He praised Nagomi when the servant girl left them alone.
“That was swift thinking. Thank you.”
“I’ve seen enough pilgrims coming to the shrine from all over Yamato. The ones from the countryside always pray to give thanks for something — salvation from a famine, drought or plague. It’s only the rich ones who ask for more.”
He leaned over the bowl, preparing to wash himself before sleep. An unfamiliar face stared at him from the reflection in the water. He blinked his narrow eyes, furrowed his flat nose and pulled a couple more funny faces, to make sure it were really his own features.
“Did you not like the girl?” a voice in his head enquired.
“I… Eh?” Bran was taken aback by the Spirit’s sudden forwardness. “I suppose… she was comely… What’s it to you, anyway?”
“Then why did you not take what she was offering?”
“I ate as much as I could…”
“I don’t mean the food!” the voice in his head mocked him. “Did you not see how she revealed the nape of her neck, how she loosened her sleeves? Why, I do believe she would have given it to you for free if only you had asked!”
“I… I do not understand…”
“Oh! Don’t tell me…” The general paused. “You’ve never had a woman, have you?”
Bran realised what Shigemasa was talking about. Serving food and drink was not the only source of income for the guesthouse keeper’s daughter —and she was, apparently blatantly, offering him her services.
“Did your father not introduce you into the ways of the floating world?” the Spirit prodded.
Bran felt his face turn bright crimson and hot. The situation was embarrassing in itself, but talking about it made it even worse.
“I… I hope I did not offend anyone…” was all he could say.
“Eh,” he could almost sense Shigemasa shrug, “you’re still a wakashū - she probably just thought you were inexperienced with women.”
“I… I am,” he admitted shyly, not wanting the conversation to continue.
“Just my luck, to find myself an unbroken youth,” Shigemasa said, sighing with exasperation. “Your school must have been like one of those Satsuma samurai places, right?”
“I suppose…?”
He decided to just go along with everything.
“I guessed as much,” Shigemasa said, grunting, and with that the conversation seemed to have ended, leaving Bran in total confusion.
In the morning, the little boat took Bran and the others to the harbour town of Shimabara, where they caught a ferry across the bay to a place called Kumamoto. It was a much larger vessel, a broad merchant boat with a tall mast and great piece of cloth for a sail, slow, heavy and stable.
“Good of thou to join us,” Bran said, seeing Nagomi climb out from below the deck.
“It is not as bad as the other one,” the young apprentice replied, although her face was still pale and she visibly struggled with dizziness. “Is all sea travel so tough?”
“This? ‘Tis nothing!” he said and laughed. The ship barely rocked on the low waves. “Out in the open sea there are waves that would cover this whole vessel, and the ships ride them up and down like… like…” He couldn’t think of an analogy that the girl would understand. “Like leaves in a mountain stream.”
“How can people survive this?” she said, turning even paler at the thought.
“It takes some getting used to,” Bran admitted, “but there is little else more exhilarating than sailing the open sea. It’s almost as good as flying. Of course, on dragon-back it would take us less than an hour to cross this bay.”
“Can you still sense your dorako?” Satō asked.
He closed his eyes and focused on the Farlink. The ring on his hand warmed up slightly.
“Yes. Somewhere over yonder.” He pointed to the south-east. “What is there?”
“You have the map, Bran-sama,” the boy reminded him.
“Ah, of course.”
The dragon rider was the only one who knew how to read Western maps, so it was him whom Lady Kazuko had presented with a rolled up piece of linen cloth she had found in the shrine’s library. It was a copy of a Vasconian navigation chart, three hundred years old and badly inaccurate, but it did help Bran to get his bearings in this strange land.
“Where are we…? Ah, I see Kiyō.” He was no longer surprised with his ability to read the ink squiggles that formed the Yamato writing. “If this be Qin,” he said, pointing to a grey blot on the western edge of the map, “then my ship was somewhere here when it… perished. Flying straight eastwards, the dragon would land ashore somewhere — here.”
He laid his finger on a crescent-shaped bay on the southernmost tip of Chinzei Island.
“Hioki.” Satō deciphered the runes and thought for a moment. “That’s Satsuma,” he said, frowning.
“Is it far?”
“Farther than I thought we would need to go - across the mountains.”
“A week?”
“Maybe more. But it’s south and we will go through at least two big cities where we can find help and information, if my old man’s name still means anything in these parts.”
“Does that interfere with the search for thy father?”
“Until we find some clues, we can only hope the Crimson Robe will show himself again. So far all we know is that he’s looking for you.”
“Kazuko-hime said your honoured grandfather had met him before,” noted Nagomi.
“It is merely a conjecture. He would be very old now if it were indeed the same person my grandfather saw when he came here on board a Dracalish vessel.”
“A Dracalish ship?” Satō glanced at him sharply. “You mean Phaeton?”
“Yes, he was a midshipman on board the Phaeton.”
“My father saw it when he was very young,” Satō said. “It inspired him to study Rangaku.”
“All is bound together by Fate,” Nagomi added piously, “just like Kazuko-hime said.”
“How did your grandfather get the black box? Who’s the woman in the medallion?” Satō continued prodding.
Bran explained what little he knew and guessed about the contents of the box, and briefly told the story of his grandfather’s life. He could sense Satō did not trust him fully since the incident with Tokojiro and decided hiding the truth would only make this distrust grow.
“What about the dragon figurine?” Nagomi asked when he had finished. “You didn’t mention that.”
“Oh, it has naught to do with my grandfather. I got it from my father a few months ago.”
“Can I see it one more time?”
“It is Yamato work, isn’t it?” the dragon rider asked, giving her the figurine.
“Yes, you can buy these things in Kiyō. The Bataavians from Dejima like them.”
The man my father got it from must have once been here, Bran realised.
“Then it’s not really significant?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Satō shrugged. “It seems everything about you is somehow significant.”
“I wish it were not so,” he said, looking grimly at the steel-grey horizon.
The ferry entered the mouth of a large river and followed it upstream before reaching a harbour and a tall bridge. A massive castle loomed over the city, similar to the one Bran had been seeing in his dreams, but even greater. Its robust stone walls rose upwards in a maze of broad spiralling terraces, culminating in a colossal keep, six storeys tall, its white plastered walls covered with black wooden boards. It was an impressive construction that seemed able to withstand even a barrage of modern cannons, but it was completely exposed from above. Bran could not help thinking how easy it would be to capture it with just a few dragons.
If he needed any more confirmation that there were no dragons in Yamato, this nigh impregnable castle’s lack of aerial defences was it. All he had seen of the creatures so far were carvings and paintings. What had happened to them all?
“Did Kazuko-hime
advise anything about this place?” he asked, turning his eyes away from the ramparts.
“She mentioned a Butsu temple to the north of the castle,” replied Nagomi, removing a tightly rolled piece of paper from a bamboo container at her belt. “The monks there are aware of most of what goes on in the Southern provinces, and have a great library of strange stories and legends.”
“I knew a man in Kumamoto,” recalled Satō, “a friend of my father’s. If he’s still here, I could try and contact him.”
“We shall go to the temple first,” said Bran.
What was supposed to be a proposition came out as an order, rather forcefully. Satō raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Do you think we’re far enough from Kiyō for me to stop disguising myself?” the boy asked.
“It would be safer if you would keep it until we at least move out of the city,” Nagomi said, biting her lower lip in thought. “There must be many merchants and samurai from Kiyō coming here on business.”
Satō sighed, picked up his heavy bag and headed north. Bran gave one last look to the castle walls — he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched from the tapering towers — and followed after the Yamato boy.
CHAPTER VII
By the time they reached the temple compound, the sky had already turned a gloomy grey. Thick evening fog rolled down from the hills. Nestled between a shadowy mountainside to the west and half-abandoned fields to the east, the temple’s dark curly roofs loomed over the poor desolate neighbourhood like a flock of crows.
“Be this really the place?” Bran asked.
“Honmyōji.” Satō pointed at a sign carved in a wooden plank above the gate. “Unless there’s another one in Kumamoto…”
“We shall need lodgings. It is getting late. Let us enquire this man.”
Bran approached a white-robed monk working a small radish patch just beyond the gate.
“Good monk, pray tell us whether thy establishment can provide us with accommodation?” he asked.
The man straightened himself, lifted the brim of his bamboo hat and looked at Bran, bemused.
“He means, can you find us a place to sleep,” Nagomi said swiftly.
“Certainly, honourable guests.” The monk bowed. “The shukubō is in the fifth building to the left, just before the Munatsuki stairs,” he said, pointing in the direction of a long stone staircase that disappeared into the menacing darkness of the hillside. Flickers of stone lanterns marked its further path among the pines and cedars. “I don’t think there are many other guests today.”
“Thank you,” Bran said, bowing graciously.
They walked down the stone alley, lined on both sides by clusters of granite gravestones. The monk was right: the shukubō — temple lodgings — were almost empty apart from a couple of tired pilgrims dozing on the floor of the dormitory hall, and two monks taking care of the place.
“More visitors!” rejoiced one of them as they entered the dormitory. “A noble samurai among them! We are truly blessed today. Ingen!” he shouted down the corridor, “Make sure your broth is at its best, we have fine guests!”
“Oh, that is quite unnecessary, we only need a place to stay,” Bran protested after he realised the “noble samurai” was himself, but the monk shook his head, laughing.
“Ingen loves cooking, and I can only eat so much.” He patted himself on the belly, which was flat and taut. “He’ll be delighted to have a chance to show off his skill. We don’t get many visitors here, and most of the pilgrims — well, they are certainly pious, but not what I’d call appreciative of proper cuisine.”
From the dining room Bran could see the cook opening boxes and pots with a variety of mysterious ingredients, mixing, slicing, chopping and throwing them into one of the two huge clay pots bubbling away on the stone stove. The guests and the talkative monk, who introduced himself as Itsunen, watched his movements in silent awe. There was no doubt Ingen was a crafty cook. The delicate scent of the vegetable and seaweed broth filled the room and made Bran realise how hungry their journey had made him.
He had discovered early on that the Yamato ate plenty of kelp and laver, something he had not tasted since leaving Gwynedd, and it made him like their cooking even more. He now watched with eager expectation as the monk searched the kitchen for more ingredients to mix into the broth.
Ingen turned to the other monk with an accusing look.
“We’re out of tofu,” were the first words he uttered.
Itsunen shrugged with an innocent smile.
“The pilgrims ate it all.”
“There should always be fresh tofu!” The cook’s face turned fierce. “We are monks of Kumamoto, how am I supposed to make dengaku now?”
The two monks stared at each other for a moment like some avatars of light and darkness. At last, Ingen slumped.
“You will have to make more at dawn.”
Itsunen looked dejected, but agreed.
“The soup is ready,” the cook announced without joy, “but I’m not happy with the result. Maybe I should throw it away and start again…”
“No!” the three guests cried in unison.
Bran received a steaming bowl of the broth, with plenty of cut vegetables, mushrooms and kelp. It seemed to him the best soup he had ever tasted.
“What, no noodles? That’s stingy!” Itsunen moaned.
“We’re also out of noodles,” Ingen replied coldly. “Are you a monk or a gluttonous merchant? You don’t need that much food before sleep.”
“It’s perfect,” Nagomi said, and Bran grunted agreement between one mouthful and another.
He was holding the bowl close to his mouth as he saw the others do. It was a much easier way to drink the thick soup.
“It is acceptable,” the cook admitted, slurping the broth himself. “Not as terrible as I expected. Alas, I cannot offer you our specialty because somebody forgot to restock the cupboard.”
He glared at the other monk.
“What brings you to Honmyōji at such a late hour, if you don’t mind me asking?” enquired Itsunen after they had emptied their bowls — and asked for second helpings.
“We come from Suwa to speak to Father Ipponin,” Nagomi mentioned a name given her by the High Priestess, “to ask him for advice and information.”
Both monks turned serious.
“What is it?”
“The Reverend Ipponin passed away a few months ago. We have a new Abbot now,” replied Ingen.
“However, I’m sure he will be just as happy to provide you with advice as the old one,” the other monk said with a smile.
“We shall see him tomorrow,” Bran said, nodding.
“Well, I’m finished,” said Satō, standing up. “I can’t eat no more. I’ll better go where my place is.”
He leaned over to Bran’s ear and whispered. “I hope the stables here are a bit cleaner than in that poor excuse for a guesthouse we were at yesterday.”
“As soon as we’re out of the city, thou shall join us in the guest rooms,” Bran assured him.
“You bet I will!” he said. “I won’t stand another night at the stables. I think I’m starting to get some bugs crawling over me.”
White custard-like rectangles of freshly pressed tofu curd simmered on the grid of a grill. Bran eyed them with suspicion. All he knew about the dish was the name, but that knowledge gave him no indication of the taste. Foods like soup, rice or fried fish were straightforward enough, but at times the local cuisine stumped him with dishes like the one Ingen was preparing for breakfast; grilled tofu skewers covered with a brown paste of fermented beans. How could it possibly taste?
Everyone else seemed to enjoy them greatly, praising the cook, so Bran gingerly put a small piece into his mouth. At first it seemed to taste of absolutely nothing, but the soft, sponge-like morsel was warm and full of the energy he needed that early in the morning. He tried another bite, and was now almost sure he could detect a faint aroma of wood from the grill and a savoury sweetness
that had to be coming from the beans. He bit again, this time trying the red-brown sauce. The paste was sharp and salty, complimenting the blandness of the tofu cube.
Like most of the food he had been eating since waking up in Yamato, the breakfast in this inconspicuous temple was subtle and refined, only hinting at tastes and aromas. Bran appreciated the skills that went into making all those fine dishes, but he was yearning for a haunch of mutton or a slice of cheese — strong, simple, punchy tastes. Even an apple would have been nice, something he could really stick his teeth into.
“What lies beyond yonder staircase up the hill?” he asked Itsunen, reaching for another skewer, this time of aubergine.
“That’s the Jōchibyō, the grave of Kiyomasa-dono,” the monk explained, “founder of the Kumamoto castle. If you wish, noble guest, we can take you later to pay your respects at his shrine.”
“His shrine…?” Bran hesitated, but noticed Nagomi’s frown and barely noticeable shaking of her head. “Oh, aye, certainly, I’d be most delighted.”
Another monk entered the dining hall, one they had not seen before, and greeted them with a deep bow. Ingen and Itsunen looked at him apprehensively, but said nothing.
“The Abbot wishes to see you as soon as you are ready,” the monk said.
“The Abbot — ” Bran looked at the man in the white robe in surprise. “We were just going to look for him.”
“I know,” the monk said, smiling mysteriously, “I will take you to him. All three of you,” he added, nodding in the direction of the stables.
“What did they mean his shrine?” Bran asked Nagomi on their way to fetch Satō.
“You do not know? I’m sorry, I keep forgetting you’re not yet familiar with our customs.”
“Not all, it would seem. I guess using chopsticks is easier knowledge to absorb than spiritual matters.”
“I see. I’ll try to… I never had to explain this to anyone. We pray to the Spirits of our ancestors, great men from the past. This Kiyomasa-dono the monk mentioned must have become a worthy ancestor to be enshrined in such a place.”
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 31
