The peasant regained his balance and looked at the four hard faces staring back at him. He licked his lips again. A tight knot of fear grew in his belly and moved up to constrict his throat. “Please excuse my stupidity,” the peasant said hastily. “Of course you may take anything you wish. It was my fault entirely that I did not make myself clear. Please help yourself. Dozo! Please!”
The smile returned to the samurai’s lips, and he motioned to the rest of the pack to pick up some fruit. Half the melons disappeared into their hands. Helplessly, the peasant looked at the depleted stock of melons left to him. He was depending on the money from selling the melons to feed his nine children. Still, better to have hungry children than a large family without a father. “I hope you enjoy them,” the peasant said with forced pleasantry, while thinking he hoped the melons gave the thieves cramps.
“And what do you have to give us?” the leader of the pack said to the servant.
“Excuse me, Samurai-sama?”
“Are you deaf? I said, ‘What do you have to give us?’ This peasant has been generous with his melons. Surely you can be equally generous with some of your purchases.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t, Samurai-sama. I am Sadakatsu, a servant of the cadet branch of the Noguchi family. My mistress would be very distressed if I did not return with all the supplies she sent me to get.”
The leader looked at his three companions and snickered. “The cadet branch of the Noguchis. He’s not even a servant to the main branch of the family!” He turned his attention back to the servant. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.” He gave the servant a hard shove, and the old man staggered back into the arms of one of the other ronin. This ronin pushed the servant away from him and sent the old man sprawling in the dirt, his packages scattering about him. Looking down at him, the leader said, “Now have we made ourselves clear, or do we have to administer a few good kicks to further explain things to you?”
“I’m sorry, Samurai-sama, but my mistress would never approve of me giving away the food she has sent me to fetch.” The old man looked up, defenseless but not frightened.
“This fellow is very dense,” the leader said. “I think we’ll have to administer a good beating to help clear his mind, so he’ll know to be generous when given the opportunity.”
“Melons,” a voice said.
Startled, the ronin leader looked up to see another samurai standing next to him. He was in his early thirties and muscular in the shoulders and arms. From his looks, the newcomer was a ronin, too.
The newcomer reached over and took a melon out of the hands of the leader. “Hey!” the leader said, but the newcomer ignored him. He took his sword out of the scabbard in a smooth motion and the four ronin stepped back in surprise.
The newcomer took his sword and held it, cutting-edge down. He tossed the melon lightly onto the back of his sword. He caught the melon there and balanced it on the thin edge of steel. He tilted his sword up slightly and the melon rolled toward the tsuba. Then he tilted the sword downward and rolled the melon the other way. Finally, he leveled his sword and held the melon motionless on the back of his katana. He said, “Catch your half.”
“What?” the leader said, still mesmerized by the display of control exhibited by the newcomer in balancing the melon on his sword.
The newcomer gave his sword a quick flick and sent the melon high into the air. In one smooth motion, he brought his sword around and sliced the fruit neatly in two while it was still in the air. With his other hand, he reached out and caught half of the fruit. The other half fell to the dirt because the ronin leader was too startled to make a grab for it.
“You let your half fall to the ground,” Kaze observed. “That’s too bad. It’s a shame to waste good fruit.” He looked at the other three. “Have you paid for your melons yet?”
“He, ah, the peasant, ah, gave them to us,” one of the ronin said slowly, his eyes still glued on the half of the melon on the ground.
“He doesn’t look like a rich man,” Kaze said. “So we can’t let him be foolish in his generosity. I know you’ll put back what you can’t pay for.”
The four men looked at one another, and Kaze took a quick cut with his sword, slicing air and making the four ronin jump. Hastily, they put the stolen melons back on the pile in front of the peasant. Kaze smiled, and the four ronin started backing away as a group. They turned and hurriedly walked out of the marketplace, looking over their shoulders to make sure the man with the quick sword was not following them.
“Thank you, Samurai-sama!” the peasant said.
Kaze held up the half melon in his hand. “How much for this melon?”
“Nothing, Samurai-sama! This time it truly is a gift. I want you to have it!”
Kaze gave a small nod of his head to acknowledge the gift and reached down to help Sadakatsu up. When he got to his feet, the old man gave a low bow. “Thank you, Samurai-san. That was very kind of you. You saved me from a beating.”
“Tell Elder Grandma that food shopping can be an adventure. Do you need help picking up your packages?”
The idea of a samurai helping a servant was so novel and strange that Sadakatsu could barely stammer a refusal.
“All right, then,” Kaze said. He replaced his sword in its scabbard and took out the ko-gatana knife, slicing off a piece of melon and eating it with relish. He looked at the peasant and said, “Oishi! It’s very tasty!”
“See,” the peasant said triumphantly to Sadakatsu. “I told you my melons were good!”
Kaze left the two men to resume their bargaining. He was glad he didn’t have to fight the four ronin over something as silly as stolen melons. Well, he thought, he supposed it would actually be a fight about something besides stolen melons.
There was a time when Kaze would have gladly fought over melons, or almost anything else. In fact, dueling just for the sake of fighting seemed to be a growing trend. But Kaze remembered what his Sensei had told him about fighting.
The Sensei had just finished a lesson on military strategy, and Kaze, full of youthful enthusiasm, had said, “I can’t wait to go fighting. My father has taken me on some military campaigns, but I was left to guard the camp with the other boys while the men went off to fight. When I get done with this training, I’ll be big enough to fight, too. Then I’ll know the glory and beauty of war.”
The Sensei fixed two steady eyes on him and said very softly, “Listen to me. There is no glory or beauty in war. There’s beauty in the weapons of war and the brightly colored armor and helmets that we wear. There’s beauty in columns of men marching off to war with banners flying and the tramp of hundreds or thousands of feet upon the road. There’s even beauty as the first wave of men charges against the enemy, their swords and spears flashing in the sunlight.
“But once the men clash and the killing starts, there is no beauty—only death and destruction. The best swords are kept in their scabbards, and the best armies do not have to fight. Hideyoshi showed that time and time again when he was able to conquer and defeat enemies with his words or the threat of his army instead of actually spilling blood.
“As for glory, the only glory in war is doing your duty as a samurai. And that same glory can be found by diligently performing your work when you are doing something like inspecting a castle.”
“But Sensei,” Kaze blurted out, “if there is no glory or beauty in war, why do we fight?”
The Sensei sighed. “I was once crossing a bridge near Nara,” he said, “and I looked down at the stream and saw a woman there. She had a huge pile of clothes to wash and she was scrubbing each piece of clothing in the river, beating it against a rock. She had already washed so many clothes that she was actually having trouble doing the washing, because her fingers were bleeding and she had to use great care not to get blood on the clothes she was washing. I looked at her, surprised to see the blood, and asked her, ‘Obasan, lady, why are you washing clothes when your fingers are bleeding?’ The woman stopped washing for a
moment and looked up at me silently, and then I felt foolish and ashamed.”
The thought of the Sensei feeling foolish and ashamed was something outside the realm of Kaze’s imagination, and he stood there speechless for several moments. Kaze did not understand the Sensei’s story or why it should develop feelings that seemed alien to the Sensei’s character. Finally, Kaze worked up his courage and said, “Sensei, I know I’m stupid, but I don’t understand the story.”
The Sensei looked at Kaze and said evenly, “It is never stupid to ask when you do not understand. The woman was washing the clothes because she had to. She may have been the servant of a cruel master. She may have had an unreasonable mother-in-law. Perhaps she made money by washing the clothes and had children to feed. But whatever the reason, she was washing the clothes until her fingers bled because she had to. And that is the same reason we study war and fight as samurai. It is our karma to fight, just as it is our karma to die. I sometimes think that all samurai must have been especially wicked in a former life to be brought back as warriors. No matter how haughty we are or how we try to dress up the trappings of war with talk of beauty and nobility, the fact is that we deal in death. There is nothing wrong with that, because all things must die, and that includes samurai. But you must not confuse the necessity of doing something with the joy of doing something. When the humblest potter creates a cup, he is doing more than what we accomplish, even if we kill a hundred men. The potter deals in the art of creation. We deal in the art of destruction.”
Now Kaze was dealing with something that was neither creation nor destruction. He was supposed to find out what happened to Noguchi Mototane, a man he knew neither by appearance nor by character.
Elder Grandma was convinced that Mototane was dead because he had not killed Hishigawa and he wasn’t in Kamakura. Yet, he was a man and therefore he could be diverted from his duty by drink or women. For all her fierceness, would Elder Grandma have the objective knowledge to see these flaws in her own blood?
Mototane’s absence could also be explained by something as simple as a slip or fall. Perhaps he was laid up in some roadside teahouse waiting for a broken bone to heal. Perhaps he was dead. But also, perhaps his death had nothing to do with Hishigawa, and he was a victim of the countless brigands, bandits, and thieves who now inhabited Japan.
Enomoto had denied that Hishigawa had been attacked at the villa. Was that a lie? If Enomoto had killed Mototane under orders from Hishigawa, that would be a serious offense—a merchant ordering the death of a samurai. Yet Enomoto could also claim he had simply killed Mototane in a duel, and the authorities would think nothing of the event, except to record it officially. Kaze did not think it wise for him to deal with the Tokugawa officials. To check on this possibility, he would have Elder Grandma inquire with the Kamakura authorities.
Kaze had an interesting spot to look at in the villa grounds, but what if Hishigawa had had Mototane killed and buried somewhere outside the villa? The hills of Kamakura were full of secluded spots and caves, and it would be easy enough to hide a body. How could Kaze find such a spot? He had wandered Japan for almost three years looking for the Lady’s daughter. Would he now have to wander the hills of Kamakura looking for the hidden grave of a man he did not know?
CHAPTER 18
There! Then quickly gone.
You blend with a cloudy day.
Elusive shadow!
Kaze walked through the streets of Kamakura methodically checking each neighborhood to see if there was a nine-year-old girl that fitted the circumstances of the Lady’s daughter.
As he walked down a wide side street, a dozen men walked out of an inn. They were wearing black armor, and several had banners in their hands. The banners were black with a white diamond, surrounded by eight bent bamboo leaves. It looked more like a spider than what it was supposed to represent—a square well surrounded by a bamboo grove. They were Okubo’s men.
Kaze stopped to look at the merchandise in front of a vegetable stand, slouching his shoulders and trying to look like a henpecked samurai husband shopping for dinner, a job usually done by the wife. The stand had small purple eggplants, large white daikon radishes, and green leafy vegetables of all types displayed in shallow wooden trays. Kaze lifted a few vegetables to examine them, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers coming out of the inn. He was trying to blend into the background instead of calling attention to himself.
The merchant came out of the shop, bowing obsequiously and saying, “What can I get for you, Samurai-sama?”
Kaze pointed to a few small purple eggplants, then hunted in his sleeve for a copper coin. As he did this, the vegetable merchant took some rice straw and expertly tied it into a sling to hold the eggplants. Merchants had special ties to hold all sorts of vegetables, fruits, and produce. There were even special slings to hold one, two, three, or four eggs, all twisted from rice straw when the merchandise was selected.
As Kaze paid for the eggplants, more of Okubo’s troops came out of the inn, including some officers. Catching a glimpse of the officers, Kaze realized he could no longer rely on playing a part to masquerade his identity. He turned and started walking away from the inn, negligently swinging the eggplants from one hand.
“You!” One of the officers was calling to him. Kaze didn’t turn around. He kept walking, not increasing his pace, but not slowing down, either.
“Get him!” The officer commanded his men. The officer shouted Kaze’s real name. He had been recognized.
Kaze started running down the streets of the neighborhood, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword to steady it. Behind, he could hear the sound that came from men running in armor, the metal plates of the armor, sewn to a leather backing, banging against each other.
The street was narrow but straight because they were in a part of the city laid out in a grid. This made following Kaze easy for his pursuers and made it harder for him to elude them. He cut down a side street, then ducked into an alley. He ran behind a shop past a privy occupied by a man. Although the privy had only a half door, made of woven reeds in a bamboo frame, the man ignored Kaze, as if he weren’t there, and Kaze did the same. Kaze briefly thought how convenient it would be if he could actually make himself as invisible as Japanese etiquette demanded people act they were when presented with potentially awkward situations.
Emerging from the alley, he continued down a street. He looked over his shoulder. Although he had outpaced the men chasing him, he had not lost them. He turned down another side street and had run half its length before he realized it was a dead end, terminating at the gate of a large cooper’s yard instead of at another street.
Quickly glancing around, Kaze realized he would not have time to escape out of the cul-de-sac without being caught by Okubo’s men.
The cooper’s yard was large and bustling. At the gate was a large piece of wood with a picture of a painted barrel, a sign easily understood by both literate and illiterate customers. At the front of the yard, just inside the gate, several men were busy finishing large barrels for bulk sakè storage and manufacture. In the back of the yard, pre-made barrels of all sizes and shapes were stored, waiting for shipment or sale.
Kaze ran up to a large, burly man who seemed to have an air of command. The man looked at Kaze with a raised eyebrow, curious about a ronin bursting into the yard carrying eggplants.
Kaze said just one word. “Toyotomi.”
It was a calculated gamble. Tokugawa Ieyasu had been ruler of Japan for less than three years, and he had been ruler of the Kanto area for only a dozen years. Ieyasu had been given the Kanto, the rich area around Edo, as a reward and ploy by Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Ieyasu’s hereditary fief was Mikawa, the province of the three rivers. By offering him the richer Kanto, the wily Hideyoshi had simultaneously rewarded his most important ally and moved him to a new base of power, which would temporarily weaken him as he gained control of his new domain.
Although they had ruled the Kanto for a dozen years, Ieyasu’s m
en still referred to themselves as Mikawa-bushi, Mikawa warriors. They lacked deep ties to the Kanto, and Kaze was gambling that the feeling was mutual. Toyotomi Hideyoshi, on the other hand, had a special place in the hearts of peasants because Hideyoshi had been a peasant himself. He had come from nowhere and ascended to command based on his intelligence and ability, not his family.
Hearing “Toyotomi,” the man in charge of the cooper’s yard understood the situation immediately.
A few moments later, Okubo’s men thundered up to the gates of the cooper’s yard, panting from the exertion of running in armor. Sword drawn, the officer in charge walked into the yard and looked around. The men in the yard seemed to be going about their business, making barrels or tying them up for transport. The officer looked behind him and satisfied himself that the street was a trap. The man he was looking for, Lord Okubo’s enemy, must be in the yard. Dreams of reward flitted into his head, blanking out the thought that this man, a renowned swordsman, would be dangerous when trapped.
“Who’s in charge!” the officer shouted.
A burly man walked up to him and bowed.
“Where is he?” the officer demanded.
“He, Samurai-sama?”
The officer gave the lout a cuff with the back of his hand. The burly man staggered from the blow.
“The ronin,” the officer shouted. “Where did the ronin go?”
Holding his cheek, the burly man pointed toward the back of the yard with his chin. “He went back there, Samurai-sama. I thought he was looking for a barrel to buy.”
The officer snorted and motioned to his men to fan out and search. They took out their swords and formed a long line that covered the yard from side to side. They moved forward cautiously, not sure if the quarry would bolt from behind a stack of barrels or attack in a desperate, suicidal attempt to evade capture. Their quarry’s ability with a sword was well known. All of them knew the story of how their Lord had been crippled with a wooden practice sword by this samurai.
Jade Palace Vendetta (Samurai Mysteries) Page 15
