Though she’d never experienced physical joy herself, she could share her husband’s. Mutual need had wrought a spiritual bond between them. Even without sex, she found the deepest personal fulfillment in their marriage; she felt no need for children. Let Shigeru’s nephew succeed him as daimyo. They were mated souls, like the two swans in the family crest, a self-sufficient pair…or so she tried to tell herself. Once she had thought this union eternal, invincible. Then Harume had entered their lives, that evening last spring.
Lord and Lady Miyagi had been standing on a pier, watching fireworks burst over the Sumida River, amid noisy crowds celebrating the opening of the boating season. Shigeru had pointed out Harume among the shogun’s entourage. Imagining the girl as just another harmless diversion, Lady Miyagi had procured a meeting. How could she have foreseen that Harume would pierce the weakness in their marriage? Discovering that the affair had taken a turn that could divide her from Shigeru had actually made her ill; she’d vomited in the street. Harume had threatened not only her happiness, but her very existence. Lady Miyagi rejoiced in Harume’s death. She was safe once again. Shigeru need never know what had almost happened.
However, the threat had not completely died with Lady Harume. Its specter haunted Lady Miyagi, ready to rise again. And a new menace, in the form of the murder investigation, shadowed her life. Even the news of Lieutenant Kushida’s arrest had not eased her mind.
Now Shigeru’s moans grew louder with the urgency of his need. Lady Miyagi gave another signal to the concubines. Snowflake thrust her pelvis against Wren’s face and screamed. Wren arched her back, closed her eyes, and let out a series of blissful cries. Through the wall came a hoarse shout. Tears of joy stung Lady Miyagi’s eyes. Once again she had served her lord’s desire.
Hearing his footsteps retreat, she rose. Snowflake and Wren disentangled themselves and bowed. “That was excellent,” Lady Miyagi said, then walked down the corridor to Shigeru’s bedchamber.
In the light of a lamp on the table, he lay upon his futon, covered with a quilt, his head pillowed on a wooden neck rest. This was Lady Miyagi’s favorite part of the ritual: when she and Shigeru came together again. She lay on the futon next to his. They never touched. Shigeru was usually half asleep by this time. Lady Miyagi would wait awhile to see if he needed anything, then snuff out the lamp. Eventually she, too, would sleep, secure in their unique love.
But tonight Shigeru was wide awake, his gaze pensive as he stared at the ceiling. Lady Miyagi said, “What’s wrong, Cousin?”
He turned to her. “It’s this murder investigation.” The worry on his face made him look simultaneously older and younger; in his soft, drooping features, Lady Miyagi could see both her girlhood companion and the elderly man he would become. “Ever since Sōsakan Sano came here, I have been suffering from the most terrible feeling of doom.”
“But why? What have you to be afraid of?” Though she kept her voice calm, Lady Miyagi was disturbed. Why hadn’t she sensed his fear? Why hadn’t he confided in her sooner? Were they losing their precious spiritual connection? Anger filled Lady Miyagi like hot, suffocating flame. Harume had done this! And beneath her anger, a shard of fright lodged in her breast.
How much did Shigeru know? What would happen to them? Suddenly Lady Miyagi didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. Lying rigid beneath her quilt, the fear growing into a jagged crystal in her heart, she braced herself for disaster.
“I’ve heard that Sōsakan Sano is a man who will stop at nothing to discover the truth,” Shigeru said. “Suppose he finds out what happened between Lady Harume and me? I could be charged with murder.”
“He already knows about the affair,” Lady Miyagi said reasonably, though horror sickened her. Shigeru, arrested—perhaps even convicted and executed? How would she live without him? “You’ve admitted sending the ink, but Sōsakan Sano can’t prove that you had anything to do with the murder.” She had to force herself to speak the next words: “And what more is there for him to find out?”
Even in her terror of losing Shigeru, Lady Miyagi tasted bitter jealousy. She didn’t want to learn anything about him and Harume that she didn’t already know; she didn’t want to be hurt again.
“Harume said that unless I gave her ten thousand koban, she would tell the shogun I had forced myself on her,” Shigeru said unhappily. “I thought she was bluffing, but I couldn’t be sure. So I paid her, a little at a time, so you wouldn’t notice money missing from the household accounts. I didn’t want you to worry.”
Shigeru seemed to deflate, as if drained by the confession. “Harume’s blackmail gives me a strong motive for murder. If Sōsakan Sano learns of it, I’ll be the prime suspect. Now do you understand why I’m afraid?”
Relief flooded Lady Miyagi. Forgetting her doubts and fears, she wanted to laugh with joy. Blackmail—that’s all it was, not another cruel betrayal. And how kind of her husband to consider her feelings. New confidence flowed through Lady Miyagi, washing away her suspicion that he’d hidden the truth from her for some less noble reason. She was the strong, sensible one who always took care of problems. She could avert any threat, triumph over any adversary who threatened them.
“Don’t worry, Cousin,” she said. “I’ll fix things so that you’ll be safe from Sōsakan Sano. Rest now, and leave everything to me.”
Shigeru’s eyes were tearful with relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Cousin. What would I ever do without you?”
Rolling over, he snuggled under the quilt. Lady Miyagi extinguished the lamp. Soon Shigeru was snoring quietly, but she lay awake, scheming. Lieutenant Kushida was the logical prime suspect, and Lady Miyagi expected him to be convicted of the crime. Yet she didn’t dare count on it. From the beginning she’d anticipated and prepared for trouble. Already she’d acted in their mutual defense. Now she must take further steps to protect her beloved husband. Their special marriage.
Her life.
26
As midnight approached, the fog dispersed over the ban-cho, the district west of Edo Castle where Tokugawa hereditary vassals lived. Stars glittered in ragged patches of indigo sky. The moon’s radiance turned the fleeing mist to a silvery haze that lit the labyrinth of deserted streets. In the dense bamboo thickets surrounding hundreds of tiny, rundown yashiki, nocturnal life seethed. Foraging rats rustled the wet leaves; stray dogs fought; crickets chirped. But most of the human population slumbered within dark houses. Sentries dozed in gatehouses, enduring the tedium of a quiet watch. All was peaceful—except the Kushida estate: There torches burned above the gate and around the bamboo thicket. Tokugawa troops patrolled the perimeter and perched on the thatched roof, preventing the escape of the criminal under house arrest.
In a small, dark storage chamber converted to a jail cell, Lieutenant Kushida lay on his futon. The alchemy of sleep carried him out of imprisonment, into the Large Interior. Down empty corridors he followed the sound of Lady Harume’s singing:
“Summer’s green bamboo shoots grow tall and bold,
The lotus spreads its pink petals…”
Kushida’s heart filled with joyous anticipation. This time she would accept his love. She would satisfy the terrible lust that gnawed at him.
“Rain showers the roofs,
A cuckoo calls—
Come to me, my love…”
At last Kushida arrived at Lady Harume’s door. He pushed it open and saw Harume lying dead on the floor. Blood drenched her nude body and long, tangled hair. The fatal tattoo branded her shaven pubis like ink on ivory. As Kushida stared in horror, Lady Harume’s eyes opened. Her hand beckoned. In a strangled croak, she sang:
“Come to me, my love!”
Jerking awake, Kushida lurched upright in bed. His chest heaved as though he’d been running. And his manhood was erect, painfully engorged with the lust he still felt for Lady Harume. She had haunted his dreams ever since they’d first met. After her death, the dreams had become nightmares. Yet love and desire persisted. And within his spirit, like
underground steam seeking a fissure through which to explode, swelled his anger toward the woman who had humiliated and ruined him.
Clambering to his feet, Kushida cursed himself for succumbing to sleep and allowing the dreams to come. But he’d needed a reprieve from the harsh reality of his situation. Now he paced the floor, trying to bring his emotions under control.
At first he’d attempted to resign himself to his imprisonment with samurai stoicism. He’d spent the day in quiet meditation, eating the meals brought to him, depositing his urine and feces into the waste bucket. But soon he could hold his peace no more. The room had grown dark and steadily colder since nightfall because his captors would give him no lamp or charcoal brazier, lest he try to burn his way out. The shame of being caged like an animal tormented his spirit. And the internal pressure of anger and need expanded within him, fueling his desperate craving for freedom.
Ten steps along one blank wall, then Kushida turned the corner and marched eight steps along another, and ten more past the door outside which a soldier stood guard. Having memorized the room’s dimensions, he needed no light to direct him. The fourth wall of the room boasted a high, barred window that had once overlooked the garden but now faced a corridor—the house had expanded over the years, with new wings added to accommodate the family’s growth. Now the wavering glow of a candle moved across the window, casting dim light into Kushida’s cell. An old, white-haired samurai appeared in the corridor.
“Can’t sleep, young master?” It was Yohei, a retainer whose family had served Kushida’s clan for generations. As he smiled, sorrow deepened the wrinkles in his round face. “Well, neither could I, so I came to keep you company.”
The rest of the household, including Kushida’s parents, had avoided him all day. They believed him guilty of murder and wanted no share of his disgrace. But Yohei had adored Kushida since his birth, always giving him special treats, caring for him like a doting uncle. He alone had braved social censure to visit Kushida periodically. Now he said, “Are you bearing up all right? Anything I can do for you?”
The old man’s kindness brought tears to Kushida’s eyes. “How did this happen, Yohei?” he lamented.
“Fate often does strange things. Perhaps it is punishing you for the sins of your ancestors.”
After hours of soul-searching, Kushida could blame neither fate nor his ancestors for the ills that his own actions, his own history, had created. Across the distance of twenty-five years, he saw the school where he’d learned the art of the spear. He heard the voice of his teacher.
“All your energy must be channeled into the development of combat skill,” Sensei Saigo lectured the class. “Don’t dissipate your strength in wasteful self-indulgence. At meals, stop eating before you’ve had your fill; let hunger sharpen your awareness. Abstain from liquor and frivolous recreation, which dull the mind and weaken the body. Above all, resist the temptation to gratify your carnal desires. The spear is your manhood. Through it, you shall find true fulfillment.”
Young Kushida had yearned to be a great spear fighter. Hence, he zealously followed Saigo’s teachings. Then one day when Kushida was twelve, he discovered in his father’s study a book of shunga. The frontispiece was a painting of a beautiful naked woman coupling with a samurai lover. A dark, unfamiliar excitement filled Kushida. Instinctively he reached under his kimono. His hands began a motion they’d never been taught. Excitement culminated in blinding ecstasy—followed by anguish and guilt. He’d committed the self-indulgence that Saigo had warned him against, sacrificing discipline to pleasure.
When he confessed his misdeed, the sensei had assigned him extra combat practice and meditation sessions. At first Kushida yielded to his physical urges often, but eventually he overcame his bad habit. He immersed himself in naginatajutsu, attaining impressive skill, and remained celibate. Even while working near the shogun’s women, he could go days, even months, without thinking about sex.
Then Lady Harume came to Edo Castle.
He’d been on duty the day she arrived. When Madam Chizuru introduced her to Kushida, a jolt of recognition rocked him. With her pert face and voluptuous figure, she resembled the girl in the shunga that had provoked Kushida’s first orgasm. Repressed desire exploded in him, and the desire focused on Lady Harume, who’d reawakened it.
Confused by lust, Kushida hadn’t perceived the danger. He decided there was no harm in merely looking at a woman. Thus he’d begun spying on Harume. Soon he stopped combat practice. At night he would stimulate himself to climax while fantasizing about her. He became aware of the loneliness of a life dedicated solely to Bushido. True fulfillment, he discovered, also required union with a woman.
Gathering his courage, he’d confessed his feelings in letters to Lady Harume. When she ignored them and began avoiding him, he persuaded himself that she was just shy, or afraid. He had something precious to offer her: a heart that had never belonged to another woman; a body unsullied by past amorous adventures. How could she not welcome such a gift? So he took the drastic step of speaking his love. But Lady Harume had repulsed him. Her words still hurt like a deep, festering scratch across Kushida’s mind.
“Why do you keep bothering me? When I didn’t answer your silly letters, it should have been clear that I don’t want anything to do with you.” Repugnance distorted Harume’s pretty face. “You must be as stupid as you are ugly. You want me to run away with you? Die in a love suicide with you so we can spend eternity together?” Harume laughed. “You’re not even fit to breathe the same air as me. Now go away and leave me alone. I never want to see you again!”
Humiliated and furious, Kushida hadn’t just shaken Harume and threatened to kill her, as he’d admitted to the Sōsakan-sama. He’d twisted her arm behind her, covered her mouth when she tried to scream for help, and thrust her into a vacant room. There he’d torn her kimono and forced her to the floor. He meant to kill her, then and there—but first he would have her.
Harume fought back. She bit his hand, and when he loosened his grip, she kicked him in the groin. While he doubled over in speechless agony, Harume laughed. As if to increase his pain, she said, “I already have a lover. I belong to him forever. Soon I shall wear a tattoo that proclaims my love for him, on this body that you want so much.” Then she escaped.
In the terrible days that followed, Kushida realized what had happened. He’d thrown away everything—discipline, self-respect, and the serenity of the pure life of Bushido—for a cheap, shallow girl who didn’t recognize his worth. A girl who would tattoo herself, like a common whore! Out of love grew hatred. Kushida blamed Harume for his misery. He plotted revenge. He would sneak into her room while she slept and drive his spear through her. He would strangle her with his bare hands, while having his pleasure from her. These violent fantasies aroused him as much as his dreams of love once had. But never had he foreseen that her death would fail to ease either his desire or his jealous anger. He hadn’t expected to feel such awful guilt over hurting Harume. He’d tried to steal her diary because he feared she’d recorded his attack on her, but he hadn’t anticipated his current sorry predicament.
Now a new sense of purpose grew in him. He didn’t want to live without his beloved Harume, but he didn’t want to die for her murder, either. The disgrace of a public execution would forever taint his clan’s honor. Somehow he must appease Lady Harume’s spirit and bring peace to his own, while restoring the honor of his family name.
However, he could accomplish nothing while locked in this cell. Restlessness tormented Kushida like spiders writhing in his muscles; the pressure inside him mounted.
Yohei said, “How about a game of go? It will soothe your mind, young master.”
Let me out of here! Kushida almost screamed. He wanted to beat on the walls in rage, yet he forced himself to say calmly, “Thank you for coming, but how can we play go, with you out there and me in here?”
Yohei beamed. “Two boards and two sets of counters. We’ll call out our moves and make them fo
r each other.”
Though he had no wish to play, a plan formed in Kushida’s mind. “All right,” he said.
The retainer fetched the equipment. Through the window bars he passed a lacquer container of flat, round black and white pebbles and a four-legged ebony board with a grid, of perpendicular lines incised on its ivory surface.
“You may open the game, young master,” Yohei said.
Kushida placed a black pebble at the intersection of two grid lines. “Eighteen horizontal, sixteen vertical.”
“Four horizontal, seventeen vertical,” Yohei responded.
The pressure grew within Kushida as he set a white pebble in place. Every fiber of him tensed; the need for freedom swelled the blood in his veins. He endured the slow, tedious game, making moves at random. From outside the door came loud snores: The guard had fallen asleep.
“Young master, you’re not concentrating on the game,” Yohei chided. “I’ve captured almost all your pieces, and you haven’t taken any of mine.”
Hating to deceive his friend, Kushida said, “You’re wrong, Yohei. I’m winning.”
Yohei’s puzzled face appeared in the window; he squinted, trying to see Kushida’s board. “One of us has gotten the moves mixed up.”
“It must be me,” Kushida said. “I can’t keep my mind on the game.” Moving close to the window and lowering his voice, he said, “It would be better if we sat together. You could make sure all the pieces are in the right spots.”
Yohei shook his head. “I can’t let you out, young master. You know that.”
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