by Jina Bacarr
“They never expected to find you and Akira intruding on their devious plans,” Shintaro said. A smile lit his face, his eyes bright with admiration. “You have done well, my blonde samurai.”
“The young warrior died saving me.” I couldn’t help the choke in my voice, my breathing heavy.
“There will be time to honor him, I promise you.” He put his hand over mine, crushing my fingers with his strength, his passion, the blood rushing hot through him. He was ready for battle.
They came at midnight, a single torch burning in the sanctuary while an overhanging gilt lamp swayed in a macabre dance, the crickets silent. The raiders attacked as quietly as a night demon slipping on a black glove…flesh and bone stretching the leather until it was taut…each finger extending, flexing…then clawing at their target with deadly precision, coming at us from all sides, moving noiselessly along the matted floor.
Shintaro drew his swords and yelled out, the signal to charge them, weapons slashing through the air like blades of lightning, the sound of steel slicing through leather then flesh. Sweating but determined, I drew my sword quickly and held it overhead in a two-handed grip, its bluish-white glow making a long, jagged streak in the dark when I brought it downward and landed it cleanly on the skull of a moving black figure caught in the yellow glint from the torch. My eyes widened, aware of a horror I had never known. I jumped aside as the dead assassin fell forward, then I turned to see a ninja with sword in hand charge me, his blade aimed at my heart. I refused to panic and drew my short sword, countering his attack by dropping to my knees and knocking him off balance then thrusting my short sword into his thigh and jamming my long sword under his armpit. Somehow, I kept my mind focused on nothing but the moment. It was maddening, I couldn’t breathe, choking on the fear of what I had become: a warrior destined to kill, the whispering of the sword in my ear compelling me to keep going, tearing through flesh, punishing the evil that threatened to rip apart my life. Anger enveloped me, though terrifying at first, my hand was steady upon my sword in the intense airless heat as I killed with such fanatical skill it was as if I sprang forward like a mythical female warrior, the speed of my blade no match for my assailants.
I was taking revenge for Akira’s death.
I wanted blood and death to be my allies in my quest for justice and so I indulged in a bloodlust I pray ne’er to see again. Like you, dear lady reader, I’ve experienced treachery, betrayals and crimes against my heart, but that night a vengeful spirit possessed me, sending all my passion into my sword. My soul. I had to protect myself, my samurai…and my child.
Samurai here and outside were engaged in a chaotic battle with these masters of infiltration and killing who plied their trade of ninjutsu without remorse. Shintaro wielded his two swords with an assurance that came from his knowledge of self. To know is to act, he often told me, his birthright of samurai pulling his nerves taut and rigid like cold steel. His face dripping with sweat, his eyes blazing and emboldened with the fury of a wild beast, he neither panicked nor showed mercy toward the assassins, pivoting, bending, leaping, defeating several attackers without them drawing blood until I saw—
Three assassins pounced upon him. I lurched forward to help him, but I couldn’t stop them from devouring him in a swirl of black and evil.
The coming of a cleansing dawn awakened the crickets and ushered out the humid darkness. I heard the whisper of the sword no more. I laid down my weapons and sank to the floor, exhausted, weary and, but for cuts and bruises, victorious. I looked around me. The matted floor ran crimson with the blood of the assassins, corpses everywhere. Samurai, some wounded, removed the bodies. I was reminded of what Shintaro had told me, how the ninja practice a way to increase their mental focus by reciting a thousand-year-old prayer and making cutting gestures in the air with their fingers to increase their perception and see into the future. On that hot summer night, I wondered if they had seen their own death. Then a more fearsome thought pierced my mind.
Where was Shintaro?
Minutes—or was it hours ago—he fought beside me, engaged in a death fury that called for supreme courage to achieve victory. I let out a loud sob. What did I care about victory without him? Raising my fists, I raged against the heavens with such agony I feared I’d be cursed for thousands of years to come. My heart pumping, my eyes blurred over with dirt and blood, I crawled from end to end, clawing at the straw matting until my fingers bled, looking for him, afraid of what I’d find when I did. Tears welling in my eyes, I buried my face in my arms, choking on the scent of the straw mixing with the stench of blood seeping through the fibers, a futile emptiness overwhelming me. No…no…it couldn’t be. Shintaro had filled me with such happiness, given me a child, shown me the way of the warrior. I couldn’t lose both my samurai. The gods were not that unjust, were they? I couldn’t move…I wanted to retreat into a deep, dark cell and grieve.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder, the heat of his touch searing my skin. Hand on my sword, I tensed, then I looked up and saw my samurai kneeling down next to me, his eyes caressing me with something I had never seen there before.
Love.
“I have found you,” was all he said, pulling me into his arms, holding me, his warm body sending a pleasant heat through me. Nothing more needed to be said, not then, not ever.
I was his.
19
After the night raid on the sanctuary I was back in Tokio in a simple but elegant one-story dwelling in a busy section of the capital city surrounded by a high bamboo fence. The streets outside the parklike enclosure teemed day and night with a long line of humanity going about their business, never knowing that this house with its polished raised wooden-floor foyer and sand-and-stone inner-courtyard garden lay vacant for months waiting for its owner to return. Shintaro. The servants had taken great care of the house since his departure (it was mandatory, dear lady reader, for a noble samurai to maintain a residence in Tokio), making certain everything was in its place as each sun rose and set, their obedience and loyalty to their lord without question. I was delighted to find the living quarters filled with lacquerware, ceramics, hanging scrolls, fans, all decorated by the hand of master craftsmen. I have no doubt native motifs like these will adorn carpets and wallpaper in Mayfair town houses, perhaps even milady’s drawers. As it was, I was grateful to leave behind a diet of gruel consisting of tea and rice for fluffy white grains and the delicious meals prepared for us. Milk and butter and beef are now included in the native diet, though I wonder if this will be more to their detriment than not. I almost felt as if I were back in London with the hustle of the city at my door and the streets crowded with foreign carriages and soldiers and police in western-style uniforms. I had forgotten about the fetid odors, fleas and other nuisances, but I paid them no mind. This was the day Shintaro would relinquish his sword to the mikado, its blade slightly curved with a sharpened cutting edge, its hilt covered in white enamel and gold and trimmed in red silk cord. Enough blood has been shed, he said. It was time for the clan to follow the mandate of the emperor. I believe Akira’s death was pivotal in his decision to make this gesture of peace.
Exotic yet peaceful notes on a bamboo flute, then the soft shuffle of sandaled feet bearing home the young samurai as the doors to the sanctuary burst open, the anguished groans from Shintaro at seeing him, the bright morning sun escaping through the doors as they shut and enclosed us in darkness.
This great warrior, so sensual and so devoted to his lord, sustaining life and welcoming death to save me, inhabiting a place of manly beauty where few women dared tread, a place that represented the substance of what it meant to be a samurai, brave and unflinching in the tides of battle. And when he raised his sword for the last time, he knew his deed belonged to the past, but it would protect the future. These thoughts rose in my mind as smoky-gray incense floated over the fresh lilies, orchids and chrysanthemums placed on the bare altar as ceremonial offerings to his spirit. We wore white kimono with white sashes and straw sandals o
n our feet, Shintaro acting as the priest since none laid claim to the abandoned sanctuary. He pointed the body north as tradition dictated, surrounding it with fruits, vegetables and tea, then clapping his hands to call upon the gods before reciting the Buddhist sutras that have guided souls to heaven for a thousand years.
Afterward we made the trek to the holy spot where the young samurai’s body was turned to ash, the wind rising as I grieved, unable to let go, summoning him in my mind, letting the tears fall, wanting Akira to be, if only in spirit form. Holding me close to him, so close I could hear the rapid beating of his heart, Shintaro bade me dry my tears, though I could see his eyes were also moist, his soul as forlorn as mine. With a whisper in my ear that the time had come to let go, I looked upward to the heavens as my samurai freed a white dove from a small wooden cage. The bird circled overhead, widening its circle more each time until it soared upward into a straight line and became lost to our sight, its spirit free.
Returning to the sanctuary, I pressed the flowers between thin sheets of white silk in Akira’s memory, knowing he would always be the handsome young samurai who said I pierced his heart. What he didn’t know was that he had also pierced mine.
I let my body go limp when Shintaro picked me up in his strong arms then carried me down a stone pathway that led deeper into the woods, purple wisteria growing everywhere around us. A wonder of enchantment came over me, so different from my melancholy mood earlier. The air hot, moist, luminous, a breeze skipping through my white kimono tickled my pussy as he carried me under a bower of birch and maple branches curving overhead until we came to the lofty pines. And a waterfall. Tumbling down smooth rocky ledges half covered with shimmering wet moss, pine trees splintered with age leaned over the foaming stream at odd angles. There next to the waterfall, he put me down and untied my sash, then slid my kimono down over my shoulders, baring my breasts then my belly, slightly rounded from birthing my child, until I was nude. He grunted his approval, then drew in his breath as the spray from the cascading water dampened my body, making it glisten, my arms outstretched toward him. He shed his kimono and took my hand and together we bathed nude under the crashing waterfall, our wet bodies entwined, my nipples puckering into hard points when Shintaro splashed cold water on me, laughing, tempting me to do the same and shower him, his cock. Grabbing me, his hard erection nudging against my groin, we found a small opening behind the waterfall where we stood on a granite ledge, embracing each other, his mouth against mine, kissing me with tenderness to comfort me, for I was on an odyssey that I didn’t understand to assuage my sorrow, and needed his guidance, my hands grabbing and squeezing him with joy and discovery. The hard muscles on his back tensed under my touch, my breasts crushed against his bare chest, all melancholy rushing out of me as I gave out a low moan of pleasure. The man I cared about was here with me, the man we’d both lost was looking down upon us with an approving eye. Knowing this brought something beautiful and reverent to this sensual scene being played out under the waterfall, when my samurai spread my legs and massaged the sensitive piece of skin near my anal hole to make my juices flow. A rawness caught in my throat, making me gasp when he slipped two fingers inside me, his other hand around my waist as he rubbed my clit back and forth in an exacting manner that made it burn until I begged him for release. Soon, he whispered, then grabbed my hand and pressed it against his cock, wanting me to feel its throbbing hardness before turning me around and sliding his finger, sticky with my natural sweetness, into the crack between my buttocks. He plunged his finger into my anal hole to lubricate it, making me cry out in surprise at the intrusion, then as the cordon of muscles began to relax, I felt him go deeper, sending a quiver of anticipation through me. Knowing I was ready, he slid his cock into my anus, slowly inching his way inside me until I took all of him. Pumping into me, water crashing around us, he found a hard, pulsating rhythm, knowing I wanted him to take me as he had taken Akira, the sensation so strong within me I swore I heard not one, two, but three voices echoing in the hollow chamber as we yelled out, calling on the gods to allow this young warrior safe passage through the vermilion gateway. Wet, wet with passion, we cleansed our souls and renewed our spirits in this carnal act of love, his cock thrusting into me over and over until we gave out a final shout of ecstasy to honor the fallen samurai.
James was determined to ruin me before he sailed for San Francisco and went on to London. He left my packed traveling bags and portmanteau behind with Mr. Fawkes, telling him to sell them and send him the funds since I had run off with my samurai lover. Dear Mr. Fawkes wisely chose to ignore his lordship, though he confided to me if he’d been a younger man he would have knocked some sense into him. That made me smile, but James’s behavior did not. He went on a tirade with every British official he could find about what had happened in Kobé. I imagined him spending endless hours with a brandy in one hand and a scurrilous remark on his lips lamenting how his American wife had been bedded by a samurai and was living in sin. I’m told he boasted that he would never give me a divorce so as to keep me a dishonest woman. I must ask a favor of you, dear lady reader, if you should encounter my imperious husband at a soiree or tea (not at the Viscount Aubrey’s, who swears Lord Carlton is not welcome under his roof ), know this: when I left him that night to warn Shintaro, I was determined to return with him to London and do my duty. We Irish are a rebellious lot, but we’re honest people and ready to defend our land and our honor. I owed Shintaro that and I have no regrets. Now it was my duty to be with him again when he appeared before the emperor. We had not spoken of afterward, though a strange light came into his eyes when I mentioned it, but it was my intention to return to London to ask James for a divorce. Force his hand to release me from our agreement once I made known to my father his cheating scheme. I awaited an answer from my da to a letter I posted upon my return to Tokio. I explained everything to him (leaving out things better left unsaid to one’s da) and told him about the birth of his granddaughter. ’Tis my hope this Irishman’s love of family and truth will win out in the end and he and my mother can accept what I hope will be my future.
With Shintaro. And little Reiko.
I was in a grand mood that morning, humming as I layered petticoat after petticoat over my corset (laced up by the lord himself, my samurai’s strong hands squeezing my waist as he pulled on the soft white ribbons). I had nursed Reiko earlier and Nami was giving her a bath. I wanted her to be clean and sparkling in her lace-trimmed, white sleeveless chemise embroidered with fancy designs (to protect her from evil spirits), the delicate lacy pattern fringing the hem sewn by native girls from the school founded by the empress. It was a special day for my little daughter. She was going to meet the empress. ’Tis a reminiscent and tender scene that I recall, for what woman could ask for more? I had my child and my samurai. I was so enraptured with this scenario as perfect as a midsummer dream, I didn’t think to realize that the look of longing on Shintaro’s face when he picked up his child in his arms told an entirely different story. One that would not have the fairy-tale ending I believed was mine.
Whatever account you may hear about my meeting with the empress, I have chosen, by the fact that I enjoyed a kind and gentle relationship with Her Majesty, to relay our conversation in a more direct manner rather than the subtleties of facial expressions and pauses so often associated with such a discourse. The outcome of events to come hinged upon this meeting, though at the time I merely followed my instincts and impulses as a new mother, aware that the empress was childless, but hoping I could share my joy with her and enlighten her life with mine.
And so I share with you the morning Empress Haruko requested the august presence, as the formal native language dictates it shall be written, of my daughter, Reiko.
Accounts of the empress’s personality vary, with some globe-trotters reminding us that royal persons have their foibles. Though you may consider it scandalous, I shall never forget the empress’s habit of smoking a golden pipe—three puffs, no more, no less—and be
ing perfectly at ease while greeting members of foreign legations. On this day in the gardens of the temporary imperial residence, the empress greeted me with her usual charm and delight, for I held in my arms little Reiko, her golden-brown hair curling over her head, her dark eyes looking everywhere before opening her mouth for a tiny yawn then it was back to sleep. I smiled and thought about how someday I would remind her that she napped when the empress took her in her arms and hugged her to her bosom. It was a grand afternoon we had, standing under a pavilion tent erected on the lawn for our visit, the billowing silk with pink and violet irises scattered on the pitched roof providing a cool refuge on this hot, sultry day. I felt so sure of myself, dressed in a sleek version of a favorite summer dress made from deep rose silk and white voile sans its overskirt and cumbersome bustle, so perfectly at ease was I with my role as the consort of Lord Shintaro. It mattered not to me that I was not welcome in British circles in the capital city, whose members had a complete inventory of my sins. I cared more for the fact it was an honor for the daughter of a samurai to meet the empress, since the usual age of presentation to court was sixteen.
