, help him bear the pain of her loss, for he knew that
now she must commit seppuku.

And as she did, thrusting the
sword into her body with a little cry, her eyes bored into those of
her son, telling him that he must not, ever, forget his
promise.

So when Lord Shakuheki the actor
appeared on stage, Seikei needed no coaching to rush toward him
with the desire for revenge. It took self-control for Seikei to
play the scene as Tomomi had written it. He accepted the slash
across his face, pressing his hand there to break the packet of
blood.

As he felt it run down his cheek,
he realized that the music had stopped and the hall was silent.
Everyone was waiting for the words he had to say, and this time
they came from the heart of Genji, a heart that Seikei now
understood very well.

He heard the words as if someone
else was speaking them: “I swear that I will see you disgraced.” In
a flash, Seikei leaped through the window, and the stage lanterns
went out.

All around the hall, behind the
bamboo screens, Seikei heard muffled conversations. The sound of
puzzlement was in the air. Like the actors in rehearsal, the
audience wondered if that was really the end of the
play.

But the music resumed, indicating
that something more was to come, and the buzz of voices slowly died
down. In the darkness, Seikei felt someone come up beside him. “I
will need this,” he heard Tomomi murmur as the actor took the sword
from his hands.

Startled, Seikei turned to ask a
question, but Tomomi was already gone. There was nothing for Seikei
to do but join the other actors behind the stage, waiting to see
what secrets the final scene would reveal.

23: The Play Is Finished

A single lantern, raised high above
the stage on a pole, revealed Lord Shakuheki sleeping on a mat.
Beside him lay his two swords and a small black casket decorated
with red leaves. Seikei saw with alarm that it was a duplicate of
the casket from which the real jewel had been stolen.

The musicians played an eerie tune
that summoned up images of spirits that walked in the night.
Remembering the bon festival, Seikei glanced around the dark hall.
He nearly cried out when he saw the ghost approaching.

Strips of white silk fluttered
behind the figure. As it moved silently under the lantern, its
white face glowed. Two dark eyes, lit with passion, turned toward
the screens. This time, Seikei did not mistake the pins in its hair
for horns. The ghost of the Tokaido Inn had returned to repeat its
crime.

In his mother’s voice, Tomomi
denounced Lord Shakuheki for his treachery and dishonor, hurling
insult after insult down onto the sleeping form.

“Yet in spite of your wealth and
power, even though you have prospered from the lands you stole from
my family, you still yearn for more. For something still eludes
you, doesn’t it?” She laughed, mocking him so cruelly that Seikei
could not understand how the real Lord Hakuseki could stand
it.

“What you desire is respect,” the
ghost said, nearly spitting out the last word. “The respect that a
truly great samurai should have. But at the shogun’s court, you are
merely tolerated, not given a place of honor. For the shogun, like
everyone who comes into your presence, sees you for what you are. A
man without honor.”

Seikei wanted to get up and cry
out for Tomomi to stop. He was going too far.

But the voice went on
relentlessly. “So now you are bringing him a gift,” she said. “A
great treasure that you think will awe him. And like the honorless
man you are, you chose a gift that you have stolen.”

She bent down and opened the
lacquered casket. Removing the jewel, she held it high so that its
dark red color shone in the lantern light. “This is your gift,” she
said. “I now claim it as mine, and I will be the one to give it to
the shogun.”

A tremendous crash came from the
darkness at the side of the hall. Lord Hakuseki could not endure
his shame any longer. Seikei saw him burst through the bamboo
screen, tearing away the scraps of wood that clung to his clothing.
“Thief!” he shouted. “I know who you are. I should have killed
you!”

The actor playing Lord Shakuheki
opened his eyes, took a terrified look at what was happening, and
scrambled off to a safer place. Tomomi remained where he stood at
center stage. A broad smile swept across his face. “What is this I
see?” he cried. “A ghost? A dream? No, it is the dishonorable
wretch himself!” Behind the other screens, the unseen members of
the audience began to cry out. Some thought this was part of the
play, but others seemed to realize that something dreadful was
happening.

“Is this yours?” Tomomi taunted,
holding out the jewel. “Take it from me if you can—thief! For truly
I am Genji, the son of Takezaki Kita, from whom you stole this
jewel.”

Challenged, Lord Hakuseki lost
control. He drew his sword and furiously charged toward Tomomi.
Screams and shouts echoed through the hall, but Seikei riveted his
eyes on the scene under the lantern. Lord Hakuseki slashed Tomomi’s
white silk kimono to ribbons, but then stood foolishly as the
pieces of it fluttered around him. It was empty.

Tomomi had slipped off the robe
with one swift motion and escaped into the shadows. As Lord
Hakuseki looked around, Tomomi reappeared. Under the kimono, he
wore the costume of the samurai Oishi, the leader of the
Forty-Seven Ronin. At his side, he wore the traditional two swords,
and Seikei recognized one by the silver crosses on its
scabbard.

Now, slowly and reverently, Tomomi
drew the shining steel blade from its sheath. “It’s real!” Seikei
heard Kazuo cry out from somewhere in the hall, but everyone else
understood that already—even Lord Hakuseki, who took an uncertain
step backward.

Tomomi moved toward him, step by
step, waving the sword back and forth. It sliced through the air
with a noise like a swarm of bees.

“Stop!” someone shouted from
behind the screens. “The shogun is present!” But neither Tomomi nor
Lord Hakuseki seemed to hear. Their eyes locked, and the daimyo
raised his sword. Immediately, Tomomi struck out with his own
blade, which moved so swiftly that it was impossible for the eye to
follow it. A crimson line appeared on the daimyo’s right cheek, and
blood began to flow from it.

Lord Hakuseki lunged forward,
desperately trying to impale Tomomi on his sword, but the actor
danced out of the way. “Remember?” he called, mocking the daimyo.
“Do you remember me?” He moved under Lord Hakuseki’s clumsy thrusts
a second time, and now slashed his other cheek.

More bamboo screens were now
crashing down, and people shouted for the guards stationed outside
the hall. Seikei paid no attention, for he had lost all fear of the
consequences. He watched Tomomi’s sword strike again and
again.

Lord Hakuseki’s clothing was
soaked with blood. He could barely hold his sword in front of him.
It was clear that his skill was so inferior to Tomomi’s that the
actor could have killed him, yet he refused to do so.

Seikei understood. To kill him
would have saved Lord Hakuseki from disgrace. Death in battle was
the most honorable way for a samurai to die. Tomomi intended to
dishonor Lord Hakuseki so completely that he could not bear to
live.

Five samurai, with the shogun’s
crest on their headbands, surrounded Tomomi. He gave them a brief
glance, and then knelt. Setting his sword down, he untied his
kimono and peeled it back from his neck. One of the samurai looked
across the room. All the screens had fallen by now, revealing only
one person still seated on the cushions. This man calmly nodded and
waved his hand in a sign of approval.

The shogun’s samurai drew his
sword and brought it down through Tomomi’s neck with one stroke.
The actor’s head fell to the floor and a torrent of blood gushed
from his body. His hand opened, and as Seikei watched, the precious
ruby tumbled into the crimson flood on the floor.

Slowly, Tomomi’s head rolled over.
Its eyes remained open, and Seikei saw that in death, Tomomi’s face
wore a triumphant smile.

Someone stepped between Seikei and
the gruesome sight. Numbed by what he had witnessed, Seikei dimly
recognized the man, but had to struggle to remember who he
was.

Judge Ooka reached down to close
Tomomi’s eyes. He stood up and walked over to Seikei. “Now you have
seen a samurai die,” the judge said. “Was it the way you imagined
it to be?”

24: A Tea Ceremony

“Wake up! You’re not at home now,
merchant’s son, where you can spend all day long in
idleness!”

The voice was Bunzo’s. Seikei’s
eyes fluttered open. He was glad to be awakened. He had been
dreaming of running through the streets of Edo in the darkness,
trying to escape from a bloody head floating through the
air.

He breathed a sigh of relief when
he saw that he was in an ordinary room where the sun shone brightly
through a paper window. Daylight meant that he was safe, and that
Tomomi’s spirit. . .

“Is the bon festival over?” he
asked.

“Of course.”

“Then the spirits have
left?”

“Stop talking about spirits,” said
Bunzo. “You kept me awake all night with your dreams. Get up and
wash yourself. If you’re late, the judge will blame me.”

Seikei dimly remembered that Judge
Ooka had taken him away from Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki and brought
him to this house. Seikei hadn’t even remembered falling
asleep.

“Late for what?”

“
Cha-no-yu
,
”
a tea
ceremony. Have you ever been to one?”

Bunzo’s sarcastic tone indicated
that he thought that was unlikely. So Seikei was pleased to
respond, “Yes, I have. My father is a merchant of tea. I had to
learn the ceremony so that I could be present when he welcomes
business associates.”

“Humph!” snorted Bunzo. “A
merchant’s tea ceremony. Now that would be something to
see.”

“Is the judge having a tea
ceremony?” asked Seikei.

“No, but he’ll be there. Hurry up.
Time for questions later.”

Seikei washed himself, and then
dressed in the clean clothing that Bunzo provided. Proudly, Seikei
saw that it was the plain jacket and leggings that samurai in the
service of great lords often wore. But when he began to tie his
wooden sword around his waist, Bunzo stopped him. “No swords at a
tea ceremony,” he said.

Seikei was embarrassed. He should
have remembered. When samurai and daimyos attended tea ceremonies,
they left behind all the things that marked their rank. The
ceremony was supposed to be an occasion where all who took part
were equal.

Outside, two horses were saddled
and waiting, and Seikei recognized the slow old horse that he had
first used when accompanying the judge to Ise. “You managed to stay
on it before,” said Bunzo. “Try to do so now. We will not have far
to go.”

The streets were filled with
people hurrying back and forth. All the shops were open now, and
Seikei understood why his father often talked of opening a store in
Edo. So many customers, and it was often said that the people of
the shogun’s capital were spendthrifts, willing to pay far more for
goods than those in other cities.

With Bunzo leading the way, they
passed through the commercial district into the area where the
great daimyos lived. Seikei saw some yashiki that were even larger
than Lord Hakuseki’s. The tragic outcome of Tomomi’s play crept
into his mind, and Seikei suddenly wondered what happened to the
rest of the actors. “Were you at Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki last
night?” he asked Bunzo.

The samurai shook his head.
“You’ll hear about that from the judge, if he wishes to tell you,”
he said.