The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn

by Tom Hoobler

  But what was Tomomi’s purpose in coming here at all? If his disguise were discovered, he would be imprisoned, or more likely executed on the spot.

  Judge Ooka had told Seikei to follow Tomomi because there might be another criminal in the case. Seikei had obeyed, only to find that Tomomi’s path led back to the man from whom he had stolen the jewel. Evidently, Tomomi had not finished whatever his mission was.

  No, the actor was inside Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki, for certain. So it was Seikei’s duty to wait here until he came out—alive or dead.

  20: A Promise to the Spirits

  Waiting was difficult when you did not know how long it would take. Seikei knew by heart the stories of many brave samurai, but all of them had distinguished themselves through their honor and courage. It took no courage to wait, only patience. Seikei forced himself to think of Oishi, the leader of the Forty-Seven Ronin. Oishi had waited for more than a year before taking revenge for his lord’s death, all the while enduring the insults of those who thought he had abandoned the code of the samurai. Yet Oishi never wavered, never . ..

  Seikei suddenly snapped awake. He had not realized that he had been sleeping, but he saw that the night was even darker now. The moon had slipped behind a cloud. Something had awakened him, though. He remembered it intruding on his dream.

  What was it? A footstep? The sound of rustling silk? He held his breath, straining to hear the sound again. Nothing.

  But someone had passed by him as he dozed. He was sure of it. It must have been Tomomi. Who else could have emerged from Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki?

  Seikei rose and ran down the street the way he had come, trying to keep his sandals from slapping against the stones. At the first cross street, he peered in both directions, trying to pierce the inky black shadows. Which way? Which way? There! He had heard the sound again. He rushed on blindly through the darkness in pursuit of it.

  All at once, he was grabbed from behind. He felt his face enveloped in silk. Seikei opened his mouth to cry out, but could not. A sweet-smelling perfume filled his nostrils, and his muscles grew weak. He clawed at the silk, desperately trying to pull it away from his face. But the arm beneath the silk was too strong.

  Then he remembered his sword. With the last of his strength, Seikei drew it from his obi and flailed upward, feeling it strike something hard. He heard a gasp, and felt the attacker’s hold loosen.

  Seikei wrenched free, turning to face his assailant. Both hands on the hilt of the sword, legs apart in the fighting stance, he prepared for another attack.

  A high-pitched giggle echoed through the street. “You again,” came a woman’s voice, which Seikei recognized. “I taught you too well, didn’t I?”

  “Why are you talking like that?” said Seikei. “I know who you are.”

  “Really? Then you know me better than I do,” replied the silky voice. “Especially on this night, when the spirits return.” Tomomi leaned close; his white-painted face shone like the moon itself. “Have you seen them?” he whispered.

  The question sent a shiver through Seikei’s body.

  Tomomi noticed. Nothing ever escaped his piercing eyes. “There’s no reason to fear them,” he said. “They return to see what we have done to honor them. Through us, they can enter the land of the living once more. It is a time to be happy.”

  He put his hand on Seikei’s shoulder. “Put your sword away,” he said, in a voice more like a man’s now. “There is no need for it. I heard you following—you should learn more about the art of silence, by the way—and I thought you were one of Lord Hakuseki’s men.”

  “But you came from there,” Seikei blurted out.

  “So you did follow me,” Tomomi said. “Well, no matter. You remember the line I taught you?”

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

  “You hear?” Tomomi cried joyfully, whirling around and raising his voice into the darkness around them. “Mother? Father? Tomorrow I will keep my promise to you.”

  Seikei looked nervously around, feeling the presence of the spirits he could not see. Tomomi started down the street. “Come then,” he said. “Let us return to the others and begin work on the play. We have only a day to rehearse. And the performance must be perfect, for the shogun himself will be present.”

  Seikei rushed to keep up with him. “The shogun? How can that be?”

  “Through the generosity—and vanity—of Lord Hakuseki,” Tomomi explained. “The shogun, you see, has a secret fondness for the kabuki plays, but of course he cannot go to a public theater, even in disguise as so many samurai do. So Lord Hakuseki has employed our troupe to give a special performance in his yashiki. The lord wishes to impress the shogun. Now that he cannot make him a present of that marvelous rare jewel, which has mysteriously disappeared, he will surprise him with a kabuki performance. And indeed it will be an unforgettable evening.”

  The sound of Tomomi’s laughter rose into the sky like a flock of geese. And it was true—Seikei felt the spirits respond. Perhaps it was only Tomomi’s voice echoing down the deserted streets, but it sounded to Seikei like the dead speaking. What were they saying? He strained to hear, but he could not make out the words.

  21: The Rehearsal

  Seikei and Tomomi made their way back to the inn where the rest of the troupe was staying. Seikei lay down on a mat and immediately fell asleep. But his rest was brief, for as soon as the sun was up, Tomomi— now in his own clothing—awakened everyone. It was time to rehearse, he announced. Tonight they would perform for the shogun.

  The play he had written was an elaborate one. Kazuo emptied the trunks, looking for costumes and props. “Find the rosaries and crucifixes,” Tomomi commanded. Everyone knew that meant there were going to be Kirishitans in the play.

  The Kirishitan religion had arrived in Japan almost two hundred years before, brought by foreign devils from a distant country beyond China. A powerful daimyo named Oda Nobunaga allowed Kirishitan priests to preach their religion within his domains. Some Japanese became Kirishitans, and for a time it was popular to wear Kirishitan symbols as jewelry.

  After Nobunaga’s death, his ally Ieyasu Tokugawa was named shogun, or military commander of Japan. His descendants had held the post ever since. Because the Tokugawas feared that the Kirishitans were plotting a rebellion, they banned the religion and executed any Kirishitans who clung to their faith.

  Even so, it was rumored that some Japanese continued to practice the religion, though they risked the death penalty for doing so. Seikei, growing up in Osaka, had sometimes heard that people kept shrines to Kirishitan saints hidden inside their houses. Seikei’s father had always told him to pay no attention to these stories.

  Tomomi’s play began in the household of a daimyo whose family had, in fact, secretly kept the Kirishitan religion during all the years when it had been banned. The hair on the back of Seikei’s neck tingled when he heard the family name: Takezaki. The play would be the story of Tomomi’s own family.

  And now Tomomi pointed to him, saying, “You will play the eldest son.” The actor locked his eyes on Seikei’s, and added, ‘Your name is Genji.”

  Seikei nodded, knowing that it was a kind of honor: he was to be Tomomi’s younger self.

  Kazuo could not keep from showing his disappointment. “How can you let him play a role? He is no actor.”

  “A better one than you suspect,” Tomomi shot back.

  “You promised that I could go on stage someday,” Kazuo persisted.

  Tomomi shrugged. “Very well. We’ll let you appear as a servant, then. But you’ll die horribly when the play is only half over.”

  Kazuo looked pleased. “Very horribly?” he asked.

  “As dreadful a death as we can imagine for you,” Tomomi muttered.

  The excitement shone on Kazuo’s face.

  The other actors expected Tomomi himself to take the role of Lord Takezaki, the head of the family, but he assigned it to another actor. “I will play his wife
,” Tomomi announced. “Faithful to her husband, devoted to her son, beautiful, wise, and courageous—as a true samurai woman should be, for her family too was a noble one.”

  “In addition to these qualities, does she have a name?” someone asked sarcastically.

  Tomomi gave the man a look that made Seikei shiver. “Nanaho, daughter of a branch of the Fujiwaras, the most noble family in Japan,” he replied coldly.

  Seikei wished that Tomomi was playing another role, for he had not forgotten how strange the actor became when he donned women’s clothes. But the others approved, for they knew that Tomomi’s appearance on stage as a female was popular with audiences.

  It seemed to Seikei that no one else suspected that there was a deeper meaning to the play. Even Kazuo, who had heard Tomomi proclaim himself as Genji, son of Takezaki Kita, was too caught up in the excitement of his first stage appearance to let that bother him.

  The first scenes of the play were happy ones, showing a family lovingly devoted to each other. For the audience, the interest would be the strange Kirishitan rituals that the Takezakis practiced in secret rooms known only to their servants—who were Kirishitans as well. Portraying Kirishitans on stage was acceptable, as long as they eventually came to an unhappy end.

  And as the play developed, that fate soon seemed inevitable. For a neighboring daimyo learned the secret of the Takezakis. The role was assigned to Yukio, the actor who had played the father of the tragic lover in the troupe’s previous play. This time, he was outfitted in a grand and spectacular costume. His clothing was padded and stiffened at the shoulders to make him seem a giant of a man. His helmet was crowned with a golden sunburst that added a full two feet to his height. But the effect was spoiled because Yukio was barely able to walk in the costume. As he waddled across the floor, the helmet slipped over his eyes and the elaborate garments constantly threatened to trip him up.

  “I need someone to help me walk,” Yukio complained to Tomomi.

  “No, you’re perfect,” Tomomi replied. “Lord Shakuheki must be an immense figure, showing his ambition to be great.”

  Lord Shakuheki? When Seikei heard the name, he knew who the enemy of the Takezaki family really was. Tomomi had barely attempted to disguise it. But what could the actor be thinking of? To put on this play, to mock Lord Hakuseki in this manner—in his own house! It was madness.

  Yet Seikei could do nothing about it. The other members of the troupe trusted Tomomi’s promise that they would perform before the shogun himself. It was a great opportunity for them. During breaks in the rehearsal, it was all anyone talked about. Perhaps, some said, the shogun would reward them if the performance pleased him.

  The plot continued to unfold. Lord Shakuheki had once wished to marry Nanaho, but she persuaded her parents to accept the offer of another man—Takezaki Kita. Lord Shakuheki’s pride was wounded, but he concealed his bitterness, pretending to be a friend, until he discovered that Takezaki was a Kirishitan and his wife had adopted the religion.

  Lord Shakuheki hatched his plans to destroy the Takezaki family. He sent a messenger to the shogun, asking permission to search for Kirishitans and execute them. Then he visited Nanaho to warn her. “My samurai are as many as the grains of sand on the beach,” he bragged. “Your husband, who has violated the decree of the shogun, cannot resist me. I will have his head. But I offer you a chance to save your life. If you renounce your religion, I will spare you and your son.”

  Tomomi, in his role as Nanaho, faced the lord with contempt. Though he wore no makeup, Tomomi easily became a woman again. “You are a man without honor,” she replied. “You have treacherously used our friendship to betray my trust in you. Who could accept such an offer and live?” With that, she turned and left.

  Nanaho told her husband of the danger, and the Takezakis prepared to fight. Calling their servants and samurai together, they prayed to the Kirishitan god. Kazuo, as one of the servants, raised his voice loudly in the words that Tomomi had written. And then, Tomomi brought an object from his kimono, holding it high before the assembled company.

  Seikei saw with shock that it was a large golden crucifix—with a red jewel at the top of the cross! He could hardly believe it. He had seen Judge Ooka smash one such ruby at the inn, and witnessed Tomomi leave another at the shrine of Amaterasu. Yet now there was a third. Could it be the real one?

  Tomomi, as Nanaho, prayed to the strange god who hung on the cross. “All who follow the Lord Kirist,” she said, “know that a paradise awaits those who die in his name. And as samurai, we know that honor demands it.”

  The next scene was the battle in which Lord Shakuheki’s men attacked the Takezaki castle. It was bloody enough to please any audience, for the loyal Takezaki retainers fought furiously. Yet one by one, they died before the swords of the invaders. Kazuo, playing the faithful servant, had his head cut off (a false one, tossed onto the stage as Kazuo hid his real head under his costume). But Kazuo continued his loud cries of agony until he was sharply informed that without a head, he must silently accept his death.

  Takezaki Kita, Genji’s father, was among the last to die. As he fell, his wife rushed forward to grasp his sword. She fought off Lord Shakuheki’s men and escaped, taking her son with her. At the edge of the stage, she handed him the sword in its scabbard. “Take this,” she said, “and flee. Lord Shakuheki will not pursue you, for my death is all that he desires.”

  Seikei, playing the role of Genji, accepted the sword. He saw that it was the one he had found in Tomomi’s trunk, and now understood its secret.

  With that, Nanaho stabbed herself, choosing the honorable death of seppuku.

  The waddling figure of Lord Shakuheki now appeared. He discovered Nanaho’s body and took the jeweled cross from her kimono, raising it high in triumph. But Genji rushed forward to confront him.

  The actor playing Lord Shakuheki drew his own sword and slashed him across the face. As Tomomi directed, the blow struck Genji across the right cheek. Seikei pressed his hand to his cheek, smearing a concealed oilskin packet of red paint across his face.

  And now . . . the line he had rehearsed so many times: “I swear that I will see you disgraced,” shouted Seikei, and leaped through a window, escaping the fate of the others.

  The cast agreed that the play was a thrilling one, though some pointed out to Tomomi that the last line was puzzling. It left the audience wanting another scene.

  “There is one more scene,” said Tomomi, “but Yukio and I will rehearse it together.”

  “Will you appear in it?”

  “Yes. He and I are the only characters.”

  “Then Nanaho will return to Lord Shakuheki as a ghost? What does she say?”

  But Tomomi only shook his head mysteriously. “It will be a surprise,” he said. “You will learn it tonight, when we perform the play for the shogun.”

  Of course, everyone wanted to know the secret now, but Tomomi refused to let the others watch. “Get something to eat,” he said. “Then pack the costumes and props. We will leave for the performance at sundown.”

  Seikei followed the others out of the room. Though

  he too was curious about the last scene, his head was buzzing with everything he had learned. If only there were some way to find Judge Ooka! Tomomi’s motive for stealing the jewel was now clear. And the jewel itself might not be resting at the shrine of Amaterasu—Tomomi might have put a false one there, knowing that Seikei would tell the judge.

  Suddenly a voice interrupted Seikei’s thoughts. “What did you think of it?”

  It was Kazuo, grinning broadly.

  “The play?” replied Seikei. “The play is a crazy—”

  “No, I mean my performance,” said Kazuo. “Do you think the shogun will like it?”

  Seikei shook his head ruefully. “Kazuo,” he said, “don’t you remember the night when Tomomi said that he was Genji, the son of Takezaki Kita?”

  The night he took your sword away? That didn’t mean anything.” Kazuo chuckled. “Tomo
mi was just writing the play in his head. He always pretends he’s one of the characters. He never stops acting, even when he’s off stage. It’s one of the things that makes the teahouse girls fall in love with him.”

  “But the play is true,” Seikei insisted. “And tonight we’re going to perform it for Lord Hakuseki. He’s the real Lord Shakuheki. It’s obvious. Don’t you see? This is part of Tomomi’s revenge.”

  “Oh, no. You’re wrong,” said Kazuo confidently. “Nobody would be that foolish. If that were true, the lord would probably kill us all.”

  Seikei nodded grimly. That was exactly what would happen. His only hope was that Judge Ooka had guessed correctly where the path would lead. He sighed. Not even the judge could know that. But Seikei was pledged to follow it to the very end.

  22: The Performance

  Seikei had not been able to eat. He was too nervous about what might happen at the performance of the play. All afternoon, he had drunk cups of tea, trying to calm his stomach. The tea had only caused him to become more resltess. His mind returned over and over to the story of Tomomi, the wandering actor, the samurai, the thief.

  Each time Seikei had thought he had solved the puzzle, Tomomi did something that caused a new mystery. When Seikei discovered that Tomomi had taken the jewel, Tomomi surprised him by leaving it at the shrine of Amaterasu. Then Seikei found that Tomomi was indeed the samurai he claimed to be. He had a samurai’s sword, and knew the skills it took to use it. But then why did he follow the life of a kabuki actor?

  Seikei kept thinking nervously about the real sword that he had discovered in Tomomi’s trunk. For a brief moment, Seikei had held it on stage during the rehearsal, but his role had not required him to draw it from the scabbard. It remained hidden, like the secrets that Tomomi had yet to reveal.

  At sunset, the troupe gathered their trunks and set out for Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki. In the streets, the celebration of the bon festival was still going on, but Seikei paid no attention to the merrymaking. He said a silent prayer to his own ancestors, but sensed that they were far away in Osaka and could not find him here.