The Samurai's Garden

 

by Patricia Kiyono

Published by Astraea Press

www.astraeapress.com

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

 

THE SAMURAI'S GARDEN

Copyright © 2012 PATRICIA KIYONO

ISBN 978-1-62135-099-6

Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

 

For Mom.

I've always been proud of our heritage because you made it fascinating and alive through your stories. I hope this story brings honor to our family.

 

 

Aomori Prefecture, Honshu, Japan, 1872

So it had come to this.

Hideyori Kato paced the dirt floor, his face wrinkled in a frown of disgust. Unprotected by
tabi
, the silk stockings he was accustomed to wearing, his feet bled from the coarse straw of his sandals. At his palace, he would not have been wearing shoes at all, but the creatures scurrying about in this hovel had forced him into the unheard of habit of wearing shoes indoors.

Kato, the great and once-powerful
daimyo
, was reduced to living in a mud hut on the outer pasture of what had once been the lands surrounding his castle. He should never have surrendered to that child-emperor, Meiji. He should have rallied his army and fought. His treasurer had given him some drivel about the coffers being empty, but he could have promised them riches, and they would have fought for glory, or whatever their silly
Bushido
decreed. Maybe he could have convinced the neighboring
daimyos
to join their armies with his, so he could have overtaken the emperor's forces. And then he, Hideyori Kato, would have ruled all of Japan. The thought of all that power made his mind spin.

His grumbling stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten yet that day. He clapped his hands impatiently.

A wrinkled old man, toothless and bent, hobbled into the hut. He bowed with difficulty and spoke from his lowered position.

"Yes, Master?"

"Where is my meal? I am starving!"

The old man's emaciated figure shrank back. "Chu-san has not returned from hunting for today's food," he began.

The crack of Hideyori's walking stick on the man's back ended the servant's reply.

"Fool! If there is no meat, find something else! I cannot function without food. I smell something cooking outside. Bring me some of that."

"Yes, Master." The old man grunted as he crawled backward out of the hut, his face etched in pain. A moment later he returned with a bowl of steaming liquid.

"Take care! You are spilling the soup on the floor," Hideyori complained. He grabbed the bowl from the man's shaking hands and brought it to his mouth. He blew on the broth to cool it and drank. A moment later, he threw the bowl at the already battered man.

"This is horrible! It's just boiled weeds! How dare you serve such garbage to me?"

"Master, there is nothing else—"

"Use your head and find me something decent to eat. I can't eat this slop!" He emphasized each word with another blow from his stick.

This just wasn't fair. Not only had his lands been confiscated, the government had taken away his title. The
daimyos
who had cooperated with the government had been awarded a new rank in the emperor's court and allowed to keep their lands. Since he'd resisted, he was banished to this hovel. Only the servants too weak or too old to find other jobs had stayed with him. Too bad they were also idiots. Hideyori took out his frustration on the crouched figure before him. With every blow, he shouted another grievance against the Meiji government.

Twenty minutes later, the walking stick broke from its use. The servant's lifeless body lay in a heap, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Hideyori stamped out of the hut, resigned to the fact that the boiled weeds would have to satisfy his grumbling stomach for now.

But things would change. Somehow.

Two hours later, he sat on a rock outside the hut, still waiting for someone to bring him more food. The weak soup had done little to satisfy his hunger. The old man inside had said someone named Chu-san had gone hunting. Where was the fool? He had a vague memory of a young man, the son of one of his former servants.

He really needed to get better servants. Boiled weeds, indeed! How was he supposed to eat that? If only he had some money, he could buy some decent food. Or better yet, hire someone to prepare it for him.

The sun beat down, and he started to sweat under his thick robe. Reluctantly, he took the robe off, revealing the stained cotton
yukata
underneath. He hated to be seen without his full dress — he had an image to preserve — but it was too hot out here. And it was even worse inside the hut, especially with the servant's body lying there. Chu-san would have to remove the body when he finally returned with something to eat. His servants were totally useless. Where were they when he needed them?

Disgusted, he removed his robe and threw it, not caring where it went. The garment landed on another rock with a "clink."

Clink?

Out of habit, he turned to call for a servant but realized there was no one to hear his summons. Grumbling, he rose from his seat and took the five steps to his robe. It was heavy, made of thick brocade, and the long, hanging sleeves were lined with several layers of silk. He picked up the robe, checking under it. Finding nothing there, he inspected the robe itself. The brocade was worn, the fraying threads a testimony to his dire financial status.

Turning the garment inside out, he frowned at the dingy color. When he had a full staff, his court seamstresses would keep track of these things and replace the linings at regular intervals. But there were no more seamstresses. He was stuck with this lining. There were holes here and there, and the seams were worn. He smoothed the lining down. When he regained his fortune, one of the first things he would do would be to order some new clothes. No one would take him seriously as a leader if he had to wear rags like this.

His hand ran across a hard bump in the fabric. Were the holes so large that a rock had lodged in between the layers? He inspected the bump more closely. No, it wasn't a rock. Eagerly, he picked at the fabric, trying to scratch a hole in the weave. No luck. He needed something sharp. Casting a look around, he spied a short branch under a nearby tree and hurried over to retrieve it.

Ten minutes later, the robe was in tatters, but Hideyori didn't care. His hands cradled a beautiful hand-painted fan, its bamboo frame embellished with finely detailed carvings. For once, a servant had actually followed directions. He remembered the day he had instructed the little maid to "hide the valuables somewhere the emperor's men will not find it." The girl must have hidden the fan in the lining of his robe.
Clever girl.
Too bad he hadn't been able to keep her.

His growling stomach was forgotten as he went back into the hut to look for other hidden treasures in his clothing.