She knew that she had indeed come to love her husband. He was a good man, a wise leader, and a brave warrior. But her feelings for her husband were different than when she was with. . . . She could not explain the differences, but there were many different types of love. She wanted to please her husband, and she enjoyed his company. But she still thought of the hard, rippling body she had seen practicing in the early dawn light and the handsome features, and those eyes filled with a bewildering mixture of kindness and ferocity.
She imagined herself walking through the garden again in some far-future day when she could be happy. A day when she could sit in the cherry orchard on a warm spring day having a picnic, surrounded by her many children, handsome sons and beautiful daughters, all laughing and frolicking under the breathtaking canopy of cherry blossoms. She hears the sound of a flute playing nearby, somewhere behind her, so close she can almost touch it. A sound she has heard so many times in her dreams, with its lovely, lilting tones, breathy and subtle. She can feel the presence of her husband so close behind her, sensed but unseen. All she has to do to touch him, to feel his warmth, is to reach behind her. But she does not. Some part of her remembers that Tsunetomo does not play the flute, but she pushes that thought away as she always does, trying to immerse herself in the sound, the warmth, the beauty, the happiness of this moment, to stay here forever, frozen in time. Somehow, she knows that if she touches him, this timeless instant will end. Some part of her knows why, but she clings to the moment, and she feels warmth and joy and happiness and boundless contentment. So wonderful, this respite from . . . something. She cannot not remember, so she lets herself forget, lets herself float on the sounds of the flute and children. But the desire to touch the man behind her, the man she loves, is strong, made more acute by the knowledge that she cannot. Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe she can reach back and lay her cold, porcelain hand upon his warm flesh and he will remain, and this moment of happiness would not shatter like a falling teacup. A sharp end to the happiness, like the sudden slash of a naginata and a gout of black blood. She tries to ignore her desire, to prolong the feeling, but the desire grows, and along with it, the longing that maybe this time will be different. The desire grows until the concentration, the will required to resist, is too strong, threatening to destroy the happiness all by itself. Finally, she succumbs and reaches back to lay her hand upon her husband’s leg. She turns to look at him, smiling, and he turns to look at her, lowering his flute. She stares into his eyes, and just like all the other times, the knowledge that it is all wrong, all but a dream, out of reach, destroys the dream like a hammer hitting a pottery jar.
She awoke back on her husband’s balcony, her eyes puffy from weeping in her sleep, her spirit smothered in the same familiar ache.
A sudden, sharp cry snatched her mercifully from her timeless despair and into the moment. Someone was crying, howling in pain. She rubbed her eyes and shook herself. Had she been sleeping? Kazuko stood and ran toward the sound of the crying. There were other voices raised, loud, as if in protest. She followed the noise to Hatsumi’s chambers.
A servant girl lay on the floor there, the fragile young girl called Moé. She was sprawled on her belly, with her back arched in agony, tears streaming down her cheeks, with long, bloody slashes torn in the back of her robe. Hatsumi stood over her, flailing at her with a long, thin bamboo cane. Several other servants surrounded them, looking as if they wanted to stop the beating, but terrified of intervening.
“Whore!” Hatsumi shrilled. “Whore! Whore! Whore!” The strokes of her cane fell in unison with her words. At each blow, Moé convulsed in anguish, growing weaker with each strike.
“Hatsumi!” Kazuko cried.
No response. The cane rose and fell again.
“Hatsumi!”
No response, save for the hiss of the cane as it sliced through the air.
Kazuko darted across the room and seized Hatsumi by the wrist, halting her in mid-stroke. “Hatsumi! Stop this at once!”
Hatsumi stopped instantly, a lightning quick succession of emotions in her eyes. Rage, surprise, recognition, remorse, despair, fresh anger.
“Kazuko! I. . . .”
“What is the meaning of this?” Kazuko demanded.
Moé curled up into a ball on the tatami floor, sobbing, gasping, choking in pain.
Hatsumi’s mouth worked as if she was trying to speak. Kazuko tried to read her eyes, but the changes in emotion passed too quickly for her to recognize, as if she was in the midst of some terrible inner struggle.
“What is the meaning of this!” Kazuko repeated. Hatsumi was still frozen in a mixture of horror and anger. Kazuko turned to the servants and pointed at Moé. “Take her out of here. Take care of her. All of you.”
The servants hastened to comply, lifting the weeping girl by the arms and carrying her out of the room. Her sobbing receded.
Kazuko grasped the bamboo cane and wrenched it out of Hatsumi’s quivering grip.
“I don’t know what came over me!” Hatsumi cried. The look in her eyes told Kazuko that she was on the verge of weeping. The rage fell away from Hatsumi’s face like a shattered mask, and she sank to her knees, her eyes glistening with tears.
“What were you doing!” Kazuko cried. “That was so cruel! How could you be so cruel! What could she have done to warrant such treatment?”
Hatsumi stammered, “I . . . I. . . .” Then her resolve seemed to harden. “She is a whore!”
“How can you say that?”
Hatsumi’s voice grew harder with each word. “Yesterday I saw her come out of. . . .”
“Where?”
“Yasutoki’s personal chambers.”
“And what of it? She is a servant. And what of Yasutoki? Wait.” The realization struck her then, and a sliver of dread tore into her. “Are you and Yasutoki lovers?” Normally she would have been happy to hear that Hatsumi had found a lover, but not this way, not with Yasutoki. The man was evil, and his interest in Hatsumi could not be genuine. He was a man with motives within mysteries. What kind of game was he playing?
Hatsumi’s eyes flashed with defiance as she nodded. “Last week he professed his undying love for me.”
“Do you love him?” Kazuko asked, dreading the answer.
Hatsumi paused. “I don’t know. It’s so exciting that he says he loves me! And he has a powerful position.” Then her voice grew venomous again. “But that little slut trying to take him away from me. . . .”
“Hatsumi,” Kazuko gently interrupted her, keeping her voice soft and even, “how do you know she was in his bed? She could have been there for any number of reasons.”
“It was the look on her face! And she knew that I knew!”
“But she is so young—”
“And so ripe for the plucking! She seduced him—”
“Hatsumi, she has no such designs on anyone, much less Yasutoki. She is little more than a child.”
“And what about Yasutoki? Is he not desirable? Why would she not want him for herself?”
Kazuko stiffened. The wrath and suspicion in Hatsumi’s voice almost rocked her back on her heels.
“Hatsumi,” Kazuko said, trying to use her voice to soothe Hatsumi’s emotions, “you are distraught. Do not fear, I will take care of you. That’s a bit of a change, isn’t it?” She gave a feeble smile. She wanted to say that even if Moé had been in Yasutoki’s bed, the liaison had been all Yasutoki’s doing. But she could not suggest that without making things worse.
Hatsumi’s posture softened.
Kazuko hugged her shoulders. “Even if Moé deserved to be punished, the deed is done now, yes? There is no need to punish her further. We must not be cruel to the servants or they will hate us. They serve us well, and they are beneath us, thus they deserve our kindness. Yes?”
Hatsumi’s eyes began to tear and she nodded, sniffling.
“Good. Besides, you have certainly filled her with fear. You will not punish her anymore?”
Hatsumi
sniffled again and shook her head.
“Good. Please come with me outside. The fresh air will help calm you.” She helped Hatsumi to her feet and led her out to the balcony. “I will call for some tea. That will make you feel better, too, won’t it?”
“Please don’t go to so much trouble. . . .”
“No trouble at all. Just wait here.” Kazuko sat Hatsumi down on a soft cushion, then went back inside and rang a small gong that she used to call her servants. A middle-aged servant woman named Yuki answered her summons. Yuki was as pale as fresh linen as she knelt and bowed to the floor. Kazuko requested a pot of tea.
Yuki said, “Of course, milady. Anything for you.” She stood up to leave.
“Um, just a moment. How is the girl, Moé?”
Yuki stiffened almost imperceptibly. “She will be fine, milady. In time.”
“Hatsumi feels terrible about what happened. It will not happen again.”
Even in Yuki’s respectfully downcast eyes, Kazuko could see the hard glitter of hatred. “As you say, milady.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Yuki paused, thinking, as if choosing her words with great care. “I do not know, milady.”
“What does Moé say?”
Yuki spoke carefully. “She says that she took Master Yasutoki his fresh laundry, and Mistress Hatsumi saw her coming out of his chambers and grew very angry. Hatsumi summoned Moé here, and started beating her without explanation.”
“So Moé has no idea why Hatsumi beat her?”
Then she grew cautious. “Milady, you are a fair and kind mistress. All the servants love you. May I speak?”
Kazuko felt herself stiffen. These were bold words for a house servant. “You may speak.”
“Hatsumi hates Moé. Sometimes Moé is a bit clumsy and spilled some of Hatsumi’s tea once. Hatsumi threw the scalding water in her face. The poor girl could have been blinded.”
Kazuko’s lacquer of calm cracked. She could not imagine Hatsumi being so cruel. “That cannot be.”
“I am sorry, milady. I tended Moé’s burns myself.”
Kazuko clenched her hands in her lap, trying to restrain her racing emotions. “When did this happen?”
“In the first month after your arrival, milady.”
“Thank you, Yuki. That is all.”
Yuki bowed again and departed, leaving Kazuko alone with fresh dread. What had gotten into Hatsumi? Had she been possessed by a fox or some evil spirit? Was this no longer the real Hatsumi? Had the real woman been replaced by a tengu or other such shapeshifting creature? Any number of possible explanations raced through her mind, none of them pleasant, but her thoughts kept returning to the encounter with Hakamadare. Had the oni’s evil somehow taken root inside her? Had the horror she had experienced shattered her spirit? So many thoughts, all of them unpleasant, but at least they gave her respite from her own private pain. She would have to watch Hatsumi closely.
Eleven
“If a warrior is not unattached to life and death, he will be of no use whatsoever . . . With such non-attachment, one can accomplish any feat.”
—Hagakure
Yasutoki sipped his tea in the dark, listening to the silence of the night. Darkness had fallen hours ago, and most of the castle was now fast asleep. The only people likely to be awake were guards. He darkened his room so that anyone passing by his chambers would think him to be sleeping as well. The cold moon shone down through the slats in the shutter, painting faint bars of silver on the tatami. The moon was high and aloof, little more than a sliver in the cloud-patched sky. This was Yasutoki’s favorite time, the deep dark of a cold night. He sometimes felt that it most closely mirrored his soul. There were no voices, not of night creatures nor of men, to disturb the silence. Only the moaning whisper of the wind. He savored the mournful sound, like the pain of the whole world given voice. One had but to listen. There were men who could not accept the world’s pain and ugliness, men who tried to fight against the misery and the injustice. The men who fought against it were fools, doomed to perpetual failure. All a man could do was to seek to carve a place for himself, to suffer less misery by inflicting it upon others if need be. The shadows of his room were pitch-black, much like the dark corners of his spirit, he imagined. The darkness held mystery, and mystery was power. Men feared the unknown, and controlling the shadows granted power over men. The power of shadow was subtle, sometimes so ephemeral that it could not be predicted, but it was power, power that Yasutoki had been trained to harness from the time he was a child.
His affinity for shadow was a potent weapon, but so was information. And information was something he gathered in great abundance. In spite of Tsunemori’s recalcitrance, there was little that happened in Lord Tsunetomo’s castle to which Yasutoki was not privy. He occasionally amused himself with testing bits of gossip to see how they spread and how the details changed in the telling. The news of what Hatsumi had done to the servant girl, Moé, had spread through the house like wildfire. This was something he had not foreseen. The last thing he wanted now was a confrontation with Hatsumi. Perhaps she was a bit too volatile to use as a pawn, at least until he determined a way to turn her volatility to his advantage. Making love to her had been a chore. She had been stiff and unresponsive, like bedding a dead fish. After months of his careful advances, she had consented to lie with him, and he could tell from her reactions that she was almost hysterical with fear until he was finished. But she had been possessive ever since. He was finding it difficult to take advantage of some of the servant girls he favored without offending her. And then poor, unfortunate Moé, in the wrong place at the wrong time, taking the brunt of Hatsumi’s newborn jealousy, and undeservedly so. No matter. Moé was a just a lowly, cross-eyed servant girl. Perhaps if she became a bit more womanly, he might decide to partake of her charms.
It was time.
He stood and shed his voluminous robes, revealing his tight-fitting, black undergarments. He picked up a small black box made of hammered copper. The handle was warm to the touch, even through his black gloves. He slipped the black mask over his face and moved like a true shadow to the door of his chambers. The hallway outside was pitch dark. He moved with complete surety through the empty blackness, having long ago memorized the exact dimensions of every room and hallway in the castle. As he passed the shoji screens of various chambers, faintly backlit by the glow of coals or moonlight, faint snores whuffled through them. The air held the faint smell of charcoal smoke from the heating braziers. His slippered feet made no sound as they moved across the polished wooden floors. He did not expect to see any guards until he had nearly reached his destination. Nevertheless, no lord ever lived as long as Tsunetomo by being careless. There were guards at the entrance to the castle, and at the stairs to the upper floors, where the lord, his family, and Yasutoki resided.
Yasutoki’s chambers were on the floor below Lord Tsunetomo’s. Tsunemori’s office was on the castle’s main floor, near the audience hall, the kitchens, guest rooms, and Yasutoki’s office. Yasutoki had only one guard post to contend with between himself and his destination, placed at the stairs between the upper floors and the main floor. Usually that guard was asleep.
Yasutoki reached the top of the stairs. He saw the opening below, a window of yellow-orange light from the lantern. The shadow of the guard, standing just out of sight, lay across the floor in front of the doorway. As silent as a shadow himself, Yasutoki moved down the stairs. He had long ago memorized the points on every step where the wood would not creak under his weight. Two steps from the bottom, he saw the guard’s silhouette against the lantern light. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his head drooping toward his chest, his measured breathing indicating he was dozing. As the castle was not under threat, the guard was not wearing any armor; he would be an easy target if Yasutoki had to kill him. Slipping past him into the corridor, Yasutoki kept his attention focused on the guard. Only when he rounded the first corner and was out of sight did he begin
to move quickly.
In less than twenty heartbeats, he reached the door to Tsunemori’s office. In two more, he was inside with the door closed behind him. The room was pitch-black. The windows were shuttered against the winter night, but only kept out the moonlight, not the cold. The air was frigid, but Yasutoki ignored it. He moved across the room, found the desk with his hand, and knelt beside it. Then he opened a small door in the black box in his other hand, and a small puddle of faint light from the candle within spilled out onto the desk. Yasutoki’s breath seeped through his mask in vaporous wisps. He shielded the light with his body. No one passing by in the corridor would see any evidence of activity within the office.
Tsunemori’s desk held an inkpot and brush, a neatly arranged row of scrolls, and a sheaf of loose papers. He rifled through the papers and scrolls until he found the list of names for the warriors serving as Tsunetomo’s retainers, an inventory of arrows, bows, swords, spears, and other weapons, a count of horses to mount the bushi, and an inventory of the supplies stored to feed these warriors and their horses. There were even estimates of how many peasants could be conscripted to fill the ranks in an emergency. His gaze darted around the pages, counting, calculating, committing it all to memory. He would remember all of it in perfect detail. When he was finished, he felt a sense of satisfaction that Tsunemori would be instrumental, in some small way, for the future victory of the Great Khan. He put everything back exactly as he had found it, then closed the small lantern door, plunging him into complete darkness.
Heart of the Ronin Page 30
