The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn

by Tom Hoobler

  Toshio’s family unfolded their tatami mats and set- tied in for the night. But after everyone else was asleep, Toshio sneaked away. The stage darkened, and the stage crew swiftly set up a new scene. As the lanterns lit up again, the audience saw a teahouse in the “floating world.” The silhouette of a beautiful geisha was reflected onto a paper screen. Softly she played the samisen and sang a mournful song, lamenting her lover who had failed to come to her tonight.

  Seikei sat up abruptly, mouth open, staring at the screen with the shadow-image of the geisha. That was exactly what he had seen on the screen of his room in the Tokaido Inn. What he had imagined were the horns of the jikininki were actually the pins that the geisha stuck in her thick hair. This was the ghost.

  Toshio appeared out of the darkness and came tiptoeing up to the teahouse. He tapped twice on the screen. A high voice—exactly like a woman’s—called out, “Who is there?”

  “It is Toshio. I have come. Please, I must see you.” Fascinated, Seikei could not tear his eyes away as the screen slowly slid open, revealing a beautiful geisha clad in a blue kimono covered with embroidered white chrysanthemums. The audience broke into applause. They knew it must be a man, and appreciated the illusion he created.

  It was impossible to tell that the actor was not a woman. It was not just the kimono, the makeup, and the wig. Every step and gesture was delicate and alluring. Seikei half fell in love with her himself, till he reminded himself that this was in fact the man he knew as a thief—Tomomi. Or was he really Genji, the son of a samurai? Clearly, he could be anyone he wished to be. For a second, Seikei envied him, understanding why a man would wish to be something he was not.

  But why would anyone give up being a samurai? That would be the greatest disgrace of all.

  Seikei sat mulling over his thoughts as the play continued. On stage, Toshio pledged his love to the geisha, whose name was Motoko. As he told her of the marriage his father had arranged, she knelt before him and grasped his hands. “Will you still think of me when you are married?” she asked.

  “Think of you?” Toshio cried. “It would be impossible for me to live without you. I cannot think, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep in my distress. Tonight I came here because I want you to run away with me.”

  Motoko’s hands fluttered like swans. “There is no place where we can go,” she said.

  “There is! There is! ” Toshio insisted. “We can travel to the north, find some place where no one knows us.”

  Motoko shook her head and turned away from him. “I cannot go,” she said with a sob. “I am bound here for twenty years, obliged to serve the teahouse until the end of that time.”

  “That doesn’t matter!” cried Toshio. The teahouse owner will never find us, I promise you. We will go to the other side of Fujiyama, to a fishing village on the coast.”

  “And how will we live?” asked Motoko, turning toward him with a sad smile.

  “I will become a fisherman,” he said, nodding earnestly. “Every day I will cast my nets into the sea and bring up so many fish”—Toshio spread his arms wide, trying to carry all the imaginary fish—“that we will soon become rich.”

  The wistful look on Motoko’s face showed that she knew it was only a dream. “I cannot leave the teahouse,” she said softly. “My parents, who are old and frail, received a payment for sending me to work here. In return, I promised to stay for twenty years. If I left, my family would be dishonored.”

  Seikei, and everyone in the audience, knew that this was a powerful reason. From their earliest childhood, everyone was taught the importance of family. Just as it was unthinkable for Toshio to refuse his father’s choice of a bride, so it was impossible for Motoko to disgrace her parents by breaking her contract.

  Toshio and Motoko danced and sang to express their love and pain. They yearned for nothing more than to remain together, but as the sun rose, Toshio tore himself away while Motoko sank to the floor in tears.

  Toshio walked along the narrow runway that extended out into the audience. Lamenting his fate, he cried, “What to do, what to do? I must find a way to rescue Motoko so that we can be happy. But how?” Just as he asked this question, there was a jangling sound offstage. The musicians added the sounds of their instruments to it, and as the jangling grew louder, Toshio’s eyes opened wide. Everyone in the audience could see that he was struck by a great idea. The jangling was the sound of money.

  As Toshio crept closer to the stage, a screen slid aside so that the audience could see his father counting his money. Seikei’s face burned at the sight. The grossly fat merchant was sitting at a table that held endless stacks of glittering coins—silver, gold, copper. The old man’s face showed the delight he felt in his wealth. But as his son Toshio walked slowly around the table, the audience had the same thought Seikei did—he had so much, he wouldn’t miss some of it.

  17: The Double Suicide

  It made Seikei feel uneasy to watch Toshio carefully lay plans to steal his father’s money. Seikei could not help recalling the strongbox at home where his own father kept the profits from his business. The play’s message seemed to be that disgracing one’s family was forbidden, but stealing from one’s father was all right—as long as he was only a merchant.

  Unhappy, Seikei got up and walked backstage. Most of the actors were preparing for the next scene, which was to be Toshio’s wedding to the merchant’s daughter. Seikei looked around for Tomomi, wanting to see the actor up close in his female costume. He seemed to have disappeared, and Seikei cautiously approached the screen behind which the actor had prepared for his role.

  Tomomi wasn’t there either, but Seikei noticed that

  a large trunk had been left open. It was overflowing with costumes—gorgeous silk kimonos of crimson, sky blue and forest green. Seikei lifted one of them carefully, letting the silk run through his fingers like water. As he placed it back in the trunk, his fingers touched something hard underneath the costumes.

  Curious, he reached down and felt the hilt of a sword. Seikei looked over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was watching. Slowly, he lifted the sword. It was sheathed inside a scabbard made of black lacquer that shone so brightly Seikei could see the shadow of his hand pass over it. Set into the surface of the lacquer were silver crosses—the Kirishitan kind, with one arm longer than the other three. Seikei was certain that this was not a prop—it was a real sword.

  The voices from the room on the other side of the screen had died down. The cast had gone on stage for the big wedding scene, and Seikei could hear the muffled sounds of the music starting. Cautiously, he wrapped his hand around the hilt, which was wrapped with silver threads to make it easier to grasp. The sword slid out noiselessly, with just the slightest resistance—as it should, for it was meant to serve its owner as easily as if it were a part of his body.

  Respectfully, Seikei exposed only a few inches of the blade. His heart pounded when he saw its polished surface, which gleamed like a mirror. There was no doubt that this was a sword that a master craftsman had forged, perhaps centuries ago. Such objects were passed down from samurai to samurai for generations. Seikei knew that if he touched the edge with his thumb, it would draw blood. The men who made such swords tested them on the bodies of executed criminals—if a blade could not cut through a corpse with a single blow, it was melted down.

  The rustle of a silk kimono made Seikei jump. As he turned his head, he found himself staring into the face of the geisha Motoko. The illusion was so complete that it took a second before Seikei realized who it really was—and then he remembered to be afraid.

  Seikei stammered an apology as he slid the sword carefully back in the scabbard, but Motoko seemed not to notice. Her eyes remained as gentle and sad as they had been on stage. “What do you think of my son’s sword?” she said.

  Seikei was wary. The voice was that of a young woman’s, not of a man’s. He knew this was really Tomomi, but Tomomi refused to step out of his role.

  “I didn’t—I didn’t know yo
u had a son,” Seikei replied to the geisha’s question.

  Swift as a cat, she reached out and cupped Seikei’s chin before he could draw away. He could feel her long nails press into the flesh of his neck. “Oh yes, yes, I have a son,” she said with a sad smile. “You look a bit like him, in fact. His name was Genji, but now he calls himself Tomomi.” Her dreamlike eyes probed into his, and Seikei felt that he was looking into a woman’s soul. “Do you know why he had to change his name?” Motoko asked.

  The question, and the eerie voice in which it was asked, made Seikei very uncomfortable. It seemed almost as if she really thought they were talking about someone else. “No, I don’t,” said Seikei. “Why?”

  “Because of me,” she replied.

  Seikei twisted his head to slip out of her grasp. Just at that moment, Kazuo put his head around the corner of the screen. “Oh, there you are. It’s time for your suicide, Tomomi.”

  The actor’s eyes cleared briefly, and he nodded, waving Kazuo away. Then he became Motoko again, softly placing an arm around Seikei’s shoulders. “Come watch,” she said. “I want you to see, to remember how it is done.”

  Reluctantly, Seikei followed and took his place with the musicians again. As the play unfolded to its tragic climax, the audience saw Toshio’s plans unravel. Though he had bought Motoko’s freedom from the teahouse with the stolen money, his theft had been discovered. Toshio’s father, enraged when his son did not show up for the wedding to the merchant’s daughter, reported his son’s crime to the local judge, who sent samurai to find the fleeing couple.

  The play’s final scene took place on a cliff overlooking a rushing river. Toshio and Motoko were trapped, but they sang to each other, describing how they would meet again in another world, reborn into new bodies in a place where they could find happiness. They turned toward the audience one last time, begging them to remember the story of two people whose only crime was that they loved each other. Linking arms, they leaped over the cliff together as the music swelled to a crescendo.

  The audience applauded wildly. Seikei looked across the stage at Kazuo, who was standing behind the scenery with bamboo whisks that imitated the sound of flowing water. Kazuo shrugged, as if to say, “Who knows why people like suicides so much?”

  But Seikei understood. It was the only honorable thing to do. By choosing to die, Toshio and Motoko showed that their love for each other was stronger than the fear of death.

  As Seikei was meditating on this, he felt a hand grasp his arm, and turned to see once more the face of the geisha, who had risen from her watery grave to come up behind him. But now, even with her makeup, she was again Tomomi. “You remind me of myself when I was your age,” he whispered. “You must stay with me. I have much to teach you.”

  That very night, Seikei’s training began. Tomomi kept him at the theater after the other actors had removed their makeup and costumes and departed. Tomomi seemed to have completely forgotten finding Seikei searching through his trunk. “In Edo,” he said while removing his makeup and costume, “I am going to present a new play. You will have a role in it.”

  “But I am not an actor,” Seikei protested. “Use Kazuo. He wants to appear on stage.”

  Tomomi waved the suggestion away. “The role is that of a son of a samurai. Kazuo has no talent for it.” He pointed at Seikei’s wooden sword. “Why are you wearing that? What does it signify?”

  Seikei took a deep breath. “I am not really a samurai. I am only a merchant’s son.”

  Tomomi shrugged. “So you are playing a role already. Continuing it on stage will not be difficult.” He smiled. “I told you I could teach you to use a sword. Are you ready?”

  Seikei could not resist. It was the chance to learn from a master. For hours they practiced in the empty theater with the dull swords that the kabuki troupe used. Tomomi taught Seikei how to move his feet swiftly, sliding not stepping, never crossing one foot over the other, moving back and forth and side to side, as easily as if he were a dragonfly on water.

  At last Tomomi nodded. “You can imitate the footwork, but of course you are holding the sword completely wrong.” He replaced his own sword in the scabbard, and then drew it again with a flash. “One hand brings out the sword,” he said. “But then you must seize it with both hands. Like this.”

  Seikei followed his example, finding that the hilt of the sword was long enough for both of his hands.

  “Raise it! Raise it!” Tomomi commanded, and Seikei lifted it high over his head.

  “That’s right,” Tomomi said, and without warning slapped his own sword across Seikei’s cheek. Stung by the blow, Seikei rushed forward, trying to return it.

  But the actor stepped aside, tripping Seikei as he went by and sending him sprawling to the floor. Tears rushed to Seikei’s eyes, but he was determined not to let Tomomi see them.

  “What do you say? What do you say?” Tomomi shouted.

  Seikei stared at him, open-mouthed. He did not know what a samurai said when humiliated. “Must I kill myself?” he asked.

  “You say,” Tomomi replied slowly, “I swear that I will see you disgraced.”

  Silence fell over the room. “Say it! ” Tomomi commanded.

  “I swear,” Seikei repeated, “that I will see you disgraced.”

  “That will be your most important line in the play,” Tomomi said. “Always watch your opponent’s eyes,” he added casually. “And now to bed. Tomorrow we must reach Edo.

  18: A Sword Fight

  Tired as he was, Seikei got little sleep that night. Dreams of what he had learned kept waking him. The image of Tomomi dressed as the geisha burned in his memory. If he needed any further proof that Tomomi had stolen the jewel, that provided it. Now Seikei knew that it was Tomomi, wearing that same costume, who had appeared in the doorway of the room in the Tokaido Inn. Because Seikei had just heard the story of the horned jikininki, he had imagined that was what it was.

  Seikei could hear his father’s voice scolding him for having too much imagination. Somehow, Judge Ooka had guessed the truth, connecting Seikei’s story to the troupe of actors who had performed nearby. But the mystery only seemed to deepen, for why would Tomomi go to such trouble to steal the jewel and throw blame on someone else by leaving a false one— and then leave it at the shrine of Ise?

  The answer must be revealed in his new play. Judge Ooka had thought so. “There may be another criminal,” he had said. Who could that be?

  Most of all, Seikei’s dreams were haunted by the sword, the real sword, in Tomomi’s trunk, and the actor’s strange reaction when he discovered Seikei handling it. Anyone else would have been enraged. But over and over, Seikei heard the woman’s voice— the geisha who had ceased to be Tomomi—asking, “What do you think of my son’s sword?” The sword, sharp and shining and deadly, flashed toward Seikei in his dreams.

  Seikei jumped awake when a hand touched his shoulder again. He still felt the geisha’s long nails digging into his neck. But it was not Tomomi—only Kazuo looking for help gathering wood to start the cooking fire for breakfast.

  As the actors started out on the road again, Seikei’s legs felt as if they were made of stone. Tomomi, however, seemed full of life and energy. He did cartwheels along the road, causing a group of travelers to laugh and applaud.

  Kazuo dropped back alongside Seikei and asked, “What were the two of you doing last night? You didn’t come back from the theater until very late.”

  Seikei shook his head. “We were rehearsing,” he replied.

  ‘Then it’s true? That you’re getting a role in the play Tomomi is writing?”

  Seikei heard the disappointment in Kazuo’s voice, and said, “It’s only one line.”

  “But still...“ Kazuo said, “it will be a very important performance. Tomomi has been telling some of the others that we will appear before the shogun himself.” Seikei stared at him. “That’s impossible. Everybody knows samurai are forbidden to attend the kabuki.”

  Kazuo shrugged. “Samur
ai often come to our plays. They just disguise themselves as ordinary people.” True enough, Seikei thought, for the judge had brought him to see The Forty-Seven Ronin. “But not the shogun,” said Seikei.

  “People say that the shogun is fond of entertainment,” said Kazuo. “He who makes the laws may disobey them, don’t you think? Who would punish him? Anyway, it will be interesting to see Edo. I’ve never been there before.”

  Seikei was about to reply that he hadn’t either, when a sudden blow from behind knocked him sprawling onto the ground. He rolled over and saw Tomomi standing over him.

  “Caught you!” laughed Tomomi. “Merchant boy, don’t you know that samurai are never off their guard?”

  Seikei did know that. The book by Daidoji Yuzan, written for samurai in training, had told him so. “Sleep with one eye open,” it had advised. He gritted his teeth and stood up, determined not to let Tomomi catch him again.

  But he did. An hour later, when Seikei had been thinking about the sword in Tomomi’s trunk, something hard slapped across his cheek.

  This time, Seikei realized at once what it was. He whirled and saw Tomomi with a sword. But it was only a play sword, one from the chest of props.

  “What do you say?” Tomomi taunted him.

  “I swear,” replied Seikei, “that I will see you disgraced.”

  “That’s right,” Tomomi said with a nod. “Now you have it. You’d like to draw your own sword now and strike me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Seikei muttered.

  “But you must never do that when you are angry. You will only charge forward blindly and put yourself at the mercy of a swordsman whose mind is calm. Catch your enemy when he does not expect you.”