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

by Walt Mussell

  Master Goami nodded, but his expression remained flat. “I see. Should I doubt your commitment then?”

  Nobuhiro raised his head. “No, Master. It’s just—”

  “When you asked to be my apprentice seven years ago, my only requirement was that you renounce your title. I could not be your master and treat you like the son of a samurai. A master does not address a pupil as sama.”

  Looking down, Nobuhiro said nothing. Maser Goami’s next words could change Nobuhiro’s life.

  Master Goami exhaled slowly, cutting through the silence. “However, I never demanded that you abandon your family. Family is important. Besides, what properly thinking merchant would do anything that eschews potential customers?”

  Nobuhiro’s chest relaxed. He had worried too much, creating much angst within himself. He inhaled. The scent of a fresh pile of rice straw reminded Nobuhiro that the day lay ahead of him. Time to work.

  ###

  Sen replayed the incident in her head several times as she walked back toward the festival area in silence, looking for landmarks and trying to retrace her steps. The walk had taken twenty minutes. The men and Omi had moved quickly, and Sen struggled to maintain pace. She regretted her fear of the night before. She had forgotten everything. Omi was more helpful, though she did appear a little confused.

  The main market area, the site of last night’s celebrating, bustled with early morning activity. Several merchants and their employees were hard at work, taking in deliveries as they arrived. Other merchants swept their storefronts, likely cleaning up from last night’s activities. Sen thought back to the previous night. Did any of these people see who attacker her and Omi?

  Nobuhiro’s father and Toshi walked on either side of Sen and Omi, as if blocking them from attack. Toshi walked on the right side of Omi, their relationship a secret no more. What did his father think of them?

  Sen peeked at Nobuhiro’s father, who walked stiffly on her left, his proud manner drawing gazes from passerby. His right hand remained close to the hilt of his sword. The twinges of emotion that had breached his stoic defenses at the castle now lay hidden behind the wall of his stony face. His gait kept him a half step ahead of her.

  A half step?

  He was a samurai. She was nothing. She should be several steps behind. Even a lady of the court would be behind.

  Why did he allow her to get this close?

  Why had he not reminded her of her place?

  He was protecting her.

  Nobuhiro’s father was maintaining a protective stance. No wonder the people in the street stared. They were giving a wide berth.

  “Moto. Goami.” Sen’s back stiffened at the old man’s crisp tone of voice. At what time do you recall reaching the main street that leads to the castle?”

  Sen focused on the banners in front of the various stores. Were any of them familiar?

  A low gong sounded from the Buddhist temple down the street on the right. Black-robed men with shaved heads walked about, attending to the temple walls. Another stood in front of the temple, chanting prayers and asking for donations, his face partially covered by a pointed, straw hat.

  Had they passed that temple? Was this the first temple they saw when they reached the main street?

  Her stomach rumbled in response. Something about the temple had made her hungry.

  A whiff of sweet air then reached her nose. She followed the aroma and saw a familiar face from the day of the attack at her house. The baker who had helped her and her parents when that rogue samurai had attacked knelt in front of his store, which was across from the temple. The baker petted a fluffy little white dog with a tail that curved over its back. Sen didn’t recognize the breed, but the dog looked familiar, too. A community dog perhaps. One that stayed in the neighborhood and the local shopkeepers had adopted as a mascot.

  The baker fed the dog something. He was a nice man. Duty and gratitude demanded she express her appreciation for his actions on the day of the attack, but now was not the time.

  They had reached the place.

  “Here, I think,” Sen said, pointing to a side street next to the temple.

  Omi concurred and the foursome headed down the alley. Sen remembered the wall of the temple being to her left as she ran past it in the darkness that morning. Now, she scanned other storefronts, looking for any recognizable feature from last night. Trash from the previous night still lay on the ground. The local wards soon would mobilize workers to clean it.

  Several times Sen looked at Omi as they noted other places they had passed the night before. They had picked the larger roads, hoping to see other people in case their attacker chased them. Bigger roads had stone streetlamps lighting the area.

  The group crossed two more streets. Sen scanned the shops. Did anything look familiar? Images flickered through her mind. “Over there. This is it, I think.”

  “Are you certain?” Nobuhiro’s father asked.

  “I am,” Omi said, pointing to the left. “I remember that dark green awning from when we exited the place.”

  They turned the corner and the charred building came into view. Sen stared at the building. Bile rose in her throat. The exterior appeared gutted and rotted. The heat had long since died, but the smell of the remnants lingered like garbage left out in the sun. A tremor ran over her body, sending cold chills up and down her back.

  “What happened here?” Sen asked in a hurried, excited voice. Stress clutched her chest. She breathed in short gasps of air. Did she want to know the truth?

  Toshihiro blinked slowly and looked in the direction of his father. The elder man pursed his lips and nodded his head.

  Toshihiro’s jaw tightened. His usual grin, gone. “It was a garment maker. It burned down several months ago. The owners died in the fire.”

  Sen’s pulse raced. Who had been here? She wanted to ask Toshi, but it was difficult to question him like this, especially in front of his father. Both men were samurai. Toshi would tell her. In front of his father, though, her impertinence would be reason for punishment.

  It was not her place to ask, but she needed to know the truth. She inhaled softly to strengthen her nerves. “Is there something special about this place?”

  Toshi again glanced at his father before looking back at her. The old man said nothing. The meaning was clear.

  The place carried importance for her.

  Toshi licked his lips. “This place doubled as a location where Christians met.”

  The words struck her like a spear in the chest. She brought both hands up, covering her face for a moment. She turned back to stare at the ruins before continuing. “Is this . . . where my sister died?”

  “Yes,” Nobuhiro’s father said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Sen turned to face him and saw a gentle mist in his eyes. Again, the hard-edged warrior disappeared. He was now different. His features had softened, indicating the part of him few ever saw.

  The part that knew grief.

  Sen fell to her knees and cried, not caring who saw.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sen said goodbye to Toshi and Omi at the entrance of her parents’ house. Nobuhiro’s father had suggested Sen go home and rest a day before returning.

  Why?

  The recommendation puzzled her. Duty demanded that she return to work. The old man’s concern belied his outward gruff appearance. Why did she warrant the kindness of a man of his status? Why the protectiveness?

  Either way, she didn’t feel like resting. During the walk home, she had thought of nothing but the church. Was there a clue in the rubble about the local Christians? Was there a clue there about who had killed her sister?

  Sen paused at the doorstep and looked around. Perspiration trickled down her face as the late May humidity strengthened its grip. A month had passed since her last visit to her parents’ home. The bushes appeared more overgrown than before. Flowers wilted for thirst, though some showed signs of life. A layer of dirt blown in from the road dusted the porch, m
arking her steps. Sen’s mother prided herself on taking care of the home. Maybe Sen could come out early in the evening and tend to the front garden?

  Like a dutiful daughter should.

  A baby’s cry broke through the silence. Sen searched for the source of it but the voice disappeared. The echo tugged at her heart. A reminder that she needed to find a husband, and soon. Whoever attacked the night before could have ended any chance of that.

  “Mother, are you here?” she called out after she slid the door open. Every time she visited made it feel more like home.

  Sen’s mother appeared a moment later. Her face worn but her smile wide as she stepped out from the kitchen. Sen bowed and then hugged her mother, pleased to see her again. The woman flinched slightly, and then Sen felt the gentle pats of her mother’s hands.

  “What brings you home?” her mother asked.

  Sen glanced at the floor. This wouldn’t be easy to say. She inhaled to steel her nerves and then apprised her mother of the attack, the meeting at the castle, and the visit to the place where Haru had died. She braced herself for a verbal onslaught on the dangers of her Christian faith.

  Instead, her mother said nothing. Her faced showed relief. The concern of a parent for a child. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she said. “Why don’t you take the kind old samurai’s advice? You should rest awhile.”

  “Mother, I can help you in the house.”

  “You can help me later. For now, just rest.”

  Silenced by the lack of a rebuke, Sen went to her old room. The heavy air greeted her with a mixture of straw and a slight touch of incense. The room had been cleaned since her last visit, suggesting a hope that she would return soon. However, it needed fresh air. She opened the windows, allowing in a small breeze that fought against the outside heat. It felt good.

  She stopped at the closet door, tracing a picture of a few birds in flight over a river with her finger. She had looked at the scene every night as a child.

  She had lived that scene often as an adult; in the months before returning to Himeji, she had often slept outside on the nights when the kindness of strangers wasn’t available. Sleeping near a river had reminded her of home because of this painting.

  She opened the closet and pulled out a futon, spreading it on the floor and running her hand across the cool fabric. She removed her outer kimono, laying it in the closet. Her mother arrived a few minutes later, setting out a tray with tea and then leaving. Sen sipped the tea, inhaling the green scent that steadied her still-shaken nerves.

  Then, the tea drunk, Sen lay down on the futon. The soft fabric and padding felt good on her back. The silence provided a welcome respite. Birds, real ones this time, chirped from outside the window.

  An hour later, Sen lay awake on the futon as sleep proved futile. Thoughts of Haru and the place where she died gnawed at Sen’s heart. She might have escaped whatever fate her captor had planned for her, but she couldn’t escape the stench of charred wood and moldy ash.

  After a half hour of trying to rest, Sen rose and headed to the kitchen. “Mother, I’m going to step outside and get some fresh air.”

  Her mother smiled. “That’s nice, little one. Nobuhiro’s in the workshop.”

  Sen frowned at Mother’s reference to Nobuhiro, but she kept her response to herself and just shook her head. Her mother just didn’t understand. Instead, she stepped out the back door and glanced at the workshop, coming to a stop. A series of clinks resounded through the air, the sound of hammers on steel. Each tone pulled at her, dragging her closer to the shop.

  No.

  She had to stay away. She couldn’t avoid him while she was visiting her parents, but she shouldn’t go seeking him out either. Seeing him at dinner would be difficult enough.

  She sighed and headed for the rock garden. As a child, she had traipsed through it once, making several piles with the pebbles. The horror on her mother’s face told her to never do it again. As she grew older, she learned how to help maintain the garden. Her mother showed her how to smooth the garden with a rake and how to repair designs marred by storms. The smoothing of the rocks provided her mother solace.

  Today, though, the garden appeared rough, dotted with twigs and leaves. Weeds grew through the rocks. Sen’s mother had not tended it in months, probably since Haru’s death.

  Someone should. Sen. A dutiful daughter. For her own growth, she needed work, not sleep.

  She walked to the stand where the garden implements hung, waiting to be used. Then, she knelt at the edge of the garden and ran a hand across a mound of tiny rocks, feeling their hardness. Calmness enveloped her as she smoothed the tiny crystals flat, but that wasn’t the way to begin. The garden required cleaning. She reached for a weed near the edge and dug her fingers into the rocks until she hit the soft dirt underneath. She grasped the base of the weed, making sure to avoid sharp points that might stick her, and then pulled it out. Fragrances of earth and plants filled the air as she tore the weed from the ground, spreading clumps of dirt everywhere. That would be next, after the weeds and twigs.

  Sen traced the scars on her neck with her forefinger. She had been spared so that she could help her parents. Even if she could not return home, she could make home a better place. Tending the garden would offer her time for reflection . . . and prayer.

  ###

  “Kaiken, you’ve done well. I’m impressed.”

  Kaiken stared at the ground, back straight with hands and knees on the floor. The two kimonos provided some relief against the wooden surface. Kaiken could handle the pain when it didn’t.

  Michiba occupied a similar position on the right. A new recruit of Master’s knelt on the left. Carpenter, Master had called him. He wore a simple brown kimono.

  He was not a samurai.

  The man had talents, Master had said.

  Bathing obviously wasn’t one of them.

  Push those thoughts from your mind. Master knows what he’s doing.

  The slow breaths of Michiba and Carpenter resonated in Kaiken’s ears while the wood smell of the floor filled Kaiken’s senses. White tabi socks paced in front, partially covered by a purple kimono with a peculiar cross-hatching of lines. Kaiken desired to understand the meaning of the design but dared not look up at Master until asked.

  Just respond to Master’s praise.

  “A servant’s greatest gift is a master’s appreciation,” Kaiken said.

  “Well spoken,” Master responded. “Rise.”

  Kaiken stood, gut churning with a mixture of fear and pride, and stepped forward, raising a glance. Carpenter and Michiba remained on their knees, their kimonos as unmoving as they were. Master walked forward and addressed them. “You two are dismissed. You will get your orders later.”

  “Hai,” the two men responded as they lowered their shoulders, their foreheads nearly touching the ground. Both men rose and headed to the door. They slid it open, turned, and fell to their knees, bowing again and sliding the door closed behind them.

  Kaiken turned to face Master, shoulders square as the tension that held them tightened with the closing of the door like a rope being pulled taut. Master was impressed. There would be no more issues. All that mattered was the goal. With dedication, it would be met.

  Master stepped closer. “You should have no further problems. It’s good that I was close and able to visit as I can’t come often. Kitayama’s deception surprised me. Thankfully, it was caught before he met with Tokoda.”

  Kitayama’s deception. How had Kaiken missed that? Despite a lower status, Kaiken had been placed in charge. The followers might have grand designs, but they needed guidance and planning for true subterfuge. Kaiken had done well recruiting Saga and Shimoto but their deaths had caused doubts. Kitayama’s treachery could have destroyed the group.

  He was now silenced.

  Numbers did not matter. Kaiken would go it alone if necessary.

  But what next?

  Kaiken studied Master’s purple kimono, noting again the odd mixture
of lines that seemed to represent half of a design. What was the other half? Focus, Kaiken. Focus. Master will explain everything when it’s time. “Your presence is always welcome. It has been a long time.”

  Master licked his lips as his face reddened. “My movements are at the mercy of the regent, at least for now.” He turned to study the garden scene on the closet. “One day that will change. With your help.”

  Kaiken’s chest swelled at the words. Master in charge of the country. A grand day indeed. Perseverance was paramount. So was understanding. “It is regrettable about Saga and Shimoto. They served well.”

  Master smiled as he nodded in agreement. “It was necessary. I gave the orders to the men who led the forces at Haibara Castle. The regent’s true orders never included the deaths of anyone if Akamatsu surrendered the castle, but I wanted to put fear into the Christians. I succeeded with the deaths of the twenty, marking the remaining servants for the rest of their lives.”

  “Does marking them really help?”

  “Yes. Anyone who sees the marking will know its origin. Akamatsu was a fortunate choice. His samurai hail from many areas. They will disperse widely with their marks a testament to our beliefs.”

  “Why did Saga and Shimoto commit seppuku?”

  “Because they followed my orders. Eventually, it would have been discovered that the order to kill was false. Saga and Shimoto would have been questioned. They took their own lives to prevent discovery. They died to protect the cause. They will be remembered when I take control.”

  Kaiken glanced at the window. Modest shouts of boys at play dotted the otherwise serene view. “Will the Christians, the ones who hide, really seek them out?”

  “They will. These Christians risk their lives for their fellow believers.”

  “Do you think some of the Christians will renounce their ways?”

  Master scratched his chin. “A few, maybe, will renounce this faith. The intelligent ones. Those who’ve had time to consider the scars on their necks and the pain their intransigence brings others. However, these Christians seek the support of their own kind. They will search for kindred spirits for support. As they do, we will root out more of them. Those missionaries in Kyushu haven’t left the country. They’ve just moved their accursed school to a less obvious place. The missionaries in Kyoto and Osaka still maintain their houses, while they seek a change of heart from the regent.”