by Tom Hoobler
At the checkpoint to the inner city, Tomomi showed a paper and the guard waved them through. The troupe made their way through the winding streets, finally arriving at Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki, where the banner with his mon flew over the gate. But the guards there would not let them through, even after Tomomi showed his paper.
Seikei felt a sudden surge of hope. Perhaps they would be unable to enter, and have to return to the inn. But no. It was only that lowly kabuki actors could not pass through the main gate, which was reserved for nobles and samurai. Instead, they had to proceed around the wall to a lesser gate meant for tradespeople and merchants.
At the side gate, a servant was waiting, and let them inside. As Seikei filed through with the others, he realized that this was a perfect way to smuggle a sword inside the yashiki. No one bothered to look inside the trunks the troupe carried. No one thought them worthy of a second glance.
Inside they passed through a splendid garden. Even in the twilight, Seikei could see that it was planted with gorgeous flowers and trees that were pruned neatly into shapes that dazzled the eye. It was a breathtaking sight, one that must have required dozens of gardeners to maintain. But after a second, Seikei thought of the simple rock garden at Judge Ooka’s house. The judge’s garden invited the viewer to look within himself. The one in Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki forced people to contemplate the greatness of the man who owned it. And of course, a truly great man would never do that.
The servant led the troupe into a great hall. “Here is where the lord entertains his guests,” said the servant. “Prepare swiftly, for they arrive soon.”
As Seikei looked around, he saw that there was no place for an audience to watch the play. “Where will the daimyo’s guests sit?” he asked.
Tomomi pointed to tall bamboo screens that sat around the walls of the hall. “Behind those,” he said. “The daimyo and his guests are too high in rank to let actors look upon them. It would wound the shogun’s dignity to reveal that he was watching our performance.”
“But how can they see us through the screens?”
“Go and look.”
Seikei slipped behind one of the tall screens. Though it was dark here, he could feel comfortable cushions resting on the floor. When he turned, he could see the actors lighting lanterns on the stage. The slits between the strips of bamboo in the screen were wide enough to see through.
He was disappointed. He was curious to see what the shogun looked like, but even more he wanted to know if Judge Ooka had followed the correct path and come to attend the performance. It was a slim hope, but his only one.
The traveling troupe was accustomed to set up their performances in the courtyards of shrines, in Buddhist monastery halls, even in an empty field if that was the only place for an audience to gather. A kabuki performance depends on the ability of the actors to create a scene in the imagination of the audience, so there is little scenery. A hiding place, a rock from which lovers can leap, or a wall with a doorway or window—like the one Seikei would use to escape—are all that is necessary. Colored lanterns, the musicians, and the actors’ skill do the rest. It did not take long to prepare for the performance.
Still, Seikei sensed some nervousness among the actors as they dressed for their roles. This would be the most important performance of their lives.
Kazuo helped him put on makeup and found a kimono that indicated Seikei’s status as the son of a daimyo. As usual, Tomomi had gone behind his own screen to conceal his preparations. Nobody would see him until it was time for him to go on stage. “It’s a great night for us,” Kazuo whispered. “Everybody is hoping we’ll get a big present from the daimyo if the shogun is pleased.”
Seikei didn’t have the heart to warn Kazuo that he would consider them lucky to escape with their lives. “How will we be able to tell what they think of the performance?” he asked. “We can’t even see them.”
“We did this kind of thing, performing in front of screens, once before at a monastery,” Kazuo replied. “Watch the screens. If the people really like what they see, the slits will open wider.”
There was no time to ask how that was possible. They had barely finished dressing when the daimyo’s servant appeared. “The guests are seating themselves,” he said. “Do not make them wait.”
The musicians took their places at the side of the stage. Looking at each other, they nodded. Clack! Clack! went the wooden clappers, and the play was on.
Seikei was among those in the first scene. He carried a string of beads with a cross on the end in a procession that let the audience know that the family were Kirishitans. Tomomi had scheduled dances and songs to enliven this part. One member of the troupe performed magic tricks. The audience accepted all this as part of the Kirishitan religion.
The troupe’s magician was particularly good tonight, using all of his best illusions. Seikei was close enough to see that he hid some kind of powder in his hand before thrusting a sword into a lantern. Suddenly flames ran down the blade of the sword, and the actor waved it about the stage. Acrobats responded by turning backflips as if to escape from him.
Seikei had been too nervous to look toward the bamboo screens. But when he heard crackling sounds, he glanced out in the direction of the audience. Some of the onlookers had thrust folding fans between the strips of bamboo. By unfolding the fans, they opened the slits wider. Seikei caught a glimpse of an eye staring at him before he turned back to his stage business.
The music rang out faster, with the dancers following suit, their brightly colored robes streaming behind them. Seikei realized that Kazuo was right: the troupe was displaying all the skills they could summon, and truly the performance was splendid. Then, when the stage was filled with color and movement, a graceful figure appeared, clad in blue silk.
The dancers stopped in position, as if they had suddenly turned to stone. All eyes went to Tomomi, playing his own mother. She broke into a song that gradually rose above the music. Dancing across the stage, she glided past the other actors like a leaf blown by the wind.
Tomomi surpassed the simple illusion that he was a woman: he became a goddess come to earth. Seikei heard the crackling of the screens all around the stage as the audience sought to get a better look. Seikei himself could not take his eyes off Tomomi.
She sang of the two men who loved her. One offered her his purity of heart and devotion to honor. The other offered her wealth and luxury. She made the only choice that a samurai woman could.
Behind him, Seikei heard a muffled cry. Lord Hakuseki had recognized the plot of the play. Seikei stiffened, waiting for a more violent reaction. But nothing happened as Tomomi finished the song, telling of the birth of her son. Now she danced to where Seikei stood. As she placed her arms around him, the stage went dark.
Quickly, the actors rose and reassembled for the next scene, a banquet at which their neighbor Lord Shakuheki was the guest of honor. Yukio, playing the daimyo, seemed more ridiculous than ever in contrast to the grace and beauty of Tomomi’s performance. Seikei heard chuckles behind the screens that concealed the audience.
But behind one screen there was an ominous silence.
Seikei, seated at the edge of the stage for the banquet, cautiously looked at the silent screen. There was no fan holding open the slits; a large hand, with shining gold rings on two fingers, pressed down on the bamboo strips. Seikei had seen those rings before— they belonged to Lord Hakuseki.
As the play continued, it was clear that most of the audience were enjoying themselves. Like the actors, they assumed that the play was a tragedy in which the Takezaki family had doomed themselves by following the banned Kirishitan religion. The music and dances that accompanied the action were sometimes so entertaining that some behind the bamboo screens applauded.
The troupe played the battle scene for all the thrills they could draw from it. By now, the slits in the bamboo screens were open all around the hall, and Seikei heard the onlookers exclaim with pleasure at each bloody death. Kazuo must have been pro
ud at the gasps that greeted his severed head bouncing across the stage.
When Tomomi had held up the cross with the red jewel, Seikei tensed himself again, knowing that Lord Hakuseki would recognize it. Hearing the clatter of bamboo strips, Seikei could not help looking in that direction. Lord Hakuseki had withdrawn his hand, letting the screen snap shut.
Of course! Everything was suddenly clear. That must have been Tomomi’s plan. Lord Hakuseki could not interrupt the play with the shogun present. He would reveal that he was humiliated by the scenes that were taking place on stage—by a kabuki troupe that he had invited to perform at his own yashiki. He had to control his anger, for a daimyo was forbidden to draw his sword in the presence of the shogun. If Lord Hakuseki did so, he would face the same penalty as the lord of the Forty-Seven Ronin. He would be forced to kill himself.
So now, as the play drew closer to its climax, Seikei understood how significant were the words that he was to speak at the end of the scene. While the samurai of Lord Shakuheki battered down the door, Tomomi clasped Seikei and led him to the side of the stage.
Looking into the actor’s eyes, Seikei felt himself drawn into the past. He became Genji, the real Tomomi. He understood the sorrow and the anger that had made Tomomi pursue Lord Hakuseki for years until this night, when he would avenge his honor.
As his mother gave him his father’s sword, Genji felt its strength flow into his arm. It would sustain him, help him bear the pain of her loss, for he knew that now she must commit seppuku.
And as she did, thrusting the sword into her body with a little cry, her eyes bored into those of her son, telling him that he must not, ever, forget his promise.
So when Lord Shakuheki the actor appeared on stage, Seikei needed no coaching to rush toward him with the desire for revenge. It took self-control for Seikei to play the scene as Tomomi had written it. He accepted the slash across his face, pressing his hand there to break the packet of blood.
As he felt it run down his cheek, he realized that the music had stopped and the hall was silent. Everyone was waiting for the words he had to say, and this time they came from the heart of Genji, a heart that Seikei now understood very well.
He heard the words as if someone else was speaking them: “I swear that I will see you disgraced.” In a flash, Seikei leaped through the window, and the stage lanterns went out.
All around the hall, behind the bamboo screens, Seikei heard muffled conversations. The sound of puzzlement was in the air. Like the actors in rehearsal, the audience wondered if that was really the end of the play.
But the music resumed, indicating that something more was to come, and the buzz of voices slowly died down. In the darkness, Seikei felt someone come up beside him. “I will need this,” he heard Tomomi murmur as the actor took the sword from his hands.
Startled, Seikei turned to ask a question, but Tomomi was already gone. There was nothing for Seikei to do but join the other actors behind the stage, waiting to see what secrets the final scene would reveal.
23: The Play Is Finished
A single lantern, raised high above the stage on a pole, revealed Lord Shakuheki sleeping on a mat. Beside him lay his two swords and a small black casket decorated with red leaves. Seikei saw with alarm that it was a duplicate of the casket from which the real jewel had been stolen.
The musicians played an eerie tune that summoned up images of spirits that walked in the night. Remembering the bon festival, Seikei glanced around the dark hall. He nearly cried out when he saw the ghost approaching.
Strips of white silk fluttered behind the figure. As it moved silently under the lantern, its white face glowed. Two dark eyes, lit with passion, turned toward the screens. This time, Seikei did not mistake the pins in its hair for horns. The ghost of the Tokaido Inn had returned to repeat its crime.
In his mother’s voice, Tomomi denounced Lord Shakuheki for his treachery and dishonor, hurling insult after insult down onto the sleeping form.
“Yet in spite of your wealth and power, even though you have prospered from the lands you stole from my family, you still yearn for more. For something still eludes you, doesn’t it?” She laughed, mocking him so cruelly that Seikei could not understand how the real Lord Hakuseki could stand it.
“What you desire is respect,” the ghost said, nearly spitting out the last word. “The respect that a truly great samurai should have. But at the shogun’s court, you are merely tolerated, not given a place of honor. For the shogun, like everyone who comes into your presence, sees you for what you are. A man without honor.”
Seikei wanted to get up and cry out for Tomomi to stop. He was going too far.
But the voice went on relentlessly. “So now you are bringing him a gift,” she said. “A great treasure that you think will awe him. And like the honorless man you are, you chose a gift that you have stolen.”
She bent down and opened the lacquered casket. Removing the jewel, she held it high so that its dark red color shone in the lantern light. “This is your gift,” she said. “I now claim it as mine, and I will be the one to give it to the shogun.”
A tremendous crash came from the darkness at the side of the hall. Lord Hakuseki could not endure his shame any longer. Seikei saw him burst through the bamboo screen, tearing away the scraps of wood that clung to his clothing. “Thief!” he shouted. “I know who you are. I should have killed you!”
The actor playing Lord Shakuheki opened his eyes, took a terrified look at what was happening, and scrambled off to a safer place. Tomomi remained where he stood at center stage. A broad smile swept across his face. “What is this I see?” he cried. “A ghost? A dream? No, it is the dishonorable wretch himself!” Behind the other screens, the unseen members of the audience began to cry out. Some thought this was part of the play, but others seemed to realize that something dreadful was happening.
“Is this yours?” Tomomi taunted, holding out the jewel. “Take it from me if you can—thief! For truly I am Genji, the son of Takezaki Kita, from whom you stole this jewel.”
Challenged, Lord Hakuseki lost control. He drew his sword and furiously charged toward Tomomi. Screams and shouts echoed through the hall, but Seikei riveted his eyes on the scene under the lantern. Lord Hakuseki slashed Tomomi’s white silk kimono to ribbons, but then stood foolishly as the pieces of it fluttered around him. It was empty.
Tomomi had slipped off the robe with one swift motion and escaped into the shadows. As Lord Hakuseki looked around, Tomomi reappeared. Under the kimono, he wore the costume of the samurai Oishi, the leader of the Forty-Seven Ronin. At his side, he wore the traditional two swords, and Seikei recognized one by the silver crosses on its scabbard.
Now, slowly and reverently, Tomomi drew the shining steel blade from its sheath. “It’s real!” Seikei heard Kazuo cry out from somewhere in the hall, but everyone else understood that already—even Lord Hakuseki, who took an uncertain step backward.
Tomomi moved toward him, step by step, waving the sword back and forth. It sliced through the air with a noise like a swarm of bees.
“Stop!” someone shouted from behind the screens. “The shogun is present!” But neither Tomomi nor Lord Hakuseki seemed to hear. Their eyes locked, and the daimyo raised his sword. Immediately, Tomomi struck out with his own blade, which moved so swiftly that it was impossible for the eye to follow it. A crimson line appeared on the daimyo’s right cheek, and blood began to flow from it.
Lord Hakuseki lunged forward, desperately trying to impale Tomomi on his sword, but the actor danced out of the way. “Remember?” he called, mocking the daimyo. “Do you remember me?” He moved under Lord Hakuseki’s clumsy thrusts a second time, and now slashed his other cheek.
More bamboo screens were now crashing down, and people shouted for the guards stationed outside the hall. Seikei paid no attention, for he had lost all fear of the consequences. He watched Tomomi’s sword strike again and again.
Lord Hakuseki’s clothing was soaked with blood. He could barely hol
d his sword in front of him. It was clear that his skill was so inferior to Tomomi’s that the actor could have killed him, yet he refused to do so.
Seikei understood. To kill him would have saved Lord Hakuseki from disgrace. Death in battle was the most honorable way for a samurai to die. Tomomi intended to dishonor Lord Hakuseki so completely that he could not bear to live.
Five samurai, with the shogun’s crest on their headbands, surrounded Tomomi. He gave them a brief glance, and then knelt. Setting his sword down, he untied his kimono and peeled it back from his neck. One of the samurai looked across the room. All the screens had fallen by now, revealing only one person still seated on the cushions. This man calmly nodded and waved his hand in a sign of approval.
The shogun’s samurai drew his sword and brought it down through Tomomi’s neck with one stroke. The actor’s head fell to the floor and a torrent of blood gushed from his body. His hand opened, and as Seikei watched, the precious ruby tumbled into the crimson flood on the floor.
Slowly, Tomomi’s head rolled over. Its eyes remained open, and Seikei saw that in death, Tomomi’s face wore a triumphant smile.
Someone stepped between Seikei and the gruesome sight. Numbed by what he had witnessed, Seikei dimly recognized the man, but had to struggle to remember who he was.
Judge Ooka reached down to close Tomomi’s eyes. He stood up and walked over to Seikei. “Now you have seen a samurai die,” the judge said. “Was it the way you imagined it to be?”
24: A Tea Ceremony
“Wake up! You’re not at home now, merchant’s son, where you can spend all day long in idleness!”
The voice was Bunzo’s. Seikei’s eyes fluttered open. He was glad to be awakened. He had been dreaming of running through the streets of Edo in the darkness, trying to escape from a bloody head floating through the air.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that he was in an ordinary room where the sun shone brightly through a paper window. Daylight meant that he was safe, and that Tomomi’s spirit. . .
