The Samurai's Heart (The Heart Of The Samurai Book 1)

by Walt Mussell

  “He carried a short sword with him when he ran,” Nobuhiro said. “That would have been sufficient for the traditional way, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes,” his father said.

  “Well, at least he was kind enough to do it at the suicide gate,” Toshi added.

  Nobuhiro turned to Toshi. “Why do you say that?”

  “The haunted well is nearby. No one drinks the water anymore, because of the stigma. However, it makes for an easy clean-up.”

  Chuckling at the joke, Nobuhiro noted that even Uji was smiling.

  His father, stoic, silenced their laughter. “It is time we readied ourselves for our trip to Kyoto.” He stared at Nobuhiro. “Your duty remains. Protect the Goami family.”

  Nobuhiro met his father’s gaze and then made a slight bow, thinking about the progress that might have been made. Maybe Sen was right about there being hope for his relationship with his father. However, Nobuhiro’s chest clutched as he watched his father’s feet turn in the wet ground before Nobuhiro raised his head.

  Still, he would do more than protect.

  He would find the people targeting Christians, even if his father couldn’t.

  He would find whoever killed Jiro.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nobuhiro spent the next month rarely leaving the workshop and grounds. Work varied during the day, but his nightly activity did not change. After work was over, he stored his traditional robe in a closet, making sure there were no spots on the ceremonial garment. He washed his face and hands, wiping away the dirt and soot and then drying himself off.

  Some small tools lay on a workbench. He shook his head. He thought he had put everything away. He must be too distracted. Master Goami taught him early in his apprenticeship that the workshop of a swordsmith was like a temple is to a samurai. It was the reason swordsmiths wore fine clothes while working. The reason swordsmiths handled their trade with respect. The reason they imbued each creation with a piece of their soul.

  Yet at the end of the day, Nobuhiro focused on one task that no other swordsmith did.

  His day done, Nobuhiro sat on a workbench and pulled out a piece of parchment from his pocket. The parchment fibers were weak from the number of times he had folded it. Fingerprints and dark smudges covered the paper.

  On the parchment were written the words Sen had told him.

  Joy springs from burying your bitterness in the ground.

  He traced the letters, his fingertips feeling the ink. He meditated on the phrase every night before going to bed, as if it brought him closer to Sen.

  A bead of perspiration trickled down his face. The late May heat in Himeji made for occasionally sweltering nights, but they were not too intolerable. He wiped his head with a nearby towel, pulling the wet cloth to the back of his neck. It cooled him down.

  Trace remnants of pine pervaded the air, mixed with the smell of fish. Master Goami’s wife was preparing dinner. His stomach growled in anticipation.

  Soft footfalls from outside broke his concentration. He straightened.

  Uji’s voice broke the silence. “You study that parchment like a schoolboy preparing for an exam.” Nobuhiro turned and saw his brother in the doorway, smiling at him. “What makes you focus so hard after such a long day?”

  Nobuhiro folded the paper, putting it in his pocket as he rose and bowed to greet Uji. “You are losing your step, brother. I heard you coming.”

  Grinning, Uji nodded. His face was an exhibition of mock disbelief. “If you were an enemy, you still couldn’t have stopped me.”

  “We’ll never know.”

  Uji entered slowly, surveying the workshop as he did. His reverence for the solemn interior evident on his face. Nobuhiro’s chest swelled. His brother respected and admired his craft. “What are you studying so intently?”

  Nobuhiro showed him the parchment and filled him in on the details. Uji steepled his fingers and considered it.

  “What do you think?” Nobuhiro asked his brother.

  Uji licked his lips, his face blank. “I’d like to hear your musings first.”

  Sighing, Nobuhiro expelled a rush of frustration. “I’ve been trying words, reforming them, substituting different options. However, nothing has provided me with any plausible solution.”

  “I believe you should modify your approach,” Uji said. “It sounds like an ideograph riddle.”

  Nobuhiro stared at the phrase as he massaged the sudden tightness in his neck. An ideograph riddle? Did Uji think him a child?

  He clenched the parchment in his fingers and his feelings calmed down. No. Uji just wanted to discuss the possibilities. Hear it out loud. Maybe something would arise from discussing it. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you thought of it as a picture? Think back to how you learned characters. Combine two characters and come up with one new meaning.”

  Nobuhiro shook his head. “I thought about that, but I know of no ideograph that can be split up to create anything with any semblance to this riddle. I’ve also tried substituting characters for the sounds but not the words. Still nothing.”

  Uji stepped close and lightly tapped his own forehead. “You’re thinking like someone born in this country. That may not work in this case.”

  Nobuhiro stared at Uji, not knowing what to make of his brother’s comment. “Excuse me?”

  Uji sported a chiding smile. “This is a foreign religion, Nobuhiro. It’s likely the riddle was developed by a missionary, based on a foreign interpretation of one of our written characters.”

  “Are you suggesting that I start splitting ideographs by something other than their root characters?”

  “That would seem logical.”

  Nobuhiro rolled his eyes. “Logical but mad. Which of the thousands of ideographs available should I start with?” he said in a mocking tone.

  Uji laughed. He had an answer there, too. “I suggest that you start with the biggest foreign symbol of these missionaries . . . their cross. It is the cross that brings these Christians eternal joy.”

  Nobuhiro gritted his teeth and ran both hands over the top of his head. “There are many characters that have something resembling a cross in them. We’re talking about an intersection of two lines.”

  “I would also suggest starting with the ideographs for joy, ground, and bitterness,” Uji responded in his typical measured tones. “Split up those characters differently. That would be an apt place.”

  “You make it sound easy,” Nobuhiro fumed. “I’ve been at this for a month.”

  “Such is not my intent. I do not know the answer myself.”

  Nobuhiro chewed his lower lip. He had shamed himself again with his temper. He must learn better control. “I know. You’re trying to help. I appreciate it.”

  Uji smiled and nodded and the tightness in Nobuhiro’s chest dissipated. Finally relaxing, he walked over to the door and looked outside. The nearly full moon lit the neighborhood. He closed his eyes and drew in a large breath of the fresh night air to clear his head.

  “What is it?” Uji asked.

  “Nothing,” Nobuhiro said. “Ever since the incident here, I’ve gotten into a habit of surveying the outside. Every rustle. Every sound I don’t recognize I investigate. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but it makes me feel better.”

  “You’re looking for serenity. It’s understandable after what happened. More important, you’re protecting the house you serve by syncing yourself with your surroundings. Even Toshi would be impressed.”

  Nobuhiro stretched him arms, feeling the wooden door in one hand and the stone wall with the other. “This has been my home for a while. Why would I not do my utmost to protect it?”

  “I agree. You serve this house, but it has been your refuge,” Uji said. “You still have a home if you want it.”

  “I can never return to the castle if I cannot serve as a samurai. I can never return as long as my father does not welcome me back. I can never leave here if it would put my master and his family in danger.
>
  But I would do anything for Sen.

  Nobuhiro closed the door and wheeled to face Uji. “So, to what do I owe the honor of your visit, elder brother?”

  “There is more news in our investigation.”

  ###

  The smell of dried ash mixed with the heavy, humid air. If the place was ever put to use again, it would have to be a Buddhist temple. The incense would be necessary. Kaiken stepped over a piece of rotting wood on the floor. The ash darkened the tabi socks, the ankle-length socks that separated the big toe from the rest. A shame. They would have to be discarded.

  Michiba stood nearby. Normally, he would kneel but soot on the kimonos would be bad. More to explain. More to discard.

  “Where’s Kitayama?” Kaiken asked.

  Michiba glanced up, his expression blank, and said nothing.

  “Boar snouts! Didn’t he get the message?”

  The rustle of the door indicated Kitayama’s arrival.

  “You’re late,” Kaiken said.

  Kitayama bowed low. “My apologies. I was delayed by Lord Kinoshita. He requested I find the elder Tokoda for a meeting. I could not refuse a request from the head of the castle. There is an unexpected guest from Kyoto.”

  Kitayama’s face registered a smile combined with fear. Who could bring that mix of emotions? Something was wrong.

  Kaiken’s body went rigid. “The master is here?”

  “Yes, I saw to his comforts.”

  Kaiken swallowed hard. He was here. Perhaps there was news or a new impetus for the group. A chance to recruit more followers. Would a meeting be possible? Why was Kitayama afraid? Kaiken and Kitayama needed to talk.

  In time.

  “Your lateness is acceptable. Learn to anticipate unforeseen events and leave earlier if possible. Our success depends on our meetings being limited. The longer we are gone, the more people will piece together our movements. The plan is this.”

  ###

  Sen glanced up at the moon. The castle grounds glowed with its light. It reminded her of the night she first returned to Himeji. Even with only a sliver of moon that evening, the reflection from the castle’s white walls shone a great distance. She shivered, remembering the chill wind that blew that evening. It matched her fear then.

  It signaled her trepidation now.

  “I’m not sure if this is a good idea. We shouldn’t be leaving the castle like this.”

  Standing by her side, dressed in a yellow kimono with red flowers, Omi shook her head as if finding Sen’s concern amusing. “We have worked hard since this morning and we are spending the evening in town.”

  Sen recalled the attacks at the castle and her house. They had found Funaki dead, but the brothers were still concerned about others being involved. “I’ll accept that, but why are we going?”

  “Why not? The charity sumo exhibition is tomorrow. Many people have come to town to see it and the local inns are full. The market will be festive with treats and street performers. We’ll get something to eat and rest. The local saunas will be open late. We may get to take baths every day but when’s the last time you went to a sauna? It’ll be fun.”

  Her last excuse rebuffed, Sen acquiesced. Besides, Omi was a samurai. She could defend herself against any brigand. Sen’s nervousness wasn’t warranted.

  Sen followed Omi to the entrance and the two of them left the grounds. It would take a while, but they were in no hurry. Torchlights along the street led to the light noise that beckoned to be joined. The air was heavy and warm. It would be hot at the festivities. Fireworks rose in the air, signaling the revelry as Sen’s cheeks warmed at the display. There was one for the magistrates. Flash powder was controlled by the government and its usage was monitored. An errant explosion could set any of the wooden buildings on fire. Whoever set the fireworks off was dull or in hiding.

  The noise of the crowd grew, indicating they were getting close. The aromas of the cooking coming from the street vendors and their various offerings filled Sen with a gnawing hunger. She bent down and smoothed her green kimono, feeling the fine weave. It had once been her best garment. She had saved it each week for services. It had grown worn, marking the number of days she wore it since leaving Haibara and her former employment.

  She brought her hand to her throat, feeling the scars just below the neckline. Feeling the bumps of blood on the fabric, bumps that wouldn’t go away. Feeling for the friends who gave their life for the faith.

  Would she ever feel safe again?

  Fragrances wafted toward Sen, assaulting her with a mixture of fried and roasted aromas. She moved through the crowd, feeling the press of people around her. Each jostle startled her and her body tensed. Would it always be like this?

  Omi pointed out a nearby yakisoba vendor who had a long trail of people in front of his cart. The two of them got in line, watching the entertainment nearby. Flute players and rakugo storytellers competed for audiences and brought smiles to many. Buddhist priests chanted in front of businesses, hoping also for a generous crowd.

  They reached the front of the line as Sen and Omi both ordered a plateful of yakisoba noodles with mushrooms and octopus. Sen ate quickly, enjoying the tangy flavor. Omi finished hers a little later and then motioned toward a side street. Sen followed Omi’s lead, stepping around a candy maker as they got away from the din.

  “You look like you want to talk,” Sen commented as they found a quiet place to sit.

  Omi fiddled with her obi, readjusting it around her waist. The yellow belt looked perfect, but Omi looked uncomfortable. She pursed her lips and grew still. “I want to talk a little more about—”

  “Jesus Christ?”

  A dog barked from the end of the alley and ran past the two of them, stopping at Sen’s feet and licking her toes. The dog’s fur was white with a couple of black spots, likely dirt and grease from the alleys. Sen wished she had a little food she could give the dog but found none after searching her pockets. The dog seemed to sense it and headed to the main street.

  “You didn’t move. Why?”

  “He’s just a little dog living on the street looking for a meal. I know that feeling well.”

  “From the time before you arrived back in Himeji?”

  She recalled the day she left Haibara Castle. The samurai had allowed her to leave along with many other servants on whom they’d conferred mercy. Some had returned to their homes. Some disappeared. Some like her went into the woods outside the city. Servants who had recanted and kept their station now braved death to bring them food. They begged for forgiveness.

  It was hard to forgive. None of them dared look anyone in the eye.

  Omi nodded, her face showing concern. “My apologies. I did not wish to bring up any sad memories.

  Sen brushed a tear away with her finger before it could form. “Do not worry. I have been through a lot. The Lord made me strong enough to face these challenges. You wanted to talk?”

  Smiling, Omi moved closer. “Yes, I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. We had to get away from the castle though. There are too many people around, and samurai are too adept at walking around silently.”

  Sen spent the next few minutes explaining her faith, her heart growing with every word. It was the second time she had had such an opportunity since she’d arrived in Himeji.

  Omi peppered Sen with various questions. Sen did her best to answer them.

  Sen clasped her hands on her lap. The exhilaration coursing through her veins placed her entire body on alert. “Have you tried praying?”

  Omi tilted her head, her eyes conveying a quizzical gaze. “You mean like they do in the Buddhist temples, where they clap twice, bow once, and then clap once?”

  Sen chuckled and then shook her head. “That’s not quite what I mean. In prayer, you talk to God, tell Him your problems, and thank Him for the good things in life and ask that He be with you. It’s not a ritual. It’s an opportunity to get closer to Him.”

  “Sounds like you’re meditating on a koan.”r />
  “It’s not a Zen riddle, but there are mysteries we don’t understand.”

  “What do you do when you don’t receive understanding?”

  Sen licked her lips. “You accept the mysteries and the teachings on faith.”

  “It sounds hard.”

  “Yes, it is, but it is wonderful.”

  Fireworks erupted with a bevy of explosions. Sen glanced skyward as a mixture of red and blue light rose into the air. Cries from the nearby crowd grew louder. A soft scrape behind them raised the hair on the nape of Sen’s neck. She looked around.

  Nothing.

  She glanced toward Omi. “I think we should be getting back.”

  “Probably a good idea, let’s get—Aiiih!” Omi crumpled to the ground.

  A flash of movement in the dark startled Sen. She turned. A masked man stood in front of her. He raised his arm as if to strike. She lifted her hands to block the blow. He grabbed her wrists and held them over her head in one vise-like hand.

  “Let me go. What do you want?”

  “You,” the man replied as he struck her on the right temple.

  Pain rushed to her forehead. Her knees buckled. She fell forward. Her world turned dark. Fabric ripped. The impact shot pain through her knees. She smelled honey, plum, and a fragrance she couldn’t place. Then, nothing more.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Kitayama’s dead.” Uji stood in the doorway to the workshop, gripping the doorframe stiffly. His lips squeezed into a tight thin line.

  “How?” Nobuhiro asked, his eyes searching for good signs from his brother.

  “Poison, we think.”

  Nobuhiro chewed on his lower lip. “Who would want to kill him? I thought he wasn’t involved.”

  Uji lowered his gaze, then looked up as if searching for words. The case worried his brother. It was obvious. Nobuhiro had even heard Uji approach the workshop earlier, as his brother had made no attempt to even mask his steps. “We believed so. Still do. Kitayama accompanied Father and Toshi to Kyoto to report the news of Funaki. They took him to get him alone. Father queried Kitayama about his activities. He was convinced of Kitayama’s innocence.”