The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn (2 page)

2: The Inn

Seikei and his father finally
passed through the checkpoint. A short time later, they entered the
town of Kameyama, where they planned to spend the night. There were
many inns here, and in front of each one stood beautiful girls who
called to the travelers who passed by. Each girl urged them to stay
at the inn she worked for. “Best food in Kameyama!” some called.
“Many servants to see to all your needs,” said others. Two of the
girls saw Seikei looking out from his kago. They smiled prettily
and gestured for him to stop. When he slid the door shut quickly,
he heard them giggling.

Seikei knew that Father would not
stop for these girls. He had made plans for the trip long before
they set out. He had a map that unfolded to show each section of
the road, and had marked on it the towns and inns where he planned
to stay. Father had asked other merchants who had made the trip
where the most comfortable places were.

But when the bearers put Seikei’s
kago down, he saw that three samurai guarded the front gate of this
inn. They wore the crest of the powerful daimyo they had seen at
the checkpoint.

Seikei’s father stepped out of his
kago and bowed deeply. The samurai took no notice. The gate of the
inn opened and a man wearing a plain blue kimono came out.
“Konnichi-wa! ” he said, greeting Seikei’s father with a bow. He
was the innkeeper.

“Konoike Toda,” said Seikei’s
father, giving his family name first, as Japanese did. “A tea
merchant from Osaka. Merchants there speak well of your
inn.”

“I am honored,” the innkeeper
said. “You see there are guards here. We have an important guest, a
daimyo, Lord Hakuseki. I am afraid I cannot offer you our best
rooms.” He shrugged. “I can recommend another inn, if you
wish.”

Seikei’s father leaned close to
the man and whispered something that Seikei could not hear. The
innkeeper smiled and bowed. He made a quick gesture with his hand,
and two women immediately appeared in the doorway. They took the
traveling cases from the kagos. Seikei and his father followed them
into the inn, slipping off their sandals at the door.

Their room was
in fact quite large and clean. The floor was large enough for at
least four
tatami
sleeping mats, though they needed only two. “What did you say
to the innkeeper?” Seikei asked.

“I promised him large
thank-money,” his father replied. “Comfort can usually be arranged,
if one follows the polite way.”

Seikei understood. To father,
being polite meant offering enough money to get what he wanted. Not
like a samurai, who would have slept in the open air rather than
offer money to the greedy innkeeper.

Seikei and his father went to the
bathhouse that was attached to the inn and soaked themselves in
wooden tubs. The warm water soothed Seikei’s bottom, still sore
from being bounced around in the kago all day.

After they returned to their room,
the two serving women brought trays with fish, rice, and tea. The
food—especially the tea—was not of the best quality. Father sighed
audibly a few times, but made no comment. Seikei ate his meal
silently. He wanted to go out afterward and see the town, but knew
that Father would probably disapprove of the idea.

Father loosened
the
obi
around
his waist as he finished his meal. He yawned, and Seikei knew it
was useless to suggest leaving the inn. A voice sounded outside the
sliding screen that served as a door to the room. Father called out
permission to enter.

The innkeeper stood there, bowing.
“I hope the meal was satisfactory,” he said.

“It was adequate,” Father replied.
Seikei hid a smile. He knew father feared that the innkeeper wanted
more thank-money. “Now we are tired, and were just about to go to
bed.”

“Did I understand you to say you
are a tea merchant?” the innkeeper said.

Father nodded.

“My honored guest, Lord Hakuseki,
has expressed his desire for some fine tea,” the innkeeper said.
‘The inn’s tea is not of the quality he is used to.”

To Seikei’s surprise, Father
replied, “I am sure he would find my tea quite ordinary. It is not
meant for a daimyo.”

The innkeeper paused for a moment.
“I would not like to tell him you refused. It might seem
rude.”

Father spread his hands. “In that
case, I will of course let him examine what I have. My son must
bring it from my kago. Please leave us so that I can instruct
him.”

After the innkeeper departed,
Seikei said, “Father, this is a wonderful opportunity!”

Father smiled ruefully. “When you
have more experience, you will know better,” he said. “Daimyos make
very poor customers. They expect to buy everything at the lowest
prices—that is, unless they force you into making a gift of your
wares.”

Father began to instruct Seikei
carefully as to which tea he should bring. “Bring a box of the
black tea from Nagano, and another box of the smaller black leaves
from Tauyama. Lastly, a small portion of green tea that the farmer
near Himeji ships us.”

“You have better tea than that,
Father,” Seikei said. “What about—”

“I don’t need you to tell me about
tea,” Father snapped. “The daimyo won’t know the difference. Now
go!”

Seikei went around to the back of
the inn where the kagos had been left. The bearers were supposed to
be guarding them, but were nowhere to be seen. Hearing the sounds
of music and voices from a nearby tavern, Seikei guessed where they
had gone.

When he returned with the tea, he
found that Father had changed into a better kimono. After making
sure Seikei had brought the correct tea, Father said, “Would you
like to come along?”

Seikei nodded eagerly. He had not
dared to ask.

“It will do you good to see what a
daimyo is really like,” Father said. “Chase some of those ideas
about samurai out of your head.”

Seikei quickly slipped off his
travel-kimono and put on the one his mother had told him to wear
when meeting customers.

The innkeeper nodded approvingly
when he saw them. He led them to Lord Hakuseki’s quarters, and
motioned for them to kneel as he knocked on the door. When the door
opened, they bowed their heads and moved across the floor on their
knees.

“Well? Is this the tea merchant?”
came a loud voice. “You may face me.”

Seikei raised his eyes. Lord
Hakuseki sat cross-legged on a platform in the center of the room.
His two swords rested by his side. He was the same daimyo who had
ridden by them at the checkpoint that afternoon. Seikei even
recognized the two golden rings that the daimyo had worn. Now he
was dressed in a magnificent red silk kimono with the fish crest
embroidered on it. Standing around the walls of the room were four
young samurai, and at the daimyo’s feet were three servant
women.

Lord Hakuseki prodded one of them
with his foot. “Bring me their tea.” As the woman took the three
boxes, Father began to explain the different qualities of each
one.

The daimyo pointed a finger at
him. “If that man speaks again, cut his tongue out,” he said to one
of the guards. Father lowered his head humbly and bent forward on
his hands and knees.

Lord Hakuseki looked inside each
box, smelling the contents. Then he licked his finger and poked it
inside one of them. Drawing it out, he tasted the tea leaves that
clung to it. Seikei was glad that Father could not see how crudely
the daimyo was testing his wares.

But the daimyo seemed pleased. He
handed the box to the servant. “Make some tea with this,” he told
her.

As she left the room, Lord
Hakuseki noticed Seikei watching him. Instantly, Seikei lowered his
eyes, but the daimyo said, “You, boy! Come here!”

Seikei obeyed, moving forward on
his knees. The daimyo reached down and pulled his head up by the
hair. “How much do you think I should pay your master for the
tea?”

Seikei struggled to think of a
proper answer. When he spoke, his voice squeaked. “Whatever you
think is fair, Lord.”

Lord Hakuseki grunted and released
his grip. “Stay here, then,” he said. “I’ll see how it
tastes.”

He looked at the innkeeper. ‘Take
the merchant away. I don’t want to see him again. I thought you
were going to bring me some paper.”

“At once, Lord,” the innkeeper
said. He and Father backed out of the room. Father glanced at
Seikei for a second, but Seikei did not need the warning in his
eyes. He moved back against one of the walls, hoping the daimyo
wouldn’t question him further.

In a few seconds, the door opened
again. The innkeeper entered, followed by a girl carrying a box.
Seikei blinked. He recognized the girl. She was the one who met his
eyes when he opened the kago door on the road.

She was beautiful, he thought. As
she knelt and bowed to the daimyo, Seikei could see her neck, long
and graceful. Her black hair was held in place with a simple
polished brown stick.

The daimyo commanded her to rise.
Her face was heart-shaped and her eyes shone like pebbles at the
bottom of a stream. She must be as afraid as I was, thought Seikei,
but she shows no sign of it.

Lord Hakuseki
seemed amused.
“
You
are the paper- maker?” he asked
her.

“My family has
made paper for many generations,” she explained. “I am traveling to
Edo with my father to sell our wares, but he is ill and in need of
rest.”

Lord Hakuseki frowned. “I need
paper fine enough to write a message for the shogun,” he said. “You
understand? The shogun himself. I am bringing him a gift, and I
wish to enclose a suitable poem with it.”

The girl nodded, saying nothing.
She took several sheets of paper from her box and placed them on
the platform in front of the daimyo. From where he sat, Seikei
could see that each sheet was different. Most were white, though
their textures ranged from very smooth to some that were as rough
as pine bark. A few sheets were delicately colored, and the daimyo
picked one of them up.

It was pink, rosy as the first
light in the sky at dawn. “Unusual,” Lord Hakuseki said, rubbing
the paper between his fingers. Seikei saw the girl clench her
fists, and then put them behind her back. She must feel the same
way as he had when the daimyo tasted the tea.

“Ink,” called out Lord Hakuseki.
One of the servants knelt down and rubbed an ink-stick against a
stone tray. She poured a little water into the tray, mixing it with
the dry ink.

A second servant brought a
writing-brush to the daimyo, who took the cap off and swished the
brush in the ink. Without pausing to test the darkness of the ink
on a cloth, he dabbed it roughly onto the pink paper. He wrote too
slowly, Seikei saw. Masters of the art always made swift, confident
brushstrokes.

The girl was watching him too.
Seikei saw her purse her lips in silent disapproval.

The daimyo stopped, and admired
his work. He showed it to the girl. “Have you ever seen a poem
written by a master?” he asked her.

Seikei saw her hesitate. Finally
she nodded. “Basho used paper made by my great-grandparents to
write his poetry. We have one of his poems at home. It was a gift
from him.”

Basho! Japan’s greatest poet!
Seikei felt envious.

Lord Hakuseki merely grunted. “And
how would you say mine compares to his?”

The girl’s mouth tightened into a
line. That was the only sign that she was trying to control
herself. “It is different, Lord. Yours displays your character, as
the brush-writing of a master should.”

Seikei put his hand to his mouth
to hide a smile. A Japanese saying was: “A man and his
brush-writing are one and the same.” Even from where he sat, Seikei
could see that the daimyo’s writing was clumsy and
crude.

But the daimyo seemed pleased by
the girl’s answer. “Would you like me to read it to you?” he
asked.

The girl’s eyes flashed at him in
surprise for a second. Then she lowered them and nodded.

“The cherry blossoms cover the
ground,” he read, “like the heads of my enemies.”

She murmured softly, as if
admiring it.

“It just popped into my head,”
Lord Hakuseki said. “I think I was inspired by you.”

The girl sat motionless on her
heels.

“Because you are like a little
cherry blossom yourself,” the daimyo added. He looked around the
room, and his samurai laughed.

The girl still did not move.
Seikei felt sorry for her, but he admired her
self-control.

The daimyo leaned forward. “Would
you like to see something even more beautiful?” he asked the
girl.

She nodded. Seikei could sense her
embarrassment, but obviously the daimyo could not.

The daimyo gestured to one of his
samurai, who brought him a small hinged box. Seikei marveled at its
beauty. Covered with shiny black lacquer, it was decorated with
tiny golden leaves.