by Steve Bein
“Then I was right after all,” Yamada said, sighing. “I’ve been feeling self-conscious all day. Even when I brush my teeth, it occurs to me to wonder whether they think I’m doing it right.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Some of those guys haven’t discovered toothpaste yet.”
Yamada laughed. “Oh, I bet the boys just love working with you.”
“I’d love working with them too if they would just treat me like one of the boys.”
They made their way through the house to the backyard, with a quick stop at the sword rack in the study on the way. Mariko loved the fact that Yamada had a sword rack in his study, and the fact that he had another one in the bedroom made his house the best place in the world. It was like standing on an island in time: everything progressed normally all around it, but here on the island time stood still. Cooking was done on a stove, not in a microwave. Writing to a friend meant pen and paper, not an e-mail, certainly not a text message.
And yet despite Yamada’s uncanny ability to stand apart from the forces of modernization, there was one respect in which he made the rest of the country seem positively medieval. “Thank you,” she said as they walked down the back stairs. “For treating me like a student and not a girl student. I wish the guys at work would learn a thing or two about that.”
“Oh, what do they know? I hear some of them haven’t even discovered toothpaste yet.”
They practiced for two hours straight. After stance and footwork came overhead strikes, then diagonal strikes, until Mariko’s shoulders were so sore she could hardly lift her arms, much less her sword.
Sweating and panting, she said, “Sensei, maybe we can take a little break.”
“Oh ho. Think you’ve learned enough, eh?”
“Not enough, but maybe enough for now. After all, you said this sword is called Glorious Victory Unsought, neh?”
“Ah. So you were paying attention.”
“Of course. I’m glued to your every word, Sensei.” Mariko smirked. “And since I’ve already got Glorious Victory well in hand, why push so hard on the training? With a name like that, how can I lose?”
Yamada narrowed his unseeing eyes. “This is the sword that will kill you the moment you drop your vigilance against that very thought. You weren’t paying attention at all, little girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“If you want to joke around with that sword in your hands, I’ll call you whatever I like. I’m the sensei here, little girl.”
“Don’t,” she said, and she stepped in to press the attack. He turned her sword aside, just as he’d done a hundred times before.
Mariko anticipated the move. She slipped to the side too, evading his katana. Now she had him. His whole right flank was exposed. Little girl, my ass, she thought, and she raised her sword to strike.
Yamada didn’t bother raising his weapon. He just stepped aside. Mariko didn’t even see it when he kicked her foot out from under her. She hit the grass, careful to land on her left shoulder, holding the sword high and clear of the ground in her right. But in protecting the sword, she forgot about protecting herself. The ground hit her like a truck—a truck with a big, sharp hood ornament to stab her in the ribs.
She looked at Yamada’s blade, hanging easily in his wrinkled hand, its razor-sharp tip close enough to tickle her under the chin. The tip of her own weapon brushed the close-cropped lawn. He didn’t need to speak the lesson aloud; had it been a real fight, the price for her imbalance would have been her life.
At last the weight of the sword overcame her, and she flopped to her back so that she could rest the blade on her chest. An ache throbbed deep inside her right shoulder, as if it still strained to hold the sword off the ground. On any other day, she would have found the back of the heavy blade painful across her breasts. Today she let the narrow line of pain sit there, the better to rest her shoulders.
“Do you know how I felled you?”
“Temper.” Mariko spoke with her eyes shut. “You called me a little girl and I lost it.”
“No. You wanted to show me that you were not a little girl. You wanted to show me what you had learned. Then the sword betrayed you.”
With her eyes closed, Mariko could smell her own sweat, overpowering even the fresh scent of the grass. “What do you mean it betrayed me?”
“Had your posture been balanced, I could not have swept your foot. You know full well I cannot see even as far as my own toes. I stepped where I guessed you might step; it was your imbalance that took you over my foot. I did not sweep you so much as you did—or, properly speaking, as your weapon did.”
It was impossible. Steel couldn’t betray anyone. And yet his explanation matched the facts exactly.
Mariko surprised herself with how quickly she came to accept the impossible. But in the end she was a detective; she believed what the evidence told her, and that was that.
She got to her feet, her ribs and aching shoulders protesting the whole time. “Sensei, will you show me what you did to me before? That foot thing?”
“‘That foot thing’ is called a sweep,” Yamada said, settling easily into a ready stance of his own. He seemed bigger, instantly threatening; images sprang to mind of a panther perched on a branch above unsuspecting quarry. “Come,” he said.
She lunged to the attack. He sidestepped. Her foot struck his; she felt her weight lurch forward; she only barely saved herself from falling.
“Well done!” said Yamada, practically in her ear. His naked blade was mere centimeters away from her. The big Inazuma was too long for such close quarters; if he wanted to counterattack, she would be dead.
Mariko gave a noncommittal grunt. “You would have killed me.”
Yamada laughed. “But not the way I would have last time. You did not fall prey to the same sweep twice. You’re improving.”
“Ehh. Not quickly enough.”
“You demand too much of yourself, Inspector. Not even Musashi learned all his swordsmanship in an afternoon.”
Mariko knew all about demanding too much of herself. It was why she needed to win triathlons, not just finish. It was why she’d made sergeant, why she’d made detective, why she wanted to command a manhunt instead of a stakeout. It was why she hadn’t given up on her sister yet. Leaving Saori to reap the consequences she’d sown for herself wasn’t just the easier choice; it was the reasonable choice, much more sensible than trying to save an addict from herself. But Mariko couldn’t do that any more than she could let Beautiful Singer run its course with Fuchida.
And yet that too seemed so easy, so tempting. The sword might well kill him. Mariko didn’t understand how inert steel could betray a freely choosing human being, but now that she’d experienced that phenomenon herself, she could not deny the possibility that Fuchida’s sword had the same power. If Yamada was right, Fuchida’s body would turn up soon enough, and it seemed the only collateral damage would be a few dead pushers.
Mariko wished she could be content with that. Stakeout work was easy. Mariko didn’t have the disposition to just sit and watch the monitors like some of the guys did, but she was lead on the case. She could commandeer the Aihara house, and during the hours she had the place to herself, she could do sword drills all day. The thought of Ko paying her to practice her kenjutsu brought a smile to her face. The smug bastard deserved it. She’d taken enough shit from him. She deserved her day of rest.
On top of that, half the cops on the force would have said whoever was next on Fuchida’s hit list probably deserved to die. Wages of sin and all that. But they were wrong. Mariko knew it. Even drug dealers had rights, and Mariko had taken an oath to uphold those rights. Even if the sentence for trafficking were death, it should have been a judge that pronounced it, not a crazed yakuza butcher.
And that butcher was out there somewhere. Mariko sheathed Glorious Victory and handed the sword respectfully to Yamada. Bowing, she said, “I’m sorry, Sensei, I’ve got to go home and look over my case notes again. There’s
got to be some hint in there of how to nail Fuchida. I just have to see it.”
“Good luck, Inspector.”
Mariko replied with a wry laugh. “This isn’t another one of those things where you know all the answers in advance, is it? Because that was annoying as hell the last few times around.”
Yamada chuckled. “I’m afraid not.”
“It’s just…I’ve got this feeling, you know, like I’m right on the cusp of figuring something out, but by the time I figure it out, it’ll be too late. You ever get that feeling?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
Yamada frowned. A dark shadow fell over his face, and he cast his unseeing gaze to the ground. At length he said, “People died.”
Mariko frowned too. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
BOOK SIX
AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA ERA,
THE YEAR 20
(1587 CE)
46
My name is Ōda Yoshitomo,” the challenger said when Daigoro and Ichirō greeted him at the gate. “I come to test the skill of the Okumas.”
His entourage was just four horsemen: two retainers and an older samurai with thick eyebrows that made him look vaguely owl-like. The older man, Daigoro soon learned, was Ōda Tomonosuke, head of the Ōda clan. Yoshitomo, champion of the Ōdas, had eyes that flicked to and fro like startled minnows. He was lanky, a bit shorter than Ichirō, and thus almost a head taller than Daigoro. He wore faded gray with black hakama, and his sword grip was well-worn.
“What will you fight with,” Ichirō asked, “wood or steel?”
Lord Ōda’s forehead furrowed, and his champion said, “Lord Toyotomi has decreed that duels should be fought using bokken.”
“Ah, that he has,” said Ichirō. “If the house of Ōda has no will of its own, I suppose we can follow the will of a greater house.”
All of the Ōdas immediately tensed, and Yoshitomo was out of the saddle with his hand on his sword before Daigoro could get a word in. “Lord Ōda,” Daigoro said, inserting himself in front of his brother, “please, let us take some tea and discuss the terms of the duel.”
“No,” said Yoshitomo. “He has insulted me! I demand satisfaction.”
The elder Ōda looked at his champion, then at Ichirō, then at Daigoro. At last he said, “First we will have tea.”
Negotiations lasted as long as it took the sun to set. First Daigoro introduced his mother. They spoke about the weather and conditions on the road and news of the war in the west. Daigoro complimented Lord Ōda on his horses, and on the fitness and fiery zeal of his challenger. Ōda revealed that Yoshitomo was his son—his fourth of six—and complimented Daigoro and his mother on the beauty of the family compound. At last they came to the matter at hand. Daigoro argued for a battle of bokken, and his terms were granted at last—on the condition that he be the one to fight.
Daigoro and Ōda Tomonosuke emerged from the tea house, paid their respects to the shrine of Daigoro’s father, and found their respective champions glowering at each other, kneeling in ready positions just two paces apart. “You shall duel with bokken,” Lord Ōda announced, “and you shall face young Master Daigoro.”
Lord Ōda’s son tightened his fists, ground his knuckles in the sand, and bowed stiffly to Ichirō. Then he stood, his body tense as if Ichirō were a venomous snake whose reach he was unsure of, and bowed to Daigoro. Daigoro noticed the bow to him was deeper than that to his brother. He was thankful that Ichirō failed to notice the fact, but Ichirō could not have seen it, for he had shifted his glare to Daigoro. “Coward,” he muttered.
Ōda Yoshitomo whirled, unsheathing his katana. He came within a hand’s breadth of cutting Ichirō’s head from his shoulders when his father bellowed, “Stop!”
“He called me a coward!” said Yoshitomo. “You heard him!”
Daigoro tried to intervene, tried to explain the true target of the insult, but his leg was too slow to carry him into the courtyard and Ichirō’s voice drowned out his own. “It seems our rival would prefer a battle of steel on steel,” said Ichirō. “Give me the sword, Daigoro.”
“I won’t,” Daigoro said. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m only giving him what he wants. Now give me Glorious Victory.”
Daigoro now stood between his brother and the armed Yoshitomo, who had sunk into a combative stance and trained the tip of his sword on Ichirō’s throat. “You know I won’t,” said Daigoro.
“You would deny the will of Toyotomi himself, the man who may well become shogun?” There was no need for Daigoro to answer. “Then get out of my way, little brother.” Ichirō drew his own sword. “The duel begins now.”
Daigoro stood his ground, and Yoshitomo circled around to his left. Ichirō shot Daigoro a final glare, then shifted to match Yoshitomo’s movement. Daigoro hobbled backward toward Ōda Tomonosuke, preparing his abject apologies.
Before he reached him, the duel was over. There was the ring of clashing steel, then a garbled cry from Ichirō. Yoshitomo stood back as Ichirō fell to his knees. His back was drenched with blood, torrents of it cascading from the base of his neck. His head hung forward, unattached on one side. He fell face-first to the sand.
Yoshitomo whipped his sword in a gory arc, cleaning it of blood before resheathing it. He bowed to Ichirō’s bleeding form, then to Daigoro, then to their mother, who stood aghast beside Lord Ōda. As servants and healers flocked to Ichirō’s side, the Ōdas took their leave.
47
The wound was as grave as any Daigoro had heard of. According to the family’s chief healer, who had once exchanged medical techniques with a southern barbarian doctor and had even spent some years learning his trade in China, Ōda’s sword had cut one of Ichirō’s neck bones. The spine was still intact, but only barely. Had healers not been standing mere paces away from the fight, Ichirō surely would have died where he lay.
But they had managed to stitch his neck back together, and then the question became how to get tissue and bone to mend. Old Yagyū, House Okuma’s chief healer, called for timber, a carpenter, and as much rice as could be found.
While the carpenter followed old Yagyū’s instructions, three servants dug a pit in the courtyard deeper than Daigoro was tall. Yagyū and the carpenter tied a rope around Ichirō’s head and bound it to a beam. Under Yagyū’s supervision, the healers lowered Ichirō into the pit, holding him erect, trying at the same time to shoo away the flies congregating on the jagged, bloody black line of stitches on his neck. Then the healers filled the pit with rice and affixed the beam on Ichirō’s head to bamboo poles thrust vertically into the rice. When the work was finished, Ichirō was buried up to his chin, his head fixed so that he could not move it at all. Yagyū rubbed a mixture of oil and pine resin over the stitched wound just before the last layer of rice was shoveled on. Ichirō could not move, but he might live.
A month later Ichirō was still alive and no more duels had been fought. At times Ichirō’s stagnant muscles would pain him so badly that he would cry out, moaning through his lips since his jaws were tied tightly shut. Other times he was beset by madness; the itching was so bad. Servants sat with him constantly, fanning the horse flies away by day and the mosquitoes by night. Drinking was a laborious chore; eating was even harder. More than once Ichirō asked his attending servants to kill him. He never asked Daigoro, for Daigoro made the asking impossible. A lowly servant could not dispatch a man of Ichirō’s station, but Daigoro knew he would have to honor the request, so he made sure never to approach within earshot while Ichirō could see him.
But he sat with Ichirō as soon as Ichirō fell asleep, or when he passed out from the pain or the heat. Sometimes Daigoro would creep up behind him, taking a servant’s fan himself, and spend wordless hours cooling the back of Ichirō’s head.
He did not know what else to do. Every day he knelt at the shrine to his father, asking for advice. All I have ever done, he thought, is adhere to your will, Father. All I have ever done is try to
follow your path, and now that path has led to something you never would have willed. Your eldest son suffers worse than any animal under heaven. Would Glorious Victory have saved him? Its length, the strength of its steel—were they the advantages he needed? What should I have done differently? What am I to do now?
There was no answer to his questions within the family stronghold, so Daigoro took his thoughts, his wakizashi, and his father’s ōdachi up into the mountains. He rode aimlessly for an hour, distantly hoping that some wind spirit would blow an answer past his ears. The mountains were lush and green, punctuated by the purple flowers of kudzu in full bloom. The flowers smelled of grapes, and their scent came to him on a warm zephyr that also carried tidings of an evening rain. Far below, the sea beat its susurrating rhythm against the stones of the shore. Izu was at its most beautiful, but it held no answers for Daigoro.
Looking up, he found himself suddenly at Kattō-ji, though he had no idea how he’d come there. He’d intended to ride in the opposite direction but then got lost in his ruminations. He wondered whether his mare preferred the temple. Perhaps some ancient buddha had been reborn into her. Daigoro did not care. A vine-covered hilltop was as good a place as any to fail to find the insight he sought.
“Young Master Okuma,” called a voice near the temple’s ash-gray surrounding wall, and Daigoro looked up to see the abbot standing there. “Are you still practicing your swordsmanship?”
“Every day.”
“But not up here. Have you come to show me your masterpiece again?”
“No. I was just…wandering.”
“Ah. Then perhaps your masterpiece has come to see ours. Come inside, won’t you?”
Not knowing what else to do, Daigoro lowered himself off his horse, tethered her to a post beside the gate, and followed the abbot into the temple grounds. The old abbot was spry; he walked as quickly as a man half his age. “You presume a great deal,” Daigoro said.
“Do I?”
“You do and you know it. You walk too fast for me to keep up. I could cut you down where you stand if I were to take offense to it.”
