The Blonde Samurai

by Jina Bacarr

  “You wouldn’t dare…”

  He didn’t answer me, but instead grabbed me again around the neck, his fingers tightening around my throat, then he laughed, a cruel, echoing laugh. Before I could resist, he swept me up into his strong arms, his footing steady, firm. I pummeled his chest with my fists, fearful and scared but not giving in to him.

  “Put me down, James. Now.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You can’t fulfill your lust if I’m dead.”

  He hesitated, then to my relief he set me down, but he continued to hold me tightly around the waist, crushing my face, my breasts against his hard chest. I could smell the sea spray wetting the fine wool of his lapels and hear the beating of his heart. I couldn’t stop a perverse rush of fear taking hold of me when I heard him say, “Our bargain holds, but I promise you this, my dear wife, before this journey concludes, I will bed you.”

  On the carriage ride back to San Francisco, James prattled on about the upcoming sea voyage and how he resolved to ease the boredom by gambling and drinking with his fellow passengers, no doubt losing a goodly sum since he was a poor cardplayer. This time I made no wry comment about his remissness with my father’s money and remained silent, my Irish wit abandoning me as fear gripped me as surely as if I faced the devil himself, so absorbed was I in assimilating his threat into my psyche. I had never been so frightened as when he threatened to throw me over the cliff and onto the rocks below.

  Get ahold of yourself, Katie, me girl, I need you, I could hear Da saying to me as surely as if he rode next to me in the grand carriage, giving me renewed confidence in myself. I vowed I would protect my family’s interests in a strange Oriental culture, but I would never let my guard down around James again. Never. My life depended on it.

  I had no premonition then this was the first of many tests I would face to empower my spirit with the strength I needed to become samurai. I wish I could have seen into the future, seen how this shaken young girl would defy the gods to forge her own path, but I couldn’t. I remained convinced I would never feel the strength of a man’s arms around me except to frighten me, control me.

  With a heavy heart, I boarded the Pacific Mail steamer with my husband at my side. We sailed for Japan at midnight aboard the SS Colorado, a single-smokestack steamship with the American flag at the stern. We left port shrouded in a deep fog on choppy seas that mirrored the state of my soul. Salty, bitter. But the sea was also good and strong, I discovered, as gentle as a whisper when the wind was down or rising up during a storm to take your breath away. Like Shintaro. I had but to open my eyes to uncover this truth.

  When will I glimpse this samurai, this warrior who creates such a stirring in you? you ask, making you take leave of your senses and crave a man as madly as you do.

  Soon, I promise you, though I imagine you’ve already formed a picture of me in your mind succumbing to my samurai, this barbarian as you think of him, a picture taken from the morose description of a classic painting of a maiden about to be devoured by a monstrous creature, her slender form bent over and cowering in front of this giant of a man, her manacled hands and wrists straining at the long chain he holds in his hand, while her golden-blond hair flies wildly over her white shoulders and across her beautiful, horror-stricken face.

  Such a tableau makes me smile. Nights when my samurai made love to me, the soft fragrance of orange blossoms comes to mind, tempered with the rushing stream of a tiny brook and grass so green that when I lay upon it, my nude body shimmered with an emerald glow as he took me in his arms in his noble boudoir en plein air. Tracing the line of my neck with his tongue, he moved downward to my belly then lower to the patch of springy blond hair between my legs, pausing to marvel at its ripe color before thrusting his tongue into me, tasting the sweetness of my excitement, lapping up my juices and pressing the tip of his tongue into such places I never knew existed, then sucking on the hard ridge of my clitoris, making me burn so I didn’t protest when he pushed his hands under my buttocks and lifted my hips to his mouth. I hung between the walls of time itself, praying he wouldn’t stop, concentrating on every movement of his tongue so as not to miss out on his loving strokes until I could stand it no more and I cried out when he made me burst apart inside like the rising of the winds, his secret art making me shiver with pleasure…

  I don’t believe you, you insist. No man would show a proclivity to pleasure a woman in such a manner unless she was the type to haunt street corners, bareheaded, raising her skirts of cheap blue silk to tempt him with a display of her dirty white muslin petticoats underneath. Surely everything you’ve written is a curious though provocative web of dreams and whimsies that you’ve woven to entertain us. Or do you seek revenge for how we treated you at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree in London?

  Your petty thoughts amuse me, dear lady reader. I seek but to tell my story, nothing more. If you could see me as I write this, you’d see the truth etched upon my face. Be patient with me. The sea voyage will pass quickly, I promise you. No long speeches from me about the uncomfortable wooden benches in the dining saloon or the lack of running water in my cabin, or the incessant rain flooding the decks or the unexpected sunny winter weather that lasted but a day. A boring, monotonous trip without seeing another ship, some days so cold I couldn’t sit on deck, others so blustery and windy I kept to my room altogether.

  I will also promise you this, dear lady reader. If you’re of a prudish nature and find my discussion regarding my samurai off-putting, I give you fair warning: he is a man who wields two swords and always keeps his weapons at hand, a man whose desire to see me nude is so overpowering he will slice through the silk of my finest kimono so it falls to my ankles as I stand before him, my nipples hard and pointy, my skin glistening with sweat, my breathing fast. If you are yet undecided, I will wait until you feel comfortable with reading my story before I continue. I suggest you go shopping, buy a new corset or have your dressmaker add a fashionable new bustle to last year’s gown. Then relax with a cup of mint tea and mull over what I’ve said. When you’re ready to accept the idea of my coupling with such a man, this samurai, pick up my book and turn the page and you will be in Japan.

  Until then I shall sit upon my heels and indulge in pleasuring myself with a most interesting item I brought back with me from Tokio, a charming leather dildo attached to my ankle by red silk ribbons. As I rock back and forth, it moves in and out of me…

  6

  Gulf of Yedo, Japan

  A breeze sprang up when we steamed into the Gulf of Yedo, parting the gray mist with a subtle hint of blue showing itself for the briefest of seconds then vanishing, like the kimono sleeve of a geisha girl disappearing behind a sliding door. Disappointment came over me since I had left my breakfast untouched in the dining saloon and raced out on deck to catch my first glimpse of Japan after more than three weeks at sea. But it was as if the steamer sailed through a milky gauze, an open portal if you will, to a land stilled by time, a land washed in grays and charcoals to keep it so, as if the divine Painter Himself decreed it.

  I, who love vibrant color, felt drained and listless when I scanned the rugged coast for the beauty of this land, the miles of inland forests, hidden green valleys and mountains capped by eternal snows. I could see nothing but hundreds, no, thousands of fishing boats and smaller craft called sampans with white square sails rushing out to meet us as we slowly headed toward the harbor. The gulf narrowed as we took an inshore passage to find a favorable current, passing a chain of tiny islands misted with fog, hiding from view what I would later learn was a sandy beach and low hills populated with sparse trees. I caught a glimpse of a lighthouse when we rounded the cape, its familiar summit hidden in the clouds, but little else to delight my eye, so I returned to the dining saloon to finish my breakfast. I would later discover I was wrong about the endless grayness that dulled my first impression. As with the last cherry blossom on the branch to open, I would see the beauty of this land unfurl the more intimate I became with these my
sterious islands, its resplendence alive and unchanged for centuries, full of promise, danger and—

  Passion.

  I would know all three, as will you, dear lady reader. Unloosen your lacings. The journey you have breathlessly waited for is about to begin, a journey where you can let yourself go, the fragrance of tea and orange blossoms bewitching you, allowing you to slip beyond what at first frightened you, then intrigued you. Tempted you. Do as I did and let it take on the quality of a dream and never look back.

  As soon as the ship dropped anchor outside the harbor and the harbormaster came on board, a blend of humanity ranging from the copper-skinned native in scant attire to the pigtailed coolie to the white-suited Englishman alighted from the motley assortment of boats surrounding the steamer and swarmed on deck.

  I rushed to my cabin to grab my reticule and black cloth traveling bag (my luggage was, I presumed, aboard a steam launch). Before the passengers were allowed to disembark, there was the matter of examination by the quarantine officer. A British physician had come aboard ship to check the passengers for symptoms of disease and ordered the female passengers into the dining saloon.

  Seated upon a cold wooden bench, I wasn’t the only woman wondering what sort of examination we’d be forced to undergo. Chattering Chinese matrons from steerage and their offspring received the most scrutiny, while the quiet missionary woman I’d spoken to during the voyage disappeared back to her stateroom in a flurry of gray linen, since she was headed for Hong Kong. I would miss her presence and the smell of fresh lavender rising from her plain cotton handkerchief when she wiped the sea spray off her nose or waved it at the steward to gain his attention. I couldn’t imagine when I’d see another Englishwoman again.

  I, alone, remained. I expected no special treatment. This wasn’t England and the deference I received strolling along Regent Street in London was of no import here. I sensed a hurriedness about the physician and the desire to move on to the next task in an orderly manner. His wandering eyes did little to ease the tension racing through me when he asked me several questions, including if I was with child.

  Dropping my eyes, I faltered, hesitant to answer him. What if he wished to examine me?

  I’d refuse. ’Tis worry enough I had about keeping my husband to his own bed without allowing any doubt about the consummation of my marriage by a stranger. Yet I was aware that by keeping separate quarters from my husband, I had doomed myself to a life left unfulfilled. The reality of what they meant raked across my heart, grabbing me, my faith shaken, my mood saddened. Would I ever know the joy, the soft smells, the magic of motherhood? A dull ache settled in my empty womb, disheartened as I was by the thought of a life of barrenness.

  Taking my quiet manner for shyness, the physician assured me he made the same inquiry of all married women then told me that once I’d answered him, I was free to go ashore. I tried to smile, then I whispered a quiet no, at the same time wondering what he would say if he knew I remained a virgin bride?

  Which brought to mind his lordship, the perpetrator of the current state of my melancholy mood. Cooing and acting the perfect spouse aboard ship, my pandering husband had disappeared down the plank and into the first hotel steam launch to arrive on mooring. Rushing to meet his business partner, he assured me before leaving me to fend for myself. I didn’t have to be a clear-sighted muse to know he wished to be rid of me.

  We shall see about that, I vowed, grabbing my travel bag and racing out of the dining saloon to join the other first-class passengers aboard a steam launch to take us ashore. With the crested waves hitting the sides of the launch and foamy spray wetting my nose, my cheeks, I looked out over the gray-misted ocean toward the harbor as we approached what was known as the hatoba, or pier. A most extraordinary sight piqued my curiosity when my breath caught on a wisp of late morning fog. Fuji-yama. The highest mountain in Japan towered over the islands with a presence that was indeed godly. A gentleman behind me clapped his hands in glee, explaining this was his third trip to Japan and the first time the icy-capped mountain had shown itself when the ship approached land. He was quick to add that a few years ago he was with the party to reach the summit with the first woman to climb the mountain in tow. An Englishwoman, he said. Hearing that an Occidental woman had conquered an ancient taboo in this land of tradition and obligations gave me courage and helped me believe that I, too, could defy tradition and succeed.

  When we reached the pier and I walked down the wooden landing steps built of heavy planks, I saw a soft pink tint hanging over the scene, heard the babble of many languages playing upon my ears and breathed in the strong, salty smells of the sea mixed with the sweat of labor. It was a cyclorama come to life. Without warning, the loud blast of a signal gun fired. The noon signal, the man walking next to me said. A tall, handsome young man I recognized as the ship’s clerk. Mr. Edward Mallory. I remembered his kindness and efficiency aboard ship. He had made certain my communications to my father weren’t lost among the flurry of “BV” (bon voyage) messages, as they were called, flooding the ship’s mail room. I nodded, acknowledging him with a smile, though it was bold of me to do so. He smiled back and I admit I flirted with him, believing I’d never see him again. I squinted, trying to get a clearer look at the westerners, native jinriki-men and Chinese coolies racing up and down the quay. The large crates bulging with slimy, scaly fish. Cargo freight discharged onto the landing pier by means of long planks. Angry shouts. Running bare feet. Pounding boots. It was maddening, exciting, the atmosphere overwhelming and heavy with exotic sights and sounds, as if I viewed a postal card of Yokohama harbor come to life before my eyes with all its frenetic energy and bustling disorder.

  A cold shudder claimed me, the stark realization I had left behind a world I could recognize and entered a world I would find strange, indifferent, even hostile toward me. I couldn’t put it into words, but I believe I had thoughts then of writing a memoir, though the soul of my story had not yet presented itself to me and wouldn’t do so until I had my feet firmly planted on this rich earth blessed by the gods. At that moment the only literary thought running through my mind was I found it a pity my life wasn’t a novel where the character of Lord Carlton was revealed to me in fragments and enticing pieces instead of knowing him to be the worthless cad that he was. Unfortunately for me this was reinforced by what happened next in this drama.

  When the harbormaster informed me my luggage was nowhere to be found, I fought hard to retain my regal carriage under the patterned shade of my ivory-braided umbrella, my demeanor calm and fluid as if I swam through cool currents. Inside, I fumed. James. He wished to send me back to England, so why not have my trunks mysteriously disappear? His lordship knew I needed my wardrobe to define my social position. A lady without the proper clothes would not only be at a disadvantage among the circle of foreigners residing here (mostly British), but must spend her days in an opaque existence. I couldn’t go anywhere, receive anyone. I’d be confined to an inner world and left to my own imaginings, much like an unhappy turtle residing in her cold, empty shell.

  Damn his lordship and his games. What was I going to do?

  The harbormaster ushered me inside the customhouse on the landing pier, a place where I was to experience more delays and frustration when he excused himself, and the local native official in a blue uniform and black leather boots took his place. Bowing repeatedly, he kept asking me in broken English, Where is your luggage?

  I had no intention of explaining to him that most likely my silk petticoats had been doomed to an afterlife among the fishes. Like you, dear lady reader, I wasn’t used to being questioned by strange men, but I didn’t need a male protector by my side to tell me what to do about the situation.

  I left the official babbling and waving his arms about and walked outside along the long stretch of seafront, looking for my husband so I could inform him that his plan to rid himself of my presence didn’t work.

  Katie O’Roarke didn’t run away from a fight, and it was about time he
accepted that.

  Muttering under my breath about the foolishness of leaving my field glasses in my luggage, I shaded my eyes with my hand, looking for James. All I saw was a boatman from a sampan sculling in and out with crooked, wobbling oars and bumping into other craft with indifference. Ignoring the waves crashing against the seawall and splattering foamy brine upon the hem of my forest-green and gray traveling outfit, surprise took hold of me when I saw my husband approaching, his attention occupied by a close conversation with another man. Lord Penmore, I presumed, but it was James I watched. His gestures were wild and excited, those of a rogue, devilish and calculating. His body sloped to one side, his tall frame imposing just the same with those broad shoulders and slim hips, like a stone god come to life, a master who, by the sheer power of his presence, would impose his will to suit his own purposes as only a man with his vain confidence could. Even from this distance, I could see his eyes alone contained the fever of a man obsessed.

  He saw me. Waited for me to do something. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop my body speaking to him in a language of emotion. My pace became rapid, my eyes riveted to him. Tugging on my tight-fitting velvet jacket, I told myself he no longer held a deep fascination for me. I forced myself to look away from his stare, though since that night in San Francisco I feared him more than I could have foreseen when I agreed to embark upon this adventure.

  For I knew now that madness drove him.

  “Looking for me, my dear wife?” I could hear James saying behind my back before I felt the brush of his gloved hand against my neck. I shivered, though not from the coolness invading the jetty in Yokohama harbor. I didn’t understand why our lives were entangled in such an uncanny way, but I was certain it would lead to my death if I didn’t play his unholy game. We had never spoken of his violent actions toward me, but the threat was always there. I have to admit the pressure was taking its toll on my psyche, fraying my nerves. I was tempted to ask him to arrange return passage for me to London, but I couldn’t forget the worried look on my father’s face, his plea for me to help him. I saw a man far older than his years, gnarled hands and sloping shoulders from working the tracks. I couldn’t let him down. Or my mother, who pined for the acceptance she never knew as a girl. And Elva and the baby. I couldn’t let my sweet sister suffer in a society that condemned her because she fell in love. I laid my hand upon my belly. The emptiness in my own womb ached for want of filling it with life, but I must push aside my selfishness and go forward.