by Steve Bein
12
Hisami disappeared out the front door almost as quickly as the serving girl disappeared through the back, leaving Saito alone to wonder what had gotten into his wife. Usually she was properly obedient, but today she was salty. No, he corrected himself. Her tongue always carried an edge. That was one of the things that attracted him to her: she wasn’t a meek little rabbit like so many other women. Still, there were times when such a tongue did not befit a woman, and it had already been a long day. The old saying held true: a samurai should allow himself to be wedded only to the sword.
It drove Saito mad to be without his Beautiful Singer. He always felt naked without a blade at his hip, and now that feeling was especially strong. The night ride to Seki was hard and very dangerous in the dark, but with his new weapon bouncing at his side he’d felt no fear. Naturally, he rode back in daylight, and though he was safe from the many dangers of riding by starlight, the trip home left him feeling far more vulnerable. In the dark, pushing a horse to its limit had its thrills: ducking the occasional low-hanging branch, wondering when or if his horse would falter, break a leg, or throw him. Riding unarmed in broad daylight held no such excitement, only the ignominious possibility of being waylaid by bandits.
Saito shook his head and watched Haruko, the serving maid, quietly set tea before him on a lacquered tray. Wrinkles gnarled his cheeks as he pursed his lips in a self-reprobating frown. It was no band of highwaymen that left him feeling cold this morning. It was the sword, or rather the lack of it, and he knew it. Even without his tachi, Saito wasn’t completely unarmed. In his waistband he still wore his wakizashi, a short sword that no self-respecting samurai was ever without. As fine a sword as it was, a tachi could break in battle. That was simple reality. A wakizashi was never to be used in combat except in the event that a warrior found himself without his primary weapon. But the true purpose of the wakizashi was to be an ever-present reminder of the samurai’s mortality. There were only two honorable ways for a true follower of Bushido to die: in battle, or by his own hand in the act of seppuku. Both were the highest act of sacrifice in the service of one’s lord. The wakizashi was the implement of seppuku, and since honor might demand a samurai’s death at any time, he could never be without his short sword. No bandit could face Saito and his wakizashi and live. Saito knew that. Even though it was a shorter weapon, he was more than skilled enough to turn that disadvantage against an enemy. It was not the highway thieves that worried him on his ride back from Seki; it could only have been the sword.
What if something happened to her? The craftsmen of Seki were the best in the land, perhaps the best in the world, but, still, none of them was on a level with the immortal master Inazuma. Would they show Beautiful Singer the respect she deserved? Saito grunted and sipped his tea. Of course they would. These were men who devoted their lives to the sword just as Saito had, albeit in a different manner. They would have no choice but to honor her. How could anyone fail to recognize her beauty, her perfection?
And if they did fail? Saito wasn’t sure how the question crept back into his thoughts. As he replaced the cup on its tray, a falcon keened outside. The cry swept over the house as the bird continued to circle, and Saito heard a familiar note in it, the song of his Beautiful Singer. What if she was somehow damaged? The question was ineluctable, and with a moment’s reflection he knew the answer: anyone who tarnished that sword would die.
It could be no other way. His response was only natural, he assured himself. Anybody who saw someone destroy a great work of art would be similarly moved. Could a person simply look on as a madman put the sculptures of Unkei to the torch? Could one stand by and allow someone to tear The Tale of the Heike to shreds? Never. None of the artisans at Seki would do any harm to his Beautiful Singer, but no one who damaged her could live.
Settled by his decision, Saito began eating his meal. A bowl of steaming rice and a small rectangular plate with slices of raw octopus were sitting on the table before him. Saito realized the serving girl had set them there without his noticing, and the realization shook him. Ordinarily it was impossible for someone to enter a room without his being immediately aware of how they stood, whether they were armed, what defenses there were from where he was seated. That a mere servant could walk in on him unawares was troubling, to say the least. “The ride,” he said to himself, taking a mouthful of rice from his chopsticks. It must have been the ride that exhausted him so.
He nodded, satisfied, and dipped a purple-and-white slice of octopus in a shallow dish of soy sauce and wasabi that Haruko had left him. Yes, it was the ride. He’d been in the saddle for twelve of the past fourteen hours, more than enough to wear on any man. If it had been left to him, Saito would have stayed the day in Seki, waited to retrieve his sword, and returned home the following afternoon. But no samurai was his own man. Saito was only an instrument of Lord Ashikaga, and Ashikaga did not like his vassals running about without his knowledge. Not even a high-ranking samurai would leave his own village without the lord’s consent. Allowing one’s warriors to go where they pleased was the surest way to invite insurrection and assassination. Saito was lucky that he fell in the middle ranks among Ashikaga’s legions, high enough to wear the twin swords and topknot but low enough to escape scrutiny of his every move. Still, it would not do for him to be absent from home should the lord’s messengers come to call. It would also be imprudent to make another unauthorized voyage to Seki; next time he would need permission.
The next time, he knew, would be soon. The craftsmen he’d commissioned in Seki told him that if they rushed, they could finish Saito’s new tsuba by tomorrow. Saito knew they would have to keep their forges burning day and night to do it; so much the better, he thought. Weren’t these tasks what the lower castes were born for? The wooden scabbard he requested would be ready by then as well, and wraps for the grip and sheath were readily available. Very well, he decided as he scooped the last of the rice into his mouth. It would be tomorrow.
He sent for Haruko again and ordered her to tell the house’s head messenger to prepare a carrier pigeon. Soon enough the messenger came to the porch, and Saito dictated a request to make the trek to Seki. Satisfied, Saito went to the bath already prepared for him and drifted off to sleep.
13
In the morning a new pigeon was waiting in the coop of the Saito clan compound. A tiny cylinder of hollowed bone was tied to its leg, and the case found its way to Saito’s breakfast table. He slid the translucent scroll of paper from the little tube and read it silently.
Hisami’s curiosity was obvious. “Lord Ashikaga sends word?”
“Yes,” Saito replied. “He says the taxes are late in Iwatani. I am to go immediately to investigate.” It was only a lie of omission. The tiny note did in fact say all of that. It also said that Saito’s voyage to Seki was approved, but that in the future he would not be so vague in his requests of the lord. This last part was not stated directly but rather by nuance. Not that Ashikaga himself had ever shied away from being blunt. Quite the opposite: the man had no talent whatsoever as a diplomat. Subtlety was beyond him, perhaps even beneath him. But a pigeon could only bear so much weight in flight, and there was only so much room to write on such a tiny scroll. The note’s actual text read, “Iwatani taxes late. Investigate and report. Seki approved; kill your pigeon keeper.”
Though unstated, the true message was clear. Saito’s communiqué was deemed curt, presumptuous, and wholly improper for a vassal of his lowly status. He had committed an act of gross misjudgment in making his vacuous request to go to Seki without informing the lord of his purposes, but this time the lord would choose to interpret this as the messenger’s mistake. Saito would have to find himself a new pigeon master, a man of greater discretion. This essentially meant Ashikaga would never grant Saito this sort of reprieve again. One warning was more than the lord was wont to give, and though the note made Saito’s face redden, he knew he was lucky.
Saito didn’t bother to mention any of this to Hisa
mi. He barked to one of the house retainers to prepare his horse. Hisami reached out and touched his hand. She swallowed dryly before she spoke. “What’s troubling you?”
He grunted noncommittally. “Nothing. It’s just that Iwatani is so far from here. Our fief has expanded, but it hardly stretches that far. This should be none of my concern.”
This was also a lie, but only partially. Iwatani was his concern by way of sheer coincidence. The town lay a mere thirty ri from Seki, on the periphery of Lord Ashikaga’s domain. Its nonstrategic location and small population made it unworthy of a permanent garrison. Thus, if Saito rode to Seki, he would conveniently become Ashikaga’s closest samurai to the area. If Saito hadn’t sent his request, he wouldn’t have been dispatched to Iwatani. Saito wondered whether the errand had been given as a minor form of punishment.
Again he chose not to voice any of this to his wife. She would be suspicious enough of where he’d gone the night before last, and all this time she’d been holding her tongue about his sword. He knew she’d noticed it was gone. She was samurai, after all. That she hadn’t made mention of its absence yet was only a testament to her good sense. If she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t have to answer, so he wouldn’t have to lie and thus would not be caught in a lie. Her silence preserved honor for both of them. Now if only he could get out of the house and into his saddle before she decided to say something.
“Don’t worry so much,” was her only advice. “The lord has already widened your fief, neh? Perhaps he has plans to extend it further. Perhaps he will grant you everything between here and Iwatani! That would be grand, wouldn’t it?”
Saito smiled despite himself. “You are a good woman, Hisami. Buy yourself a new kimono while I’m gone.”
She beamed. “Oh! Thank you! You’re too good to me. Tell me when you’ll be back so I can have it on for you when you return. And then I’ll take it off for you, neh?”
He smiled again, but this time it was hollow. Somehow the thought of lying with her made his stomach turn. He was anxious to get on the road and return his Beautiful Singer to his side. “Yes. When I return.”
“When will that be?”
He made some quick calculations in his head and said, “Tomorrow.” On a map Iwatani was farther than Seki, but the road to Seki followed the wide curves of a valley, making that journey the longer one. Getting from Seki to Iwatani involved backtracking along that valley, and he knew he couldn’t retrieve his sword and finish his business in a single day. “There may be a great deal to settle in Iwatani,” he said, stretching the truth again. “I can’t promise I’ll make it home tonight.”
She nodded, smiled, and helped him prepare for his journey. Saito only took a moment to locate the man in charge of his pigeon coops and tell him to start looking for his own replacement. Then he went back to readying himself for the journey to Iwatani. He packed only what he would require for the road, leaving behind everything he knew he might need should he be delayed in Seki and be forced to camp between there and Iwatani. A man didn’t carry a bedroll unless he planned to sleep on it, and as far as Hisami was concerned, Saito would spend tonight at home or at an Iwatani inn. Even as he chose to leave the bedroll stored where it was, he wondered why he was deceiving Hisami yet again this morning. In the seven years they had been married, he couldn’t recall one instance of lying to her before yesterday.
14
“It is an exceptional blade, my lord,” the sword smith stammered. Saito looked at the man quizzically. He was young, not yet thirty, but hardly a boy to be frightened into stammering by the presence of a samurai. He was clad in the white robes of a Shinto priest, a black cap atop his head. All the smiths of Seki were priests, and their swords were fashioned with religious ritualism. It was their reverence and dedication that made them the best. “I have never seen the like.”
“No, you have not.” Saito expected relief to wash over him upon seeing his Beautiful Singer again, but instead his heart plunged into his bowels. The priest’s nervous tone was enough to sicken him, and over the white-robed shoulder he saw his beloved sword lying stripped on the tatami mat behind the priest. The handle was removed from the weapon, and the blade lay naked on a silk cloth. “What have you done to her?” he demanded.
The priest-smith’s eyebrows rose momentarily at the accusation. “N-nothing. The tachi is fine; we simply have not remounted the handle yet.”
“Why not?”
“The, um”—the sword smith faltered—“the inscription. You have seen it?”
“No, though you are an insolent one for asking.” The smith might have been an ordained priest, but he still ranked below a man of samurai lineage. “I know what it says. It is an Inazuma.”
“More than Inazuma, lord. It is the Beautiful Singer.”
Saito’s brow gnarled. “And?”
The priest-smith’s eyebrows jumped again. “I dare not offend you, but it is best that you know: the blade is cursed.”
“Is said to be cursed,” Saito corrected him.
“But the legend—”
“Is nothing but a legend. I’ve faced scores of men on the battlefield; do you expect me to be afraid of mere words?”
The young priest swallowed. “Begging my lord’s forgiveness, ‘mere’ is not a word I would use in connection with this blade.”
“Quite to the point—she is anything but ordinary. I assume the work you have done for me is equally exceptional?”
The priest knew he had already overstepped his bounds and hastily turned to pick up the new tsuba. “I sincerely hope it pleases you.”
Saito took the metal disc in his hand. It was black-lacquered steel with the Saito family crest gilded in the center. The crest was a double-diamond motif, one layered atop the other. A hole the shape of an elongated teardrop would allow the tachi’s blade to be inserted right through the center of the diamonds. The double diamonds gleamed in gold against the black, and Saito inevitably thought of his deceased father. The Saito clan had long been samurai, but it was Saito’s father who rode into battle under the flag of those diamonds and made them worthy of Ashikaga’s notice. The house of Saito had been a minor one until then, but his father’s victories pushed the family’s star high into the sky, making Saito proud to bear his name. Saito hoped he could accomplish as much himself one day.
Next the priest offered Saito the new scabbard, while two other acolyte-smiths carefully fitted the Inazuma blade with her new grip and tsuba. The scabbard was oak, lacquered to a flawless black sheen with the Saito crest once again in gold leaf. The craftsmanship was unsurpassable, the final product a masterpiece, but Saito paid it no mind. His eyes glossed over the scabbard, but his thoughts remained locked on the sword itself. When the sword smiths finally bowed and presented her to him, it was all he could do not to snatch her out of their hands, and to thank them instead.
Once she was back in his grasp, he felt like a whole man again. Abruptly he realized his earlier haste and tried to cover it. “You have done well,” he said, sheathing the sword. He bowed to the three smiths and they to him; then he was off to Iwatani.
15
The sight of a samurai on horseback was more than enough to terrify the average farmer. In the saddle, any warrior was fearsome—a thousand pounds of galloping muscle were threatening enough—but when that warrior wore the topknot of a samurai, his riding inspired fear and reverence in any commoner. So it was that Saito entered the village of Iwatani. Roads cleared for him, and crowds hushed as he passed. By the time he reached the town square, all eyes were fixed on him.
“Who is your headman?” he bellowed.
A reed of a man scampered out from the encircling crowd and fell to his knees, dust rising around him. “I am, lord.” The village headman was old, nearing sixty, and Saito could see almost every bone and tendon in his body. Few commoners were overweight, but this man looked as if the skin had been pulled tight against his frame by some goblin sitting inside his chest. He was browned by long hours in the rice paddies and w
ore no more than a loincloth and straw sandals.
Saito looked down at the top of the man’s head. “Your name?”
“You may call me Ojiya if it pleases you, lord.”
Saito urged his horse to retreat a few steps, then dismounted. “Rise, Ojiya. Look at me.”
The frail little man obeyed. He met Saito’s gaze with awe, as if staring at the very face of Buddha himself. Then, with the same reverence, he dropped his eyes again to Saito’s chin. “My lord?”
“Taxes,” Saito said, seeming to project his height over the man into his voice. It was no wonder the villagers were struck by him. A samurai ate fish and vegetables with every meal; these people were lucky to get more than a bowlful of rice gruel a day. They were also lucky to be drawing breath, Saito reminded himself. Without Ashikaga’s protection, bandits or other warlords would steal even their gruel from them. That protection demanded a price. “Taxes,” he intoned again.
“We have paid ten koku, my lord.”
“The tax is forty.”
Ojiya bowed again, trembling with nervousness. “My lord, we have paid what we can. You can see for yourself we have no more.”
Saito’s eyes roamed the surroundings. “I see perhaps a hundred of you standing here. Why are these people not in the fields?”
“My lord, it has not rained in twenty days. Lord Ashikaga must understand—”
“Lord Ashikaga understands what he wishes to understand; you are in no position to tell him what he must do.” Saito’s tone earned him a new fit of bowing, heads all around the square bobbing with renewed vigor. “Now, then,” he said after Ojiya returned to his feet, “you will tell me when the remaining thirty koku will be paid.”
“Lord, we cannot—”
“You must have something stashed away. How else do all these people get food? I can see for myself that they aren’t farming it themselves.”
