The Brazen Shark

by David Lee Summers

  Dragomirov puffed out his chest and sneered at the mere suggestion that he would do such a thing. He pointed to the palace guard. “No such order was issued from this office.” He turned to the captain. “Draft a letter to that effect and bring it to me for signature and seal.”

  The captain saluted and set about his task.

  The general turned to his adjutant. “The Nicholas Alexandrovich is due back in St. Petersburg today, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The adjutant heaved a weary sigh. “We’ve received preliminary reports from several cities along the ship’s expected flight path. No one has seen it.”

  “I have a feeling we’ve had a sighting.” The general ran his hand over his bald head. “Has Mendeleev lost his mind? Is it piracy? Are the Japanese just trying to start something?” Dragomirov held his hands out, inviting the adjutant to add another suggestion. When he received no reply he continued. “Get a courier over to the admiralty right away. I want a ship patrolling Sakhalin Island’s waters looking for the ship or signs of wreckage.”

  The adjutant saluted, spun on his heel and left.

  * * *

  Ramon listened to Fatemeh as she read from a book of poems by Bashō, she purchased from the bookseller around the corner from their hotel. They had little else to do while they waited to see what came of the message they sent via Lord Katsu’s automaton. Fatemeh pronounced the Japanese words slowly, trying to translate as she went.

  “None is traveling this road but I, this autumn evening.”

  Ramon’s brow furrowed for a moment as Legion’s words resounded in his mind. He realized it was a translation of the poem Fatemeh read. “Legion…” The word came out as a hiss.

  Fatemeh looked up, concerned. “Is there a problem?”

  “The situation is unchanged.” Only Ramon could hear Legion’s answer to Fatemeh’s question. “We just thought you would enjoy more translations.”

  Ramon sighed and nodded. “No problems.” He removed his glasses and thought for a moment. He hated excluding Fatemeh every time he communicated with the alien swarm. “That poem you read could almost be about Legion.” He repeated the translation and Fatemeh nodded. Although Legion remained silent, Ramon felt his presence, like a figure looming over his shoulder. He knew he caught Legion’s attention.

  “Please explain how the poem describes us.”

  “I think I can best explain with a story,” said Ramon. “Fifteen years ago, my father served in the Federal Army at Fort Union, near a town called Watrous. One day in spring—I think it was about mid-April—a soldier came to our home in Socorro to tell us papá had been killed defending the Union at Glorietta Pass.” Ramon’s voice grew thick.

  “We have seen this much,” said Legion, “and understand your hatred of warfare stems from this event.”

  Fatemeh reached out and took Ramon’s hand. She squeezed, silently urging him to continue.

  “I hated the Confederates. I wanted to join Colonel Canby and slaughter them as they returned to Texas.”

  Fatemeh winced and Ramon worried he might have revealed something a little too dark about himself. “Go on.” Her voice was soft and held no judgement.

  Ramon swallowed and pushed ahead. “The parish priest in those days was named Father Patricio. I don’t remember how I ended up in the parsonage talking to him or how the subject came up, but I told him about my papá and how I hoped to go to war. Mamá wouldn’t sign the papers which allowed me to join the army while under age. I hoped the padre could help me.”

  “Did he?” asked Legion.

  “He wouldn’t,” gasped Fatemeh.

  Ramon shook his head. “He told me I would damage my own soul if I sought to avenge my father. Those words didn’t help, but the fact he refused to sign the underage permission form kept me from running off and gave me time to consider those words.”

  “Your memories tell us it would have done no good if he had signed those forms. You were just thirteen. The army wouldn’t have taken you.”

  “He sounds like a wise man,” said Fatmeh.

  “You’re peeking.” Ramon meant the words for Legion, but realized he spoke them aloud when he noticed Fatemeh’s confused expression. “Legion’s peeking. He’s looking into memories without invitation.” He folded his arms. “Even so, Legion is right. The army wouldn’t have taken me. I was too young. I think the priest and my mamá must have been worried and they spoke to a local farmer. I spent the summer working. I don’t remember many details. I just remember getting up early and feeding the animals, tending the crops, and coming home exhausted.”

  Fatemeh’s brow creased. “Did the farm work help take your mind from your father?”

  Ramon shook his head. “I still grieved for my father, but the experience showed me I needed to work to care for the living. By the time school came around, the classroom felt restful.”

  “So why do you get so anxious sometimes about returning to school?” Fatemeh’s mouth ticked up in a mischievous grin.

  “School’s a place for boys and I’m a man. It’s scary going back.” Ramon shrugged, but thought of a better answer. “My teacher worked me quite hard and I worry about whether or not I can still do the work.”

  “I know you can do it, Ramon.”

  Ramon leaned over and kissed her, then remembered he had an audience. He returned to the story. “He gave lots of homework which engaged me. I found when I didn’t throw myself into it, I would start to dwell on my father’s memory and the anger would build. Being a student calmed me. It was a road, like the one in the haiku. Each person in these stories taught me through their choices and by letting me do the work myself.”

  “None travels this road but I…” repeated Legion. “Must you travel the road alone?”

  “At times, we all have to figure things out for ourselves,” said Fatemeh, as though she heard Legion’s silent question. “A good teacher is the one who shows us the best road to take.”

  * * *

  In his cabin aboard the Bashō, Hoshi stared at a sheet of paper, struggling to find the kireji, or cutting word for a haiku about flight. Flying aboard a Japanese airship named for one of the all-time great haiku poets, he wanted to write something to document the experience, even if he never showed it to another person.

  The smooth voyage amazed him. From time to time, the airship encountered turbulence, but if it dropped ballast and gained altitude, the ride smoothed out again. The one thing Hoshi did not like was the cold. Even the sunshine filling the pleasant stateroom failed to warm him.

  Cisneros explained that air grew colder the higher they flew. He also explained about the new lifting gas the Japanese ships used and how it made open flame less of a concern than on Russian ships. Still Cisneros seemed nervous about the Japanese ship’s construction. Hoshi admitted wood and paper provided little protection for those aboard, but as someone used to fighting on foot or horseback, it worried him less than the prospect of falling from the sky.

  Hoshi abandoned the haiku and went over to his saddlebag. He retrieved a cozy sweater he’d purchased in Las Cruces and put it on under his kimono, then he stood and walked to the back of the gondola and climbed the ladder to the walkway underneath the balloon. Out here, the engine noise and the wind almost deafened him.

  He found several men congregated outside by the boiler. Open flame may be unwelcome inside, but it posed few problems out here on the metal catwalk and the boiler generated heat, even as cold air blew through the lines surrounding the crew. The men, who shouted to hear each other, grew silent when Hoshi approached.

  He warmed his hands and tried to flash a pleasant smile. He stopped when a crewman stepped back, startled. “Please don’t mind me,” he called. “I’m just aboard as a passenger.”

  The men looked at him, then cast surreptitious glances at one another, but remained silent.

  Hoshi finished warming his hands, then returned to the gondola. As he reached the deck, he encountered Captain Sanada, who nodded. “I’m about to dine. I wonde
red if you would care to join me.”

  Hoshi bowed. “I would be honored.”

  The officer’s galley was smaller than the crew’s mess where Hoshi typically dined. A steward set out three food trays, then bowed and left the two men alone. Hoshi’s mouth watered at the sight of grilled fish, a meat and potato stew, and good, sticky rice. The rice in New Mexico was coarse and expensive, brought by train from the southern states. Most went to Chinese railroad workers, but he had convinced a general store owner to stock a few bags now and then. Although a few Mexican cooks experimented with rice, it was a novelty in the western United States

  “What brings you aboard my ship, Mr. Masuda?”

  Hoshi served himself some rice and a piece of fish. “I thought Captain Cisneros would have told you. I have been asked to consult about some matters on Karafuto Island.”

  “Karafuto belongs to the Russians,” said Sanada. “They even call it by a different name—Sakhalin, if I remember correctly. Why would the imperial government wish to discuss such matters with a samurai?”

  “Samurai, Captain Sanada? I am merely an American farmer.”

  “If the emperor wanted a farmer’s opinion, there are many in Japan.” Sanada snorted and helped himself to food. “It’s obvious you’re a samurai. It’s in your bearing, the way you move, the way you expect men to respect you.” He took a bite and leaned forward. “You are no peasant farmer, nor a rich land owner.”

  Hoshi nodded. “That is true, but it is also true I love the feel of soil in my hands more than the feel of a sword. This is why I’m content to be a farmer in America.”

  “Many samurai hated to lose their stipends and their positions.” Sanada poured a cup of tea and offered it to Hoshi, who accepted. “Many have killed themselves rather than give up their rank. A few have joined the Imperialist army as officers.” The captain poured a cup of tea for himself. “Do you oppose the emperor?”

  “I do not return to Japan to mount a coup, if that’s what you wish to know.” Hoshi sipped the tea, then set the cup down. “I think suicide is a waste unless the cause is honorable, and I have no desire to become a peasant.”

  Sanada narrowed his gaze. “Aren’t you a farmer now? Haven’t you become a peasant?”

  “In America, the farmer owns his own land. I suppose I am a peasant, but I am also a daimyo.”

  “A daimyo without samurai?” Sanada swallowed a bite of fish followed by some tea. “Then what is going on at Karafuto that you have been asked to consult with?”

  “If Captain Cisneros has not told you…”

  “To Hell with Captain Cisneros. He is not Japanese. This is a Naval Airship under the emperor’s command. If something is happening I may become involved in, I want to know.”

  “Understandable.” Hoshi savored the stew, then followed it with some rice.

  Captain Sanada sat back and folded his arms, expectant.

  “A former samurai of my acquaintance is suspected of piracy,” said Hoshi. “It’s possible a Russian airship is involved.”

  Sanada’s eyes went wide. “Why hasn’t Cisneros confided this in me?”

  “I suspect it’s because we’re dealing with secondhand information and rumor at this point. We have few facts.”

  “I would like to be prepared.”

  “We have some time on the voyage back to Japan,” said Hoshi. “I suggest we meet with the captain in the morning.”

  Sanada finished his rice, then poured more tea. “How did you know to meet us in Ensenada? This flight was not announced.”

  “A messenger told me of plans for the test flight. I was not entirely certain you would arrive until you did.” Hoshi hoped the captain would not press for more details. British agents in Hawaii brought Cisneros and the Japanese together. They could conceivably have sent a message to Hoshi.

  Sanada nodded. “Now that ten years have passed, what do you think of the Meiji Restoration?”

  “I think it’s admirable the emperor wants Japan to join the world rather than sit alone.” Hoshi sipped his tea. “What do you think of it?”

  “As a sailor under the shogunate, I was confined to coastal waters around Japan. I have now flown across the great Pacific Ocean and I expect I may do so again, if my ship is not destroyed by these pirates you describe. I like this new world and I have a hard time even describing it.”

  “Have you ever tried haiku?”

  The captain laughed. “Haiku is for nobles, not for men like me.”

  “That’s the real beauty of the Meiji Emperor’s restoration. He has created a world where poetry is for everybody.”

  Sanada narrowed his gaze. “What if I told you I don’t want to write poetry?”

  Hoshi shrugged. “In a world where peasants may write poetry, nobles may be exempt.”

  “But I am neither peasant nor noble.”

  “I foresee a time for Japan when no one will be.” With that, Hoshi sipped his tea, then excused himself.

  Chapter Ten

  Conversing with Owls

  A loud rapping on the door sounded just as the clock struck noon. Ramon stood and gestured for Fatemeh to remain seated. He cracked the door and peered out. Lord Katsu’s automaton clicked and whirred, holding up a sealed envelope. Ramon grabbed it. “Thank you,” he said.

  The automaton turned, then rolled down the hallway. Ramon pushed the door closed, then examined the envelope. An official seal held its flap closed.

  “Who’s it from?” asked Fatemeh.

  Ramon shrugged and put his finger under the flap to break the seal.

  Fatemeh grabbed his arm and shook her head. “We may not want whoever sent that to know we’ve read it.”

  “It’s addressed to us,” said Ramon.

  Fatemeh narrowed her gaze. “Better be careful anyway.”

  Ramon nodded and retrieved a knife, heated it in the flame of one of the gas lamps and carefully ran it under the seal to preserve it. Taking out the parchment he read, eyes widening. “It’s from the Lord of Home Affairs, Ōkubo Toshimichi. He requests our presence at dinner tonight. He says he’ll send Lord Katsu’s automaton to retrieve us at four o’clock.”

  “Is it a request or an order?”

  “Sounds like an order to me.” Ramon considered the note. “I also think we should dress suitably. This guy sounds pretty important.”

  “He is,” said Fatemeh. “He was one of the architects of the Meiji Restoration. He’s probably the most important man in Japan aside from the emperor himself.”

  “Why does he want to see us?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  That afternoon, Ramon and Fatemeh assembled the finest wardrobe they could from the clothes they had brought. Ramon wore a gray jacket and purple bow tie while Fatemeh wore an elegant black ruffled jacket with matching skirt. The automaton knocked at four o’clock, then led them downstairs. Before climbing in the rickshaw, Fatemeh crossed the street to a curio shop. Ramon took out his pocket watch, and checked the time. Just as he replaced it, Fatemeh returned with a bundle wrapped in brown paper.

  “What’s that?” asked Ramon.

  “I’ve heard a gift is expected when visiting people,” she said.

  Ramon bent over and kissed her, pleased at her forethought. They climbed in the rickshaw and took another frantic ride, narrowly avoiding collisions with merchants and carts.

  Soon the automaton turned down a less crowded, tree-lined lane a short distance from the palace. It stopped in front of a house set back from the lane which embodied both Japanese and western elements. A sloping, tiled roof topped a two-story wooden structure. A porch surrounded the building. Built of dark wood and surrounded by pines, the house reminded Ramon more of a mountain cabin than the manor houses built by rich Americans.

  The newlyweds climbed up the steps to face a hinged door, similar to those at their hotel and at a few public buildings they’d visited. A woman in a kimono and obi opened the door and bowed to them. Ramon and Fatemeh returned the courtesy. Without speaking, t
he woman pointed to Ramon and Fatemeh’s feet and indicated a neat line of shoes to the side.

  Ramon and Fatemeh slipped their shoes off and then followed the woman into the main room. Ramon blushed looking down at his dirty socks.

  Right away, the room’s simplicity struck Ramon. Although he had never traveled in elite circles, he knew the homes of the wealthy and the powerful were huge. He imagined them filled with the finest things money could buy.

  A few watercolors hung from this home’s walls. A table against one wall had a few paper sculptures on it. Enchanted, Fatemeh walked over and peered at them.

  “Origami,” said a man who entered the room. “It’s a hobby. It takes my mind off the complex affairs of state.” The man wore a western-style suit with a black bow tie. A ribbon held his long hair in a ponytail. His neat mustache exploded into bristling mutton-chop sideburns. He stepped forward and bowed. “Ōkubo Toshimichi.” He indicated the woman who answered the door. “My wife, Lady Hayasaki Masako.”

  Ramon blinked, but realized that Lord Ōkubo’s wife merely shared a given name with the samurai Imagawa. He recovered quickly and introduced himself. “Ramon Morales.” He grasped Toshimichi’s hand and felt immense power in the grip. Ramon wouldn’t want to arm wrestle this man. He let go and held his hand out to Fatemeh and introduced her.

  “Charmed.” She held out the brown-paper parcel. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

  Lady Hayasaki took the parcel and unwrapped it. She and her husband both smiled at the little wooden owl. Ōkubo took the carving and set it among the origami.

  Ramon hoped they had made a good first impression. “I’m afraid we know very little Japanese.”

  Ōkubo held up his hand. “Please don’t worry yourself on that account. I learned English years ago and taught Masako. We are pleased for the opportunity to practice your language.”