In Darkness, Death

by Dorothy Hoobler

  There was an audible gasp from Tatsuno. Everyone but the judge looked at him. He was almost choking with surprise—and, Seikei thought, with fear as well. The judge never turned his head, but a small smile crept across his face as he held the butterfly out for all to see.

  5

  LOOKING FOR PAPER

  You know what that butterfly means,” Tatsuno was saying. ”And you didn’t tell me about it when you made me promise to carry out a little task for you.”

  “I didn’t say it was little,” replied the judge. “But it requires a ninja.”

  They had left the jail after the two prisoners confirmed what the judge already knew—the butterfly had not belonged to Lord Inaba. The assassin must have brought it with him.

  Before departing, the judge had told the warden, “Release these two men and return their swords to them.” The warden made no objection. But outside, Seikei asked, “Will they kill themselves after they get their swords back?”

  “If they believe their honor demands it,” said the judge.

  “They should not have drunk the sake,” Seikei said. “In Daidoji Yuzan’s book, he says the conduct of a warrior should be correct at all times.”

  “That is true,” said the judge. “Many fine and noble things are written in that book, and in other books as well. But a man should be judged not by books but by what is in his own heart.”

  Tatsuno interrupted. “I’m no samurai,” he said. “I’m not going out to commit suicide for you.” That was when he made the comment about the butterfly.

  Seikei was too curious. He had to ask, “What does the butterfly mean, anyway?”

  “It means,” said Tatsuno, “that the person who left it is uncatchable. In fact it would be worth your life just to try to catch him. Leave him alone.”

  “But you’re a ninja,” said Seikei. “How can you admit defeat?”

  “With ease, I assure you,” Tatsuno said. “A ninja lives to fight another day, unlike a samurai.”

  “No matter,” said the judge. “I do not want you to capture the man who left the butterfly, Tatsuno.”

  “Then what is the task you want me to perform?”

  “I will let you know soon,” said the judge. “We have one or two more places to visit first.”

  “If we’re going to the shogun’s palace,” said Tatsuno, “I will have to change into a better kimono.”

  “No need for that,” said the judge. “We’re going to see a papermaker.” He glanced at Seikei. “Someone you know well.”

  At first Seikei didn’t understand. But when they entered the district of Edo where the papermakers had their shops, he remembered the last time he had been here. It was shortly after Judge Ooka had adopted him, and Seikei had come to thank the person who had indirectly made that possible.

  He had first met her on the night he and his father—his old father, the tea merchant—had stopped at an inn on the Tokaido Road. Restless, Seikei had gone to the terrace of the inn that night to view the stars. There he met Michiko, who was out for the same reason. To amuse him, she told Seikei a ghost story. One so frightening that later that night he lay restless on his sleeping mat, unable to sleep. And so, he had seen the ghost that had come to steal a jewel from a rich daimyo. In the morning, Michiko and her father were accused of being the thieves, and Judge Ooka had arrived to investigate. Seikei told what he had seen, and the judge gave him his first assignment. When the mystery was solved (with Seikei’s help), Michiko and her father were cleared and the judge granted Seikei’s wish to be a samurai.

  From the outside, the little shop looked just the same as it had when Seikei had last visited. A blue banner over the front porch of the shop read OGAWA FINE PAPERS AND SCREENS. The beautiful calligraphy on the sign told Seikei that Michiko herself must have made it.

  He and the judge dismounted and tied their horses to a railing in front of the shop. A servant girl, sweeping the porch, looked at them wide-eyed and rushed inside to announce the arrival of an important-looking samurai. A few seconds later, Seikei saw a pair of eyes peep through the crack in the slightly open door. They were eyes that he recognized: Michiko’s.

  As soon as the judge stepped onto the porch, the door opened wide and Michiko’s father stood there, bowing low. Right behind him was Michiko, who also bowed, after a quick smile in Seikei’s direction.

  The judge, Seikei, and Tatsuno all bowed in return. In hardly any time at all, the servant girl appeared with a tray of tea and manju rice cakes. They all sat down in front of a small alcove. Hanging on the wall in a place of honor was a scroll with a poem written on it. Seikei recognized the calligraphy, the beautiful handwriting that the poet had used. It was by Basho, Japan’s greatest writer. Because the calligraphy of a poet is almost as important as his words, the scroll was especially precious.

  Seikei noticed Tatsuno looking at the scroll too. But it was not a look of admiration, like Seikei’s. Seikei had the odd feeling that Tatsuno was appraising the scroll, wondering how much he could sell it for if he could somehow slip away with it.

  Seikei was so disturbed by this that he almost didn’t notice when Michiko’s father, Ogawa-san, spoke to him. Seikei realized by the way the older man was smiling at him that it had been a compliment. “Thank you,” said Seikei, bowing his head.

  “Don’t you agree?” Ogawa-san asked his daughter.

  With shining eyes, she looked at Seikei for a moment, and then said, “I knew he had the heart of a samurai when he spoke out to save us from a false accusation, Father.”

  “You must be very proud to have such a fine son,” Ogawa-san said to Judge Ooka.

  “He has much to learn,” said the judge, “but I approve of the fact that he does not allow himself to be discouraged.”

  Everyone nodded and exclaimed their agreement with that, even Tatsuno, who had known Seikei for only two hours. They’re just being polite, Seikei thought. But he knew the judge would never tell a lie, so Seikei allowed himself a moment of pride in his foster father’s approval.

  The polite conversation continued for a while. Seikei knew the Ogawas wanted to sell the judge some of their paper. But it would be bad manners for them to bring up the subject before he did.

  Finally the judge said to Ogawa-san, “I was very pleased with the quality of the writing paper that you were kind enough to sell me the last time we were here.”

  “We have just made a batch that I believe is even better,” said Ogawa-san. He looked at his daughter. “Michiko, bring some samples for Judge Ooka to examine.”

  She went to another room and returned with several sheets of creamy-white paper. She handed them to her father, who in turn gave them to the judge. Seikei could tell how proud father and daughter were of the paper, but of course they could not say so.

  Their pride was justified. The smooth surface of the paper and the even quality of its color were pleasing to the eye. Seikei thought how it would feel to dip a brush into jet-black ink and splash it boldly across the paper, creating a beautiful new poem or painting.

  The judge made complimentary remarks about the paper and then said, “Could you provide me with fifty sheets?”

  Michiko and her father looked at each other. Fifty sheets, Seikei knew, was a large order for them. “We do not have that many sheets in stock,” Ogawa-san said. “But we can make some in a few days.”

  “No hurry,” said the judge. “I am working on a case that will require me to travel. When we return, I will send Seikei for the paper.”

  “I assure you, it will be the same quality as this,” said Ogawa-san.

  “I have no doubt of that,” replied the judge.

  “You have not even asked me what it will cost.”

  “I’m sure it will be a fair price. We won’t discuss it.”

  “We are deeply grateful for your generosity,” Ogawa-san said, bowing his head.

  “Are you traveling far?” asked Michiko.

  This was a somewhat bold question for a girl to ask, and her father waved hi
s hand as if to rebuke her.

  “I’m sorry,” Michiko said immediately. “I ask only because I want to be sure we have the paper ready when Seikei returns.”

  She gave Seikei a smile that he imagined no one else saw.

  “Do not apologize,” said the judge. “It is good for young people to ask questions. And to be truthful, Ogawa-san, I came here hoping you could answer a question for me.”

  Ogawa-san gave his daughter a look that said, You see what trouble you have gotten us into? But he said to the judge, “Anything you wish to ask.”

  The judge took the butterfly from his kimono. Tatsuno eyed it warily, as if he feared it would come to life and fly off. “I wonder,” said the judge to Ogawa-san, “if you know who made this paper.”

  Ogawa-san delicately took the butterfly from the judge. He turned it over in his hands. “It is stained,” he said.

  The judge nodded without saying what had stained it. “You may unfold it if you wish,” he told Ogawa-san.

  “That would be a shame,” said Ogawa-san, “for it is a beautiful example of origami. Whoever folded this paper into the shape of a butterfly was an artist.”

  Michiko leaned over his shoulder to get a look, and he said to her, “You see the way the grain slants? That’s gampi fiber. Must be Bakkoro’s, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Father,” she agreed.

  Ogawa-san handed the butterfly back to the judge. “This kind of paper-folding looks like it was done at a shrine for some ritual. And the person who often makes paper for those purposes is a man named Bakkoro. But he lives in Shinano Province, far to the north. So that may take you out of your way if you are going on a journey.”

  “On the contrary,” said the judge. “You have just told me the first place we must go on our journey.”

  6

  A GIFT

  May I give Seikei something to take on the journey?“ Michiko asked.

  “They will want to travel light,” her father answered.

  “It isn’t heavy,” she replied. “Come, Seikei, it’s on a high shelf. I can’t reach it by myself.”

  Seikei stood, and then looked at the judge, who smiled and said, “When a young lady offers you a gift, you should accept with thanks.”

  Michiko rose and opened the door to the next room. She gestured for Seikei to follow. Sliding the door shut after them, she said, “You have grown taller since I saw you last. Before, we were almost the same height. Now I come up only to your shoulder.”

  For some reason, this pleased Seikei, who hadn’t realized how much he had grown. It crossed his mind to say to her, “You have become more beautiful than before,” but he knew she would laugh at him for being so foolish.

  Michiko said, “I wish you had time to tell me all the cases you have helped the judge solve.”

  “Not many, really,” Seikei said. He was glad he didn’t have to tell Michiko about the time he took a job in a teahouse where geishas met their customers. Maybe she would think that was shameful.

  “And now you’re going on a journey with him, but he doesn’t know until he comes here just where you’re going. Does he do things like that often?”

  Seikei smiled. “Yes,” he said. “He just says we have to follow the path wherever it leads.”

  “Oh, well, he is very wise,” she said, “so I suppose that is why he is difficult for me to understand. It’s strange though. Just before you arrived I was reading Basho’s travel journal. You know, the one he made on his last journey?”

  “Yes,” said Seikei, “I have heard about it, but never read it.”

  “When you return for the paper, I will lend you my copy,” she said. “Anyway, something I read made me think of you, traveling all over with the judge, solving crimes.” She picked a small book from a shelf. The front and back bindings were beautifully decorated with red and yellow maple leaves. Seikei remembered that Basho’s last journey had been in the fall of the year.

  “Would you like to hear what he wrote?” Michiko asked Seikei.

  He nodded, willing to listen to her read the entire book, but she turned the pages until she came to one passage. “Here it is,” she said. “He describes how he worries because he has grown old, and he may no longer be able to endure the hardships of travel. Then he says: ‘I reasoned with myself that when I set out on this journey to remote parts of the country, I was fully aware that I was risking my life. So even if I should die on the road, that would only be the will of Heaven. These thoughts somewhat restored my spirits. ’ ”

  The great poet’s words sent a chill through Seikei. Despite the fact that there was a charcoal burner in the room on this wintry day, he shivered.

  Michiko seemed not to notice. “Do you not think that nobly expresses the spirit of the poet?” she asked.

  “It does,” he replied. And it was true. Though the passage was frightening in one way, Basho’s acceptance of death was exactly the way a samurai should feel.

  “Oh!” Michiko exclaimed. “I nearly forgot about your gift. It occurred to me when I thought of Basho’s travel journal that you might like this. When Basho set out on his journey, he took with him a small writing kit.” She pointed to the top shelf of a case against the wall. “There’s one up there, but you’ll have to take it down yourself.”

  It was a stretch for Seikei too, but he managed to reach the jet-black lacquered box. It was small—too small for a writing kit, he thought. But Michiko opened it and showed him he was wrong. Inside was a tray that held two writing brushes with collapsible handles. Folded, they took up no more space than Seikei’s thumb. When Michiko removed the tray, Seikei saw a small ink stick, a stone tray, and even a tiny bottle of water to make the ink.

  “And look,” said Michiko. She slid off the end of the box to reveal several tubes of paper. “It’s very thin paper,” she said, partially unrolling one of the tubes to show him, “but it holds the ink well without running. If you have the inspiration for a poem on your journey, you can write it down immediately, just as Basho did.”

  Seikei hardly knew what to say. “This is such a generous gift,” he told her. “I have done nothing to be worthy of it.”

  “On the contrary,” she said, “you proved yourself to be as brave and honest as any samurai.”

  Seikei bowed his head. “I hope you will always be able to say that.”

  Michiko started to reply, then hesitated. Seikei looked up, surprised, for she seldom was shy around him.

  “I hope you won’t think me too bold,” she said, “but I had a strange feeling about that man you arrived with. Is he a friend of Judge Ooka’s?”

  “No,” said Seikei, “no, I’m certain he isn’t a friend.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” Michiko responded, “for if he were, then I would not speak ill of him. But I feel you should be on your guard if you travel with him.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Seikei, thinking she too had seen the way Tatsuno looked at Basho’s poem on the wall.

  “It’s a feeling I have,” she said. “He makes me uneasy. Perhaps you will think me foolish, but I am seldom wrong about such things.” She looked at the door to the next room. “We should return to the others now,” she said. “Promise me you will return soon.”

  Seikei thought of Basho’s words. “If Heaven wills it,” he said.

  After they left the shop, the judge gave Seikei a leather bag full of coins. “I have to follow a separate path in this case,” the judge explained. “You must go to this papermaker Bakkoro. He lives in the town of Minowa in Shinano Province. Show him the butterfly”—he handed it to Seikei—“and ask for the name of the person who bought the paper it was made from.”

  “Do you think he will remember?” asked Seikei.

  “This is special paper,” said the judge, “used by shrines for religious purposes. To a papermaker’s eye, each batch of paper is different. I think it is likely he will remember.”

  He turned to Tatsuno and said, “I want you to go with Seikei.”


  Tatsuno looked uncomfortable. “He doesn’t need my help for such a simple task,” he said.

  “I want you to keep Seikei safe and teach him to think like a ninja,” said the judge. Seikei’s ears perked up at this. Just as he was finally learning to be a samurai, now he was to try being a ninja.

  But Tatsuno told the judge, “I cannot teach him to be a ninja. That takes years of training.”

  “I wouldn’t want him to become a ninja,” the judge said, “but it will be useful for him to know about them.”

  Tatsuno shifted his feet uneasily, looking back and forth from Seikei to the judge. Clearly he was sizing up Seikei and not liking what he saw.

  The judge asked, “Do you think he makes a good samurai?”

  Tatsuno shrugged. “He’s your son, so of course he’s a good samurai.”

  “He is my adopted son. He used to be the son of a tea merchant.”

  Tatsuno gave Seikei a sharper look than he had before. “Well, I guess it would be easy enough to take him to Shinano and see this papermaker.”

  “But after you visit the papermaker,” said the judge, “I want you both to continue on to Etchu Province.”

  “Where Lord Inaba’s domain is?” said Tatsuno with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes. Disguise yourselves in some way. Talk to as many people as you can. Listen to what they say—rumors, accusations, gossip. I want to know what is being said about Lord Inaba’s murder.”

  “What exactly do you want us to find out?” asked Tatsuno.

  “I wish to learn who Lord Inaba’s enemies were.”

  Tatsuno thought about this for a moment. “We won’t have to capture anyone for you, will we?” he asked.

  “No, Tatsuno. You are not looking for the fox. I merely want to know who sent the fox to Lord Inaba.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “In the city of Nara, visiting the governor of Yamato Province.”

  Tatsuno sighed. “I knew it sounded too good to be true.”

  “And, Tatsuno, one more thing,” the judge said.