The Bamboo Sword

by Margi Preus

  34

  THE DIGUISE

  Yoshi awoke just before dawn. Light the color of lotus blossoms filtered through the trees. He looked around, wary, in case he had awakened only to find those bushi staring at him. But there was just the slumped, sleeping form of the barbarian boy, the quiet of the forest, and the birds flitting among the leaves.

  He rose, walked to a nearby stream, drank, shed his clothes, and took a chilly bath. Although it was now past “the hour that the gods bathe,” it was not far from it. The icy water shook him free of sleep and, he tried to convince himself, fear.

  He slid into his clothing and put a little water in the inkwell, then carried his drawing kit back to where he’d been sitting. He pulled the brush from its place and the paper from his sleeve and set these things before him.

  What should he paint?, he wondered. A horse? A sword? A barbarian? He didn’t have a live horse as a model. He didn’t have a real sword to try to copy. But he did have a barbarian, right there, fast asleep. And more than anything else, people loved pictures of barbarians.

  Yoshi started drawing. He tried to make the drawing as lifelike as possible, but he remembered that his previous customers had complained if he didn’t make the noses or ears big enough. They said his barbarians weren’t as hairy as they should be or as misshapen. Some said they’d seen pictures of barbarians with only one eye or with holes in their chests or with arms that dragged on the ground. He wasn’t going to go that far, but he added a little length to Jack’s nose and some floppy earlobes. He put more hair on his head, and some on his face, too. He drew a few more pictures, embellishing and exaggerating a little more each time.

  While he drew, he examined Jack very closely. Fortunately, the boy’s eyes were closed. Otherwise, Yoshi would never have dared scrutinize him this way. Jack’s skin was very fair. Small flecks of color dotted his face. The way his hair caught the light made it almost look like burning coals, as if his whole head might flame up at any moment. The locks of his hair bent this way and that, like waves on a stormy sea.

  The more he studied the boy’s face, the more, well, normal it became. Yoshi even got used to his speckled skin. He wasn’t a terrible-looking person. Not completely.

  Last drawing, Yoshi thought, setting brush to paper. Then it would be time to go. He glanced up one more time—this time into Jack’s open eyes, which so startled him, he dropped his brush. He fumbled on the ground trying to find it.

  “What are you doing?” Jack said, sitting upright and peering over at the pictures. “Is that supposed to be me?” He laughed. “I don’t look like that! For one thing, do I have a beard?” He stroked his chin and looked at Yoshi.

  Yoshi didn’t understand the words, but he understood that Jack was complaining. How could Yoshi explain that maybe it wasn’t an exact drawing but it was the kind of image that people expected—and wanted—to see? He couldn’t. Maybe now was the time to try that thing with the eye that Manjiro did. He closed one eye and opened it again, then looked at Jack to see his reaction.

  Jack squinted at him. “Something wrong with your eyes? Is that it?” he said. “You need to take some drawing lessons, buster.”

  “Time to go,” Yoshi said, motioning for Jack to follow him. They started off, wending their way downhill, then stopped in a cemetery on a wooded hill above a temple grounds. The cemetery seemed untended and a little forgotten, a good place to leave Jack while Yoshi found someone with whom to do a little bartering.

  Yoshi gestured to Jack to stay behind the gravestone, and to stay down!

  So Jack hunkered down behind the stone. He’d slept fitfully, his stomach was empty, and he was not at all sure if Yoshi would come back. On top of that, he supposed those crazy warriors could show up at any moment. Well, he thought, there’s no use feeling sorry for myself. I wanted an adventure, and I got one.

  Every little chirp, snap, or rustle made his nerves tingle, and he kept himself hidden as well as he could. He kept expecting those crazy Japanese desperadoes to come through the cemetery where he was hidden, swinging their long swords through the tall grass.

  The day was so quiet that he could hear the patter of slippered feet on paving stones and the crunch of footfalls on gravel. Voices drifted to him: People who knew each other, perhaps saw each other every day, greeting one another in familiar tones. The voices, combined with the tinkling of bells, beating of drums and gongs, and whirring of pigeon wings, made a kind of pleasant thrum, as if the country’s big, pulsing heart rested just beneath this very patch of earth upon which he sat.

  At last, he couldn’t contain his curiosity, and he poked his head out from around the stone to look around. Just to peek. He didn’t think anyone could see him.

  The morning unfolded below him as the village awoke and came to life. The women in their pretty nightgown-like dresses greeted one another as they passed. Saffron-robed monks floated up the steps to what Jack knew must be a temple. A man standing at a small shrine rang a bell, then clapped his hands and appeared to pray.

  It was as different a scene as any he had ever observed, and yet something about it was so familiar: the way a mother smoothed her daughter’s hair, a little boy chasing a butterfly. The way an old man stopped to stretch his back, or a dog plopping down and madly scratching his ear—these things were as familiar as the lark’s song in the farmer’s field.

  And now, here was Yoshi, back again, giving him a scolding look, then gesturing for him to follow. And once again they climbed the hill into the forest, where they stopped by a clear, rushing brook.

  The first thing to deal with was the smell, Yoshi decided. There was a peculiar barbarian smell that they would have to eliminate. A bath was needed, even if it was going to be in a cold stream instead of a hot spring. Yoshi pointed to the stream, and Jack seemed to understand. He climbed out of his clothes and into the chilly water.

  The bath helped, Yoshi decided, and so did getting rid of the jacket and trousers, which were made of some thick, soft, but slightly scratchy fabric. The jacket might be warm in cool weather, but it smelled like a wet dog, and it had to go.

  Now for the hair. Yoshi pushed Jack’s head underwater. Jack came up, mad as a hissing otter, sputtering something that sounded like it might be a curse. When Yoshi pantomimed scrubbing his head, Jack scowled, but did as indicated and went under again, this time of his own accord.

  Now, Yoshi thought, the barbarian was as ready as he’d ever be to climb into the clothing he had procured. Yes, it was an old woman’s kimono, but Jack probably wouldn’t know that, and it would be a good disguise. And the wide-brimmed wicker hat would keep his face covered.

  Once Jack was dressed, Yoshi pursed his lips and frowned. Something was still wrong. Well, there were a lot of things wrong. The foreign boy didn’t stand right or walk right. His arms were too long, and his legs too skinny, and too . . . white. That was it. Parts of him were entirely too white. His hands and face were browned from the sun, but his bare legs and arms where they showed were pale as frog bellies. Well, Yoshi thought, bending down to scoop up a handful of mud from the stream bank, that can be remedied.

  Slap! On went the mud, onto Jack’s bare legs. I am touching a barbarian’s skin, Yoshi thought with a shudder. Under this thin layer of mud slime is a barbarian’s skin, and under the skin there’s muscle and bone, and somewhere inside there beats a barbarian’s heart, if they have them. He wasn’t sure. Does a barbarian feel with his heart the things that I feel? he wondered. Does a barbarian feel anything the way I do? He pinched Jack’s skin.

  Jack yelped and flicked some mud at Yoshi, freckling his face with muck. Jack guffawed at the sight. Yoshi scooped up a handful of mud and flung it. Splat! Wet muck hit Jack on the side of his face. Now it was Yoshi’s turn to laugh. Soon mud was flying everywhere.

  By the time they quit, they both were covered in mud, head to toe, and snorting with laughter.

  After they had cleaned off their clothes and washed the mud from their skin and Jack had carefully re
applied the muck in the right places, they sat down and ate the bits of food Yoshi had brought: cubes of fried tofu, rice cakes, and a couple of pickled plums.

  When they finished their meal, Yoshi gathered up Jack’s clothes. He couldn’t help but remember how he had traded clothes with Hideki. What would it be like to wear the clothes of this boy? he wondered. These narrow trousers? This smelly jacket? These strange shoes made out of the smooth skins of animals? He shivered a little when he touched them, and then he wrapped them, along with the jacket and trousers, in a square of colored cloth. This would keep the foreigner’s clothes out of sight. He doubted that keeping the foreigner out of sight would be as easy.

  35

  FEET

  Feet, feet, feet. That’s all Jack could see with his head hidden under the wide-brimmed straw hat. Every time he tried to take a look around, Yoshi would whack him on the back, signaling that he must bow—Jack felt like he did nothing but bow! Mr. Obsqueakiness, he should be called. And so, instead of the wonders of a place unseen by any American before, all he saw were feet: dirty feet, clean feet, wide feet, skinny feet, chicken feet. He saw wooden sandals perched on blocks of wood. Straw sandals like the ones he was wearing. Dainty slippers. He saw the graceful hems of silk kimonos, the ragged edges of hemp trousers, bare legs and bare feet.

  Most people couldn’t see his face, but small children could. Some stared up at him, wide-eyed. Some cried and ran away. Others buried their faces in their mothers’ skirts.

  But even with his head down, staring at dirt roads and feet shuffling by, he could tell by the shadows and the sunlight that he and Yoshi were going north—away from the ships. Why?

  After a time, it became apparent that they were coming to a city, a big city. Maybe, Jack thought, it was the famed forbidden city of Edo. The din, the bustle, the energy—he could hear and feel that. Voices called out, like the hawkers back home shouting out their wares. He heard the clatter of wooden clogs on the cobblestones, the clopping of horses’ hooves, and, somewhere, the tolling of a deep-toned bell. If he tilted his head just a little, he could sometimes glimpse stands piled high with brightly colored fruits and vegetables: purple eggplants, dark leafy things or pale green stalks, giant white radishes, red-orange persimmons, and those beautiful oranges that were so sweet.

  Edo street scene. (Ando Hiroshige)

  Aromas assailed him: steaming vegetables, grilling fish, smoky incense, the smoke of charcoal braziers and cooking fires, and always the briny smell of the sea, sharp and strong as seaweed.

  Jack realized that Yoshi wanted him to keep his head down all the time, but he wasn’t going to be the first American to enter Edo and not look! He peeked as much as he dared, trying not to let anyone see him, but he couldn’t help but stare: Fishermen on stilts. Men wearing hardly a stitch of clothing carrying bundles or baskets of bamboo, or lumber, or fish. Women with babies on their backs. A barber shaving the sides of a man’s head. A blacksmith heating iron in a red-hot forge. Two men in an open-air café, their chopsticks poised above their bowls. A man pushing a cart piled high with brooms and umbrellas and tools of all sorts.

  He tried to capture in his memory little scenes that he could take home with him. But he couldn’t keep from wondering, What if he never got home?

  Still, he couldn’t resist looking, at doorways hung with wares to sell—painted lanterns, baskets, silk and velvet garments, lacquered cups and bowls, and bamboo cages of all sizes: tiny ones holding singing crickets, and bigger ones containing birds. And then something Jack saw made him stop short: two large bamboo cages, each one holding a man.

  “What are those—” he began, but Yoshi hushed him and hustled him away, though not before noticing that several people looked up or glanced their way, curious about the strange-sounding words.

  Jack twisted around to look at Yoshi, but Yoshi hissed so ferociously at him that he ducked his head and shuffled along in the now familiar crouch.

  When they finally were alone, Jack whispered to Yoshi, “Those men in those cages . . .”

  Yoshi knew what Jack wanted to know. He tried to find the words to explain while also trying to make sense of it himself. He had recognized the men at once, and hoped they hadn’t recognized him. Those two bushi were the ones who had wanted to go to America. And they had tried to go through with it. Yoshi had heard that much from the gossipers around the cages. They had gone to the ships, been rejected, been arrested by the authorities, and were being transported to an Edo prison.

  Yoshi did not want to think what might happen to him if he were discovered taking an American to Edo.

  Yoshi found that he was constantly thumping Jack on the back: one thump for not too low, two times to bow a little lower, and a hard press for “Deep bow! Deep bow!” Even so, Jack was fairly terrible at it, and Yoshi had to add a little apologetic nod of his head every time, as if to say, “I’m sorry, but my old grandmother is not quite right in the head. Please forgive her.”

  They had skirted the Kawasaki post station and managed to weave their way unheeded through Shinagawa station and crossed the Nihon Bridge without challenge by positioning themselves on the other side of a bunch of pack horses.

  At the first moat, Yoshi got Jack through the gate simply by joking with the guards. “My old grandmother,” he explained, while pressing firmly on Jack’s back to keep him in a constant bowing position. “She has never been to Edo before and is overwhelmed.”

  The guards laughed and waved them through.

  It was dark by the time they reached the stables, and that made it easier to sneak Jack and himself into Haru’s stall. Yoshi checked on a leg wound she’d gotten a few days earlier, changing the bandage while Jack gathered up straw for their beds. Then, with a couple of straw piles for beds and more straw for coverlets, they tumbled, exhausted, into slumber.

  In the morning, Yoshi went out to look for Manjiro.

  He didn’t have to look far. Manjiro was standing in the midst of a crowd of boys outside the stable doors.

  “That’s much better, Shozo,” he was saying. “But make nice, long, lazy circles like this.” Manjiro spun the lasso over his head and let go. The loop dropped over Yoshi. “Look what I caught!” Manjiro said.

  The stableboys whooped with laughter.

  Little Han ran to Yoshi and helped remove the loop from around his middle. “Where have you been?” Han said. “Your master’s been looking for you.”

  Manjiro handed the coiled rope to Hiko and said, “Keep practicing! You’re all showing improvement.”

  He took Yoshi by the arm and, saying, “We have work to do,” began leading him away. Yoshi couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at the boys, who were all busy practicing with lassos. What had happened, he wondered, the short while he’d been away?

  36

  THE GIFTS

  That’s where the gifts are kept,” Manjiro said, pointing to a large storehouse ahead of them.

  “Gifts?” Yoshi said.

  “Yes, from the Americans to the emperor and empress, the shogun, his commissioners. Actually, I don’t think the Americans realize there is any difference between the shogun and the emperor. Because all the major gifts are addressed to the emperor and empress, and none to the shogun.”

  “If the shogun had allowed you to speak with the Americans, they would not have made such an embarrassing mistake,” Yoshi said.

  Manjiro chuckled. “They can’t be embarrassed if they don’t know they made a mistake, can they?” he said. “And, anyway, perhaps the Japanese gift givers should be embarrassed themselves. I have heard of the gifts given to the Americans, and I fear they will think the gifts cheap, and not understand their symbolic meaning.”

  “What do you mean?” Yoshi asked.

  “The Americans probably wonder why the value of the gifts does not seem high, without realizing that, for us, a high material value would seem like a bribe, which would be an insult to an honorable recipient,” Manjiro explained. “Instead, we give gifts with symbolic m
eaning. But they wouldn’t understand that, either. Here we take for granted that everyone understands the symbolism of the gifts we give. A fan, because of the way it gets wider, or ‘wealthier,’ toward its end, is a way of saying, ‘We wish you greater and greater wealth.’ It is a way of wishing the recipient prosperity. You know that, and I know that, but Americans do not know that. They don’t have the same customs we do.”

  Yoshi nodded. He hadn’t really thought about it. Now would be a good time to bring up the American boy, he supposed. He glanced around and noticed the two officials who had been trailing them—no doubt the shogun’s spies. At the moment they stood far enough away that he could maybe whisper something. But he hesitated, trying to find the right words, and Manjiro went on, “Did anyone from the Japanese delegation seek to explain any of this to the Americans? Probably not. So the Americans go away thinking they have been given nothing of value. Which in their minds is an insult.”

  “It is a mistake that they didn’t send you, sir,” Yoshi said, bowing to Manjiro, “for there is no one who understands their minds as you do.” Now, he thought, now I must say something about Jack, but they had come to the door, where two unfriendly looking guards were stationed.

  Yoshi could see that talking about Jack was going to have to wait.

  After Manjiro showed them some official-looking papers, the guards opened the door and gestured for them to enter. Yoshi couldn’t help but notice that both the trailing officials and the guards also followed them inside.

  “It is my job to catalog and explain all these things,” Manjiro said.