by Margi Preus
The tone of the councillors’ responses grew gloomy. “It is a thousand pities that we were not ready with our own military,” one of them intoned.
Yoshi looked through the open doors at the somber colors and bare stalks of the late autumn garden, and the heavy gray sky above. Even in the midst of all this beauty and splendor, he thought, the prevalent tone was gloom.
“One thing Americans are not well trained in is swordsmanship,” Manjiro said. “In my opinion, in close fighting, a samurai could easily take on three Americans.”
There was a murmur of approval from the councillors.
“But America is working to develop its own country and has no time to attack other nations,” Manjiro went on.
At this, there seemed to be an audible sigh of relief from the gathered officials.
“They are constantly learning, and their knowledge gets better and better,” Manjiro continued. “Their fighting, merchant, and steam ships go all over the world. The Americans have learned the method of navigation by observing the heavenly bodies—as have I. If I had a ship,” he said, “I could sail it to any part of the world.”
Yoshi tried to imagine being able to do that—it was frightening to think about, because he had heard that monsters lived in the far reaches of the sea. And barbarians, of course. He shivered a little and turned back to listening while pretending not to.
He pretended a little harder, for he suddenly had the distinct impression that he was being watched. He turned his head just in time to catch a glimpse of a slippered foot disappearing around a corner.
21
THE STABLEBOY
It was late fall, and the air was pungent with the sour tang of fallen leaves and, for Yoshi, horses. Horses, and leather bridles and harnesses, straw and hay, and right now the heady and slightly sweet aroma of stewing grain.
He poured steaming water into a tub of feed, making a thick, warm porridge for the horses that had been training earlier in the day. The smell of it made his mouth water; it was all he could do not to scoop up a mouthful for himself. The slurry smelled—and looked—better than his own breakfast had that morning. It felt as if days had passed since he’d eaten the watery soup and cold rice in the barracks where he slept and ate with the other stable hands and workers.
Horses up and down the long building stuck their heads over their stall doors, all wondering, Yoshi supposed, if this deliciousness was meant for them. Nearby, a dappled mare stared at him intently. He stirred the porridge slowly, listening to the conversation of the other stableboys, who, finished with their chores, leaned against stall doors and chatted.
“I have thought of a way to conquer the red-hairs,” one of the boys said. “When they come back.”
“How?” said a round-faced boy. “Tell us!”
Yoshi stopped stirring.
“I have heard that the barbarians cannot bend their legs,” the first boy said.
Yoshi glanced at the mare. Her dark eyes seemed to reflect his own amusement.
“That is true, Hiko,” said the round-faced boy. “Those who have seen the Dutchmen riding in kagos say that their legs stick straight out, so it must be true.”
“So,” said the boy called Hiko, “the way to conquer them is simple. Cut bamboo lengths and spread them on the ground.”
“Huh?” a little boy wondered.
“Oh!” exclaimed a boy whose hair stuck out in all directions. “I get it! When the hairy ones invade our land, they will slip on the bamboo and fall down, and, because they can’t bend their legs, they won’t be able to get up!”
“And then our warriors will chop them to pieces!” Hiko finished.
The other boys agreed that it was an excellent idea.
“That won’t work,” Yoshi said, “because the red-hairs can bend their legs as well as anyone.”
Fanciful images of “foreign barbarians.” (Katsushika Hokusai)
“Well, honorable Yoshi,” Hiko said sarcastically, “who says the red-haired devils can bend their legs?”
“I do,” Yoshi said. “I’ve seen them myself.”
“Is that so?” Hiko said. “And where was that?”
“Uraga.” Yoshi watched their expressions: for a moment impressed, because he had seen the barbarians. But then sneers appeared on the boys’ faces.
“Is that where you’re from?” Hiko asked, smiling smugly. “We figured you weren’t from Edo.”
Yoshi wondered what had given him away. Some slightly different way of dressing or wearing his hair? Did he have a noticeable accent?
“You came with the outsider, didn’t you?” Hiko said.
“He’s not an outsider. He is our countryman,” Yoshi answered.
“He might as well be an outsider,” said a small boy, emboldened by the older boy’s words. “In the years he was away, he forgot everything. I heard that when he was presented with the two swords, he carried them home wrapped in a towel!”
“He was only a fisherman before, this Manjiro,” said Hiko. “He is really just a peasant!”
“He isn’t a peasant anymore,” Yoshi protested. “He is a bushi, and now the shogun has allowed him to take a second name. And that is the proper way for you to address him: Nakahama Manjiro.”
Hiko’s eyes flashed at Yoshi. He said, “My father says that in the case of that man, some mistake has been made. But the shogun will soon come to his senses and dismiss him.”
“Maybe he has important information to impart,” Yoshi said.
The boys howled with laughter.
“Like what? How to grow a big nose?” one boy cried.
“How to make yourself stink?” said the little boy, Han.
They squeezed their noses with their fingers.
This was not going to be as friendly an interchange as he had hoped, Yoshi realized. Should he leave now or stick it out a little longer? It would be nice to have some friends. Maybe if he joined in with them . . . It wasn’t as if he, too, didn’t think the man was strange. He even agreed with some of the things the boys said. So he laughed a little and said, “I admit he’s a bit odd.”
“What other strange things does he do?” the boys wanted to know. They leaned in, smiling.
“He does this funny thing with his eyes where he closes one of them, then opens it, while looking at you. Just one eye. Closed, then opened.” Yoshi tried to imitate it, and the boys laughed.
“Maybe it’s like a secret signal or something,” Han said.
The other boys mumbled their agreement and turned back to Yoshi.
Their attitude toward him seemed to have changed, and Yoshi didn’t feel like such an outcast now. So he went on: “The Tosa man could have ridden in a kago all the way to Edo, but he walked instead. He spent all his time talking to me instead of his samurai retainers. Like he couldn’t tell that they were more important than I am.”
Yoshi felt a little sorry to have said this. It was true; it was a strange way for a samurai to behave. Still, Manjiro had made Yoshi feel special. And how was Yoshi repaying him? By making fun of him.
He mumbled something about needing to finish, opened the stall door, picked up the tub of feed, and went in. The mare, Haru, turned and nudged him with her nose. But he found he couldn’t look at her, or at her big, sad eyes.
22
KIKU
It snows,
And flowers
Unknown to spring
Blossom on the trees and grass,
Still sleeping through the winter
—Ki no Tsurayuki
Snow lay heaped on every twig and branch, thickening shrubs and trees as if it were full summer and the leaves and flowers had all blossomed white.
Behind the snow-laden shrubs, there was a spot in the garden private enough for Yoshi to practice his sword fighting in secret. He had a length of bamboo he kept hidden in Haru’s stall, and when the opportunity arose, he practiced.
As graceful as a bird landing on water, Yoshi reminded himself as he pulled his “katana” from his sash. T
hat is how your movements with your sword should be. Your mind should be like water, he told himself—realizing that if he had to tell himself that, then his mind was not like water.
He started again, drawing his bamboo sword and bowing to it. But just as he was about to begin, he heard voices coming from the other side of the hedge. He didn’t think much of it until one of the voices said, “He knows much. He speaks and understands English and the ways of the Westerners.” It was Lord Egawa who was speaking. He had taken a strong interest in Manjiro and his knowledge of the West. He had even invited Manjiro to stay in his compound.
Yoshi slowly lowered his bamboo katana. There were people—a group of officials, it sounded like—right on the other side of the hedge. He moved a little closer.
“He should be our official interpreter,” Egawa said.
“I agree,” said another voice. “He will help us not lose face by seeming ignorant.”
Yoshi edged even closer.
An officious voice said, “He is too sympathetic to the American devils. He owes a debt of gratitude to them. If he were to be in the presence of the barbarians, they might kidnap him and take him aboard one of their ships.”
“I do not think that Manjiro has any thoughts of treason,” another voice was saying, “but upon getting on board, there is no telling what might happen. We do not know what method he might use in talking to the men on the ships.”
Through the snowy branches, Yoshi noticed movement, and he peeked through them to see a girl about his age sweeping the snow from the stepping-stones. She would only really sweep during the pauses, he noticed. Otherwise, she was only pretending to sweep.
She’s a spy! he thought, then quickly changed his mind. No, that couldn’t be right. She was only a girl! But the more he watched, the more convinced he became. Especially since she seemed to be silently moving closer to the hedge.
He was about to tiptoe away when a loud voice proclaimed, “Of course, nobody wants to be under the thumb of the West! But what can we do? We haven’t the firepower, the military, to deal with them!”
Now the girl was so close, Yoshi couldn’t escape his hiding spot without being seen. So he decided to act like he belonged there. He shoved his bamboo stick under the shrubs, crossed his arms, and took an attitude of, well . . . belonging. At least he hoped that’s what he looked like.
Meanwhile, the men on the other side of the hedge continued their discussion.
“Time is essential if we are to complete our coastal defenses. Let us forestall the foreigners. Then, at some future time, we will find opportunity to reimpose the ban and forbid foreigners to come to Japan.”
The girl was so close now, Yoshi could speak quietly to her without being overheard. “You’re listening in on their conversation!” he whispered.
“As are you,” she whispered back.
“That’s different,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “Because I am only a girl?”
“Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” he said.
She raised a very expressive eyebrow.
“Who are you spying for?” she asked.
He couldn’t tell her that he was Manjiro’s bodyguard and, as such, he needed to know if others were plotting against him. She would never believe that. Anyway, why should he tell her anything?
They glared at each other. She was only the gardener’s daughter, he thought. She needn’t act so high and mighty. Then she grinned, not bothering to politely hide her mouth. Her teeth were like white pearls. It struck him, oddly, that he hoped this girl would never marry, for then she would lose her expressive eyebrows, and she would also blacken her teeth. He quickly amended his wish, for it was cruel to wish a girl to remain unmarried. There was little that life had to offer an unmarried woman.
But now a deep voice rumbled from behind the hedge, and suddenly both he and the girl were silent, listening.
“The Lord of Mito said in his message”—there was the rustle of paper, and then the man continued—“‘There was once a dragon tamed and domesticated that one day drove through wind and cloud in the midst of a hurricane and took flight.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yoshi whispered.
“Your master, Nakahama Manjiro, is like a dragon, I suppose,” the girl whispered back. “The Lord of Mito thinks that were he to change his mind and ‘fly away’ on an American ship, it would be too late to repent.”
“Repent what?”
“Letting the man go, who could tell the red-hairs so many secrets.”
“What secrets?”
She motioned for him to join her in the garden, where she gave him the broom she was holding and told him to sweep the snow from the stepping-stones while she held back the branches. “At least try to look like you belong here,” she said. Then she continued in a low voice, “The shogun, Tokugawa, is in a terrible position. If he admits that his government cannot drive away the barbarians, it is to invite the ruin of the Tokugawa house. The other option, which is to resist, is to invite the destruction of the empire.”
“On the one hand, the entire Tokugawa family,” Yoshi repeated. “On the other, all of Japan.”
“Thus it is whispered everywhere in these halls,” the little gardener said softly. “It seems also that the Americans believe the emperor is the supreme leader. They do not understand that the emperor has no power, the shogun is weak and spineless, and the country is run by the Bakufu. The truth is, our country is not strong enough to keep the foreigners out. Our weapons are no better against the outsiders than—than a bamboo sword!”
Yoshi flinched. Had she seen him practicing and was she teasing him? “You shouldn’t say such a thing,” he said. “It’s . . .”
“Treason? It’s only what everyone is saying.”
“How do you know?”
“Servants hear everything. You should know that. As far as our masters are concerned, we’re invisible—it’s as if we aren’t there. So, in order to hear, all you have to do is keep your ears open . . . Yoshitaro. Or should I call you by your nickname . . . Yoshi?” Taking the broom out of his hand, she said, “You can call me Kiku.” Then she swept her way across a bridge and disappeared behind the snowy shrubs.
Yoshi watched her go, not knowing what to think. How did she know his name? Was this snip of a girl an enemy to watch out for? Or could she be an ally?
Oh, this court of the shogun was a nest of spies! There was no one to trust. And Manjiro—was he a spy, like some of them said? He was a strange man, an outsider, like the official had said. Everybody thought so, even the stableboys. Maybe he was a spy! Yoshi did not know what to think about anything anymore.
He almost longed for his old job as a sandal bearer. Nothing much to worry about there—except, he reminded himself, Kitsune! It seemed unlikely that rough-mannered Kitsune would ever appear in the shogun’s court. Perhaps Yoshi was finally safe from him.
Yoshi thought this while he stared at the place where Kiku had disappeared from view and wondered: Where had she gone? There wasn’t anything behind those snowy bushes but a long hedge. But she didn’t come back out.
He crossed the bridge and followed her footprints in the snow. Then, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he stepped behind the bushes.
The girl was nowhere to be seen. Her footprints disappeared at the still-green hedge that separated the garden from—well, whatever it separated it from. She couldn’t have gone through the hedge; it was a thick tangle of thorny branches. He certainly wouldn’t be willing to try it, at risk of tearing his clothes and skin to shreds.
So where had she gone?
23
LASSOING
Now that the trees were bare of leaves, it was nearly impossible for Yoshi to find a private place to practice with his bamboo sword. He certainly wasn’t going to do it anywhere the boys could see him. That would give them more reason to tease him. So instead of the sword, sometimes he practiced throwing a rope the way Manjiro had shown him. Manjiro said that wor
king with the lasso was a good thing to do if you had pondering to do. And Yoshi had pondering to do.
On this late afternoon, the other boys had all led horses to the archery range for practice, and Yoshi found himself alone for a little while. He discovered a warm slice of late afternoon sun outside the stable and spun the loop of rope over his head. And pondered. He pondered if he could rope a sunbeam. He pondered whether he could ever make friends with the other stableboys. But mostly he pondered if he would ever, ever earn enough money to pay Ozawa back.
Manjiro had given him a warm quilted jacket and a few coins now and then when Yoshi carried a message or ran an errand for him, and as a stableboy Yoshi got his room and board, but he had earned only a handful of coins for pay.
Feeling the warmth of several pairs of eyes on the back of his head, he turned.
“What are you doing?” Hiko asked, stepping forward into the sunbeam.
Yoshi glanced at the boys. He could say, “Nothing,” and ignore them, or he could assume they were really curious and just . . . be nice.
“This,” he said, turning to them and holding up the rope, “is called a lasso. It’s for roping horses or cows.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Manjiro taught me.”
“It is another weird barbarian practice,” the boy named Enju said.
“How can you work for that outsider?” Hiko stood with arms crossed, watching Yoshi as he pulled the rope in and then looped it carefully.
Han and Shozo began to enumerate Manjiro’s faults: He dressed funny. He had strange habits. He smiled too much. He had a funny accent. And after all, he didn’t belong at the court of the shogun. He didn’t even seem to understand basic rules of etiquette.
“I’ve heard he takes leftover food home when he eats at restaurants!” Shozo said.
“No, he doesn’t!” Yoshi protested.
“Yes,” Hiko said. “Everybody says so. How embarrassing!”
