In Darkness, Death

by Dorothy Hoobler

  “If you don’t mind,” said Dr. Genko, “I will walk part of the way to Kanazawa with you. There is a farmer in that direction who has a cyst that needs draining from time to time.”

  The day was clear, and even though it was cold, Seikei was glad to breathe fresh air after three days in the smoky little thatched hut. After they were on the road for a while, Seikei asked Dr. Genko, “What happened to Joji and Sada’s daughter?”

  Dr. Genko looked at him. “What do you know about that?”

  “She told me that her daughter had been stolen. That was all. They pray for her.”

  Instead of answering, the doctor asked, “Where are you from? Who are you? I know you’re not pilgrims.”

  Tatsuno started to answer, but Seikei cut him off. He felt that the doctor’s kindness deserved honesty.

  “I am the son of Judge Ooka. He sent us here to find out who Lord Inaba’s enemies were.”

  The doctor nodded and thought some more before he spoke: “Some of Lord Inaba’s men came through our village a year ago and saw Momo. She was a beautiful girl, too beautiful for a place like this. But she was innocent of the ways of men. The samurai carried her off and treated her shamefully. Later, we heard that she killed herself rather than return home in disgrace. That is why her parents pray for her.”

  Seikei was too shocked to say anything. He could not imagine samurai doing such an evil act.

  “Would you say Joji and Sada are Lord Inaba’s enemies?” Dr. Genko asked quietly.

  “But they-they wouldn’t have been responsible for killing Lord Inaba,” said Seikei.

  “Probably not,” agreed Dr. Genko.

  “And perhaps Lord Inaba never knew that his samurai acted this way.”

  “Look around you,” said the doctor. “What do you see?”

  Seikei let his eyes roam. The land was steep and hilly, sloping upward toward high peaks in the distance. Snow covered most of the ground, but here and there patches of it had been scraped away. Within the bare patches, Seikei saw what at first appeared to be small bundles of straw. All of them, however, were moving of their own accord. He realized that they were farmers wearing coats made of straw to protect them against the cold. Looking closer, Seikei saw that they were using hoes and spades and even sticks on the bare ground.

  “Those people are digging,” he said. “But why? It’s not the right time of year to plant anything.”

  “They are looking under the snow for things to eat,” said Dr. Genko. “Nuts, acorns, pinecones, roots—anything that will ease their hunger. They are starving.”

  “How could that be?” asked Seikei. “Aren’t most of them farmers?”

  “The rice crops have been attacked by insects two years in a row,” said the doctor. “Almost nothing could be harvested.”

  “Even so,” argued Seikei, “the lord of this domain should distribute food that has been saved from plentiful years.”

  Dr. Genko shook his head. “On the contrary,” he said, “Lord Inaba’s overseers demanded that the farmers pay their full taxes—one-fifth of the usual rice crop.”

  “But how could they pay if no rice had been harvested?” asked Seikei.

  “By taking it from the rice that had been stored in previous years,” the doctor replied.

  “That cannot be true,” said Seikei angrily. “How would they expect the farmers to live?”

  “As you see,” said the doctor, gesturing toward the people wandering through the snow-covered fields, “they expect the farmers to solve that problem by themselves.”

  Seikei was silent for a moment. He had not dreamed that such injustices could exist in the shogun’s realm. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. What would the judge do?

  “Have the peasants petitioned Lord Inaba?” Seikei asked. “Lord Inaba the father, I mean. I had heard that he was a kind man.”

  “So did the person who took the farmers’ petition to Lord Inaba’s castle,” said the doctor. “That was why he volunteered to do so.” The doctor paused. “He returned with his ears, nose, and lips cut off.”

  “This isn’t right!” Seikei said. “The shogun wouldn’t allow it. Someone should go to the provincial governor.”

  Tatsuno, who had been listening quietly, now snickered. “Excuse him,” he said to the doctor. “He is only a boy.”

  Seikei felt stung. “But my father is one of the shogun’s officials,” he said. “I myself have met the shogun. I know that neither of them would approve of this. ”

  Dr. Genko smiled sadly at Seikei and said, “Your friend knows that the chief aim of the shogun is to keep order in the country. He relies on daimyos like Lord Inaba to maintain a force of samurai who will preserve order. How they do that is up to them.”

  “But if people are starving, the proper order of things is upset,” said Seikei. “A ruler has a duty to protect his people.”

  “I see you have read the ancient books,” said the doctor. “But Edo is far away, and order here is preserved by force.”

  “When I see my father again, I will report to him what you have told me,” Seikei said.

  “Judge Ooka has a reputation as a just man,” said the doctor. “So he sent you here to find Lord Inaba’s enemies?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Look around you,” the doctor said. “They are everywhere, digging in the snow to survive.”

  They left the main road at a narrow lane that led to a farmhouse, Seikei and Tatsuno following the doctor. Once, Seikei saw Tatsuno turn his head to look behind them. Seikei did the same and saw that others were following. He thought he recognized some of the people who had been scraping beneath the snow for food. But since they were all wearing straw coats, it was almost impossible to distinguish one from another.

  Tatsuno gave him a glance and pointed to Seikei’s wooden sword. Seikei knew what he meant, but he wasn’t worried. He was sure Dr. Genko wouldn’t lead them into a trap.

  They walked around the farmhouse toward a larger building in back of it. As they passed the house, the front door slid open and two small children peeped out with large, solemn eyes. Someone pulled them back and shut the door quickly.

  When they reached the larger building, Seikei saw that it was a storehouse for rice. Inside, however, he was surprised to find at least twenty men standing and stamping their feet to keep warm. Their clothing, rough cotton trousers and woven straw cloaks, showed that they were farmers. They carried hoes, pikes, axes, or spades—but Seikei had the definite impression that today they were not intended to be used as tools.

  “We didn’t invite strangers here,” someone said loudly.

  “I have faith in them,” Dr. Genko said. “They may be able to carry our petition.”

  “To the new Lord Inaba?” another voice asked sarcastically. Bitter laughter echoed around the room.

  “Perhaps,” said the doctor. “Or to someone above Lord Inaba. They have come here on the orders of a person in the shogun’s government.”

  That announcement only filled the room with sullen muttering. Seikei could make out a few words here and there: “Spies.” “Who sent them?” “They’re lying!”

  One of the men stepped forward. He had powerful shoulders and looked as if he could uproot a tree all by himself. “What are you here for?” he asked.

  Before Seikei could answer, Tatsuno said, “Show some respect! If you want our help, tell us what your grievances are. Supposing we believe you, we’ll report them to the shogun.”

  The room fell silent. Seikei could tell the men wanted to trust him. “I had five children,” the man in front of them said, “besides my wife and mother. We lost our whole rice crop this year because of the locusts. Then Lord Inaba’s men came and demanded the taxes they said we owed. How can a man pay taxes if he has nothing to feed his own family?”

  Tatsuno nudged Seikei. “Write that down,” he commanded. Seikei looked at him in surprise, and Tatsuno gave a curt little nod.

  Reluctantly Seikei took the writing kit from his kimono
and prepared the ink. The farmers seemed reassured by the sight of it. Very likely, Seikei knew, none of them except Dr. Genko could read or write. To them the writing kit meant that Seikei and Tatsuno must, indeed, be important people.

  One by one they all came forward to tell their stories. Each tale was much the same as the others, different only in details. But of course, Seikei reflected, each story was personal. One man gave the names of his children, and after that, they all did, as if writing down their names would help feed them. Another listed the names of family members who had died of starvation or illness. One man even mentioned the name of the horse that he had had to slaughter for food. He shed tears over the horse.

  At first Seikei regretted using his precious supply of paper to write all this down. But as he heard the stories, he realized how important they were. He made up his mind that someone would listen to them. Seikei would make sure of it.

  12

  A FIGHT

  The farmers accompanied Seikei and Tatsuno back to the main road. Their mood was happier now, as if by giving their cares and complaints to Seikei to write down, they had—at least for the moment—gotten rid of them.

  Dr. Genko sensed it. “You have given them hope,” he said as he bade farewell to Seikei and Tatsuno.

  “I will make sure their hopes are fulfilled,” Seikei said earnestly.

  Tatsuno and the doctor exchanged a glance. “Only a boy,” Tatsuno reminded the doctor. Seikei pressed his lips together to keep himself from replying. He would show them.

  The road continued northward, toward Lord Inaba’s castle town, Kanazawa. By midafternoon they came to a fork, where another road led to the west. “We go that way,” said Tatsuno.

  “No, no,” Seikei protested. “Kanazawa is up the other road, to the north.”

  “It certainly is,” said Tatsuno, “and we have no reason to go there.”

  “But we must! We have to present the farmers’ grievances to Lord Inaba.”

  “What do you think Lord Inaba will do then?”

  “Why ... I don’t know. He should take steps to reduce their suffering.”

  “I can’t believe you’re this big a fool,” said Tatsuno. He was not angry, merely stating a fact. “Your original father, the merchant, must have been happy to get rid of you.”

  Seikei’s face reddened. Actually that was true. “But now,” he said, “I am a samurai, and I would betray my honor if I didn’t keep my word.”

  “To those farmers? You’d be doing them a favor if you threw those papers away. Better, burn them so no one will ever find them. Have you ever heard the expression ‘The nail that sticks up gets hammered down’? If Lord Inaba knows their names, he’ll come here and make their lives a lot more miserable than they are now.”

  “But if that’s true,” said Seikei, “then why did you have me write down all the complaints?”

  “Because I wanted us to get out of there safely,” Tatsuno said patiently. “Didn’t you see all the tools they were carrying? The bamboo spears they had? Those farmers were in a mood to use them on someone, and we were the obvious choices.”

  “We aren’t working for Lord Inaba.”

  “You don’t know these country people, I see. We were strangers. That was all they needed to know.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Seikei, “they trusted me and I accepted that trust. So I am going to Kanazawa, no matter what you choose to do.”

  He strode resolutely down the right-hand fork in the road. He didn’t care whether Tatsuno followed or not. So far, there hadn’t been any danger to speak of, and Seikei had once traveled halfway down the Tokaido Road by himself. Well, nearly by himself, Seikei had to admit. Bunzo had followed him, disguised as a holy man.

  There wasn’t any chance of Bunzo knowing where he was now.

  Seikei cast a glance over his shoulder, just out of curiosity. Looking annoyed, Tatsuno was following him, about thirty paces back. Secretly Seikei felt a little relieved.

  Some time later, they saw a horseman coming toward them. He was moving briskly, so they knew he must be a samurai. The farmers used their horses only for pulling carts or carrying loads.

  As the rider drew closer, Seikei recognized the crest on his kimono. It was a camellia, the symbol of the Inaba family. Tatsuno nudged Seikei, who remembered that those of the lower classes were supposed to move to the side of the road when a mounted samurai passed by. For good measure, Tatsuno knelt, and Seikei did the same.

  But the horseman did not pass them. Instead, he reined in his horse and turned to face them. “Who are you and where are you going?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  “We are only pilgrims on our way to Kanazawa,” said Tatsuno, sounding more like a beggar than a man on a holy mission.

  “And we have a message for Lord Inaba,” Seikei piped up. He felt Tatsuno cringe.

  “A message, eh?” said the samurai. “What’s it about?”

  Before Seikei could answer, Tatsuno said in an even more sniveling voice, “Only our humble prayers for his late father, sir. ”

  “Is that right? Give me the message. I’ll deliver it to Lord Inaba myself.”

  Seikei heard Tatsuno curse under his breath. So did the samurai. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Just a prayer for you too, sir,” said Tatsuno.

  “I want to see this message,” the samurai said again. “Produce it at once.”

  Seikei reached into his kimono, but Tatsuno turned and grabbed his arm. “It’s sacred,” he explained desperately. “It must not be taken out in the open air.”

  The samurai’s hand went slowly to the hilt of his long sword. “I think you two are farmers trying to stir up trouble,” he said. “That’s what I was sent here to find out. Now show me this message or—”

  With a piteous cry, Tatsuno threw himself on the ground in front of the horse. “Oh, sir!” he cried. “Exalted sir! Forgive us for carrying a message that might offend.”

  With each word, Tatsuno hobbled forward on his knees, drawing closer to the horse and rider. The horse, frightened by his cries, took a tentative step backward, but the samurai urged him forward until he was virtually on top of Tatsuno.

  Then, quick as a snake’s head striking, Tatsuno reached up and caught hold of the bridle around the horse’s head. He pulled downward with all his might. The horse whinnied in fright and pain.

  With a roar of anger, the samurai drew his sword. Once that happened, he was honor bound to use it, and Seikei reached for his own sword. Though it was only made of wood, he might help in some way.

  Before he could do anything, however, the samurai took a mighty swing at Tatsuno’s head—which suddenly disappeared. Seikei thought it must have been cut off, but then realized he had only ducked underneath the horse.

  The samurai drew his short sword now, so that he had one in each hand. But he was having trouble keeping his balance. Tatsuno still had a grip on the horse’s bridle and now was pulling the animal’s head down and to one side. Though the horse struggled mightily to get away, Tatsuno was strong enough to hold him.

  As Tatsuno emerged from beneath the horse, he dodged the animal’s kicking legs. Then, surprisingly, Tatsuno stepped to one side and kicked the horse’s left front leg.

  The road was snowy and even though the horse wore straw shoes, the ground was slippery. When Tatsuno struck its leg, the horse lost its footing, and all three of them—the horse, the samurai, and Tatsuno—tumbled sideways to the ground with a great thud.

  Still quick as lightning, Tatsuno was first to regain his footing. That was fortunate, for the samurai had kept his grip on his swords even though one of his legs was pinned underneath the horse. He swung out, first with one blade and then the other. Nimbly as an acrobat, Tatsuno ducked under the first blow, then jumped high in the air to escape the second. Nevertheless, the samurai’s short sword sliced through Tatsuno’s kimono, missing his legs only because Tatsuno spread them apart while still in the air.

  When Tatsuno came down, he managed to land
with one foot on the samurai’s left arm, immobilizing it. The samurai gave one last desperate lunge with his other sword before Tatsuno stamped on that arm too. Wobbling on the writhing samurai, he called to Seikei: “Give me your sword.”

  Seikei tossed it to him without thinking, for a samurai should never give up his sword. Tatsuno used it nobly, however: Catching it on the fly, he brought the flat of it down hard on the samurai’s head.

  Tatsuno stepped off the samurai’s arms and moved aside so the horse could get up. Seikei rushed to look at the samurai’s still form. “Did you kill him?” he asked. That would be a shame, for Seikei himself had never used the sword to kill anyone.

  “No,” said Tatsuno, “but I’ll soon take care of that.” He pulled the long steel sword from the samurai’s hand and raised it high, preparing to strike off the man’s head.

  “Wait!” shouted Seikei. “You can’t do that! He’s defenseless.”

  “Of course,” replied Tatsuno. “That’s why this is the time to do it. I would have killed him earlier, but as you may have noticed, he was trying to kill me.”

  “But what good will it do to kill him?” Seikei asked. “He’s one of Lord Inaba’s samurai. We don’t want to offend the daimyo. We’ve got to take him this message.”

  “I recall suggesting some time ago that we stay as far away from Lord Inaba as possible,” Tatsuno responded. “You’re the one who wants to visit him.”

  “The judge would want us to go on to Kanazawa,” said Seikei, “to see if we can find who might have been enemies of the old Lord Inaba.”

  “I should think we’ve already found enough of them,” grumbled Tatsuno.

  “I have an idea,” said Seikei. “We’ll take the samurai’s horse. That way we’ll get to Kanazawa faster.”

  “I’ll take his kosode too,” said Tatsuno. “Only fair, since he ruined mine.”

  Tatsuno liked the way the kosode fit so well that he also appropriated the samurai’s two swords, tucking them under his obi. Seikei disapproved, but he had to admit Tatsuno had won them fairly in combat.