Clockwork Samurai

by Jeannie Lin

  I was so focused on the climb that it took me a while to notice what was wrong. The hillside was eerily silent, absent of birdsong, just as Makoto had described. A shiver ran down my spine, and my skin prickled.

  Ghost Hill. The Japanese certainly tended toward the dramatic.

  Chang-wei drew closer and held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a rosewood box with a compass inside. The needle spun erratically from one pole to another. Some invisible force was affecting the lodestone.

  Finally the tower appeared in the distance. Compared to the graceful shrines that dotted hillsides, this structure was a monstrosity. The steel gray frame blended into the dark rock of the surrounding cliffs. It was very easy to overlook unless one knew it was there.

  As we neared the top of the ridge, the structure loomed large overhead. It resembled a skeletal pagoda, with all that was graceful and sacred gutted out. A faint hum vibrated the air, like the buzz of insects. An unnatural presence seemed to hover around us.

  The base of the tower separated out into four legs. A shelter had been built beside it, and long wires extended down from the metal latticework into the roof of the building.

  The signal tower was clearly abandoned. A layer of rust clung to the iron, and moss crept over the adjoining building.

  “A control station,” Chang-wei declared as he moved steadily toward it.

  Makoto hung back just as a thin ribbon of lightning snapped across the latticework. Chang-wei was undaunted by the phenomenon. He was close enough to peer into the windows of the control station where the paper panes had disintegrated.

  I went to stand beside Chang-wei. Inside, the station was indeed abandoned. Instead of a human operator, there was a contraption built of steel and wire. A series of wheels churned out a pattern, which was transmitted to a mechanical wand that tapped rhythmically against the signal generator.

  Chang-wei exhaled as he stared at the contraption. It was a simple automaton, built to repeatedly tap out a message. Hope drained out of him.

  “This is Sagara Shintarō’s work,” he insisted, jaw tight. “We have to find him.”

  I tried to reassure him, despite my doubts. “We’ll find a way.”

  I watched the mechanical finger tap out another message before the cycle began to repeat.

  A loud click broke through the trance. I swung around to see a young woman at the edge of clearing. She had a rifle propped against her shoulder and aimed squarely at us. When Makoto drew his sword, the woman swung the weapon toward him instead.

  She barked a command to Makoto in Japanese, I assumed for him to drop his weapon. Unlike the women I’d seen in Nagasaki, her kimono-style top ended just above her knees, resembling a jacket rather than a robe. Beneath it she wore trousers that were closely fitted. Her sleeves were also shortened in length. The wide sash at her waist was worked in leather rather than silk, and I could see another pistol holstered at her side.

  Behind her stood a samurai warrior in full armor, his face occluded with a battle mask. He held a spear in hand and looked in every way larger, stronger and more menacing than Makoto. Makoto lowered his sword but maintained his grip on it.

  “We have business here with Lord Sagara Shintarō,” Chang-wei declared.

  The woman kept her weapon aimed. Outwardly, I forced myself to remain composed, but my heart was pounding so hard it threatened to burst.

  “Shina-jin.” Her next words were in accented but understandable Canton dialect, often used for trade. “Sagara Shintarō is my father. He has been dead for over five years.”

  ***

  Sagara Satomi led us to a secluded area where the hill flattened out to a plateau. A lonely wooden building stood sheltered within the trees. It appeared abandoned. Tiles were missing from the roof, and the paper windows were torn in places.

  “My father’s Rangaku school.”

  “Dutch learning,” Chang-wei added, for my benefit. I thought of the Western astronomy book he had bought for me.

  Satomi stepped through the wild grass with confidence in her stride. Her hair was braided to one side. Tied back and out of the way. She was dressed for ease of movement rather than grace or beauty. The almost mannish clothing would have been out of place in Nagasaki, but here she was in harmony with her surroundings. This was her domain.

  The formidable swordsman followed closely behind her. Even without his armor and weapons, his towering height would have been enough to chase away any threat. When Satomi swung open the double doors, he entered first.

  “Yoshiro will not allow me to walk into danger,” she explained before beckoning us inside.

  The bodyguard stood by the far wall as we entered. The main room was bare of everything except for a few tattered mats lining the floors and a scroll on the wall. The painting itself was perhaps unremarkable. Four characters in a bold strokes, the words themselves serving as art. But what set the work apart was the splatter of dark red across it.

  The moment I saw the stain, my heart seized. It marked the paper as well as the wall behind it. Blood. It had to be blood, and there was nothing else decorating the walls except for this one splash of red. Violence long past, left on display like a scar.

  “It was here,” Satomi confirmed, her voice as hard as steel.

  She turned toward the inner chamber without another word. I glanced at Chang-wei uncertainly. He was the first to follow after her.

  The second chamber was a book room. The shelves were full of various volumes covered in a layer of gray dust. The air in the place was oppressive and haunted, yet my fingers still itched to open the books to peer inside.

  We continued through a sliding door at the back, which led us out into what had once been a garden. The greenery was overgrown and unkempt, but at least I could breathe easy without the shadow of death that clung to the walls inside.

  “Your father was a great man,” Chang-wei began. “I’m sorry to hear of his passing.”

  A flicker of grief crossed her face but was immediately banished. We were strangers, after all. “You wanted something from him,” she replied coldly. “They all do.”

  “My father was the head of the Ministry of Science in Peking. Lord Sagara once considered him a colleague,” I said, hoping Satomi would understand. “His life was also taken from him.”

  For a moment, our eyes met. We could have been mirror images, living parallel lives across the sea. Her pain was an echo of my pain.

  Satomi gestured toward the abandoned building. “After the Chinese defeat, the shogunate became more wary of foreigners. The number of ships allowed through Nagasaki was reduced. Foreign goods and ideas were frowned upon. We shouldn’t need them, the shogunate insisted. Many Rangaku schools were closed down, but this remote location stayed open. My father continued to study and experiment. Then one day, the hitokiri came for him.”

  “Hitokiri?”

  “Assassins,” Satomi explained.

  “Highly skilled assassins,” Makoto amended. His tone held both reverence and fear. “Four renowned killers used for special assignments by the shogunate.”

  “Skill wasn’t necessary.” Bitterness seeped into her tone. “The hitokiri entered the school while the pupils were at their lessons. My father took one look at him and knew he had only a moment to decide how he would die. He calmly sent us from the room and told us to shut the doors.” Closing her eyes, she turned away. “I never heard a sound.”

  I remembered my father taking my hand as he walked through our front gate for the last time. His grasp had been steady, even though he must have known he would never return. My heart ached all over again.

  Chang-wei was the first to break the silence. “This is a great loss for both our nations.”

  “The shogunate doesn’t believe so.”

  “We had hoped to reestablish communications with Lord Sagara. To unite our two nations under a common purpose.”
He was ever the diplomat.

  “You’re here because you need a way to fight the English,” she replied bluntly. “And my father knew their ways well.”

  Yoshiro the bodyguard came forward. Bending down, he pushed one of the boulders in the garden aside to reveal a shallow pit. Inside was a bundle wrapped in coarse cloth. Satomi unwrapped the stash and pulled out a rifle fashioned of wood and steel. Slender and lethal.

  “Take a close look, Shina-jin.” Straightening, she tossed the firearm through the air at Chang-wei, who caught it in both hands. “When you’re assured it meets with your approval, then name your price.”

  Chang-wei stared at the weapon in his hands, turning it over and over. I thought he would deny that he’d come to purchase arms, but instead a shrewd look crossed his face.

  “I need to see how it fires,” he said.

  To his left, Makoto tensed at the sudden turn of events. I was equally surprised but had no chance to question Chang-wei.

  Satomi nodded. “Come see for yourself.”

  Yoshiro pushed the boulder back in place and took up the rear as we exited the grounds of the school. In the open area out back, a row of painted targets had been set up. She held her hand out for the rifle.

  “If you attempt to aim this at me or overpower me in any way, Yoshiro will deal with you swiftly,” she warned as she loaded two iron rounds into the chamber.

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Lady Sagara. We Shina-jin are not without honor.”

  She handed the rifle back to him, muzzle pointed up. “Do you know how to shoot it?”

  Chang-wei answered by facing the target. His expression became focused as Satomi stepped back. With the butt end set against his shoulder, Chang-wei took aim and pulled the trigger.

  An explosion split the air, loud enough to rattle the wooden frame of the schoolhouse. I jumped back and collided with Makoto, who reached out to steady me. Fifty paces away, there was a hole on the left side of the target. My ears rang.

  “Not bad,” Satomi remarked, coming up beside him. “Just need a little practice.”

  Chang-wei handed over the rifle, and she took aim much quicker, as if the weapon were an extension of herself. A second explosion rang out, the force of it sending Satomi back a step as she absorbed the recoil. The shot landed squarely in the center of the target.

  “Any coward can kill a man from a hundred paces,” Makoto muttered.

  Satomi ignored him to direct her inquiry to Chang-wei. “So what is your offer?”

  “How many do you have?” Chang-wei countered.

  “This one here.”

  “I’ll need more.”

  Why was he negotiating a deal to purchase arms? This wasn’t what we had come for.

  Satomi narrowed her eyes shrewdly and lowered the rifle. “How many more, Shina-jin?”

  “Thousands,” Chang-wei replied. “Tens of thousands. Enough to supply an army.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Satomi let out a sharp laugh at Chang-wei’s request, while Makoto was much more direct. He reached for his sword.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Seeing his movement, the bodyguard Yoshiro reached for his sword as well. I threw myself between Chang-wei and the Japanese swordsmen, though my weapons were useless in this standoff.

  “There’s no need to fight.”

  Chang-wei alone remained levelheaded. “I’m proposing an exchange, Lady Sagara. For the sake of our two nations.”

  “For a thousand guns that can be turned against us?” Makoto spat. “You’re no merchant trader, Shina.”

  “It hardly matters.” Satomi regarded them both, bemused. “I craft each of these weapons by hand, as my father did. I could not create a thousand of them in my lifetime.”

  “We don’t need the guns. We need the knowledge of how to make them.”

  Satomi regarded him warily. “Who are you?” she asked, echoing Makoto’s earlier question.

  “Engineer Chen Chang-wei, of the Ministry of Science in Peking.”

  She looked to me. “The same Ministry your father once served.”

  “I serve the imperial court as well.”

  “The Chinese imperial court.” Her mouth quirked. She looked to her bodyguard. “How important we must be, Yoshi-chan, to warrant such a visit.”

  The bodyguard did not appear amused. His eyes gleamed from behind his war mask, and his hand refused to relax from his sword.

  “With your knowledge and expertise, we can send the foreigners from our shores,” Chang-wei proposed.

  Satomi smirked. “The guns are for sale; I’m not. If you are not here to buy, then we have no further business.”

  A muscle ticked along Chang-wei’s jaw as he measured his response. “An alliance would benefit both the empires of China and Japan, Lady Sagara.”

  “Engineer Chen, is it?”

  I considered it some progress. At least she was no longer referring to him as Shina-jin.

  “I am no lady. To the bakufu, I am nothing, so it serves you no purpose to negotiate with me.”

  “Then who can we make an appeal to?”

  She remained skeptical. “Your presence here puts me in danger. Why should I help you?”

  “Because our fathers respected each other,” I interjected. “Lord Sagara believed in collaboration between our nations.”

  Satomi regarded me for a long time. “I am not my father,” she said quietly. “He was not born samurai, nor was he from a wealthy family. It was only through diligence and ingenuity that he was elevated to the rank of the samurai. He believed in learning from others, even if they were outsiders.” She bowed her head in reverence.

  “Seek out Karakuri Giemon,” she said finally. “He may be sympathetic to your cause.”

  * * *

  “Karakuri Giemon is the mechanical wizard,” Makoto translated for us. “He’s a famous inventor who resides in the Saga domain, at least two days by foot.”

  Satomi had allowed us shelter temporarily before retreating into the schoolhouse. We were left to debate our next course of action.

  Chang-wei looked to me. “Two days there, two days back. Every day we’re away, we risk being caught.”

  “Do you want to go back?” I asked him.

  “No, but—”

  “Neither do I,” I interrupted.

  “If we’re imprisoned by the shogunate, the imperial court won’t be able to help us. One of us should return to Nagasaki.”

  Which meant me. “We go together or not at all.”

  Yelu, Lord Sagara, Satomi and even this inventor were somehow connected to my father. And to me.

  “We’ll go and meet this karakuri master,” I said, daring Chang-wei to object. “If Makoto-san will take us.”

  Our gazes locked, and I could see the arguments brewing beneath Chang-wei’s cool demeanor. Eventually he said nothing.

  Small victory.

  Makoto listened to our conversation with great interest. “As long as your silver is good,” he replied, but there was something hidden beneath his casual tone. “And one small request.”

  “What request?” Chang-wei turned away from our battle of wills.

  “Once my part of the bargain is done,” Makoto dismissed.

  He descended back down to Nagasaki to prepare for the journey while we stayed hidden and explored the Rangaku school.

  The building had been left as it was when Lord Sagara was assassinated. Tools remained on the benches inside a workroom. A wooden box painted with a cloud and lightning design sat gathering dust in the corner. Twin coils of wire rose from it, and there was a wheel attached at the base with a foot pedal. Chang-wei pushed the lid back, and we both peered at the smaller wheel structure inside.

  “An elekiteru,” Chang-wei observed. “I wonder if it’s operational.”

  Ther
e was some resemblance to the device we had found in my father’s Japanese puzzle box, though on a larger scale. Chang-wei seated himself at the foot pedals. With some creaking, the wheel started to turn. I waited, watching with anticipation, but nothing happened.

  “Maybe I can get it working again.”

  “Have you ever seen one of these before?” I asked him.

  Chang-wei was undaunted as he removed the lid. “What one man can do, so can another.”

  From his absorbed expression, I knew he would be in another world for the next few hours.

  I wandered to a yellowed volume left on the shelf and flipped through it. One of the prints showed a man in Western clothing, flying a kite with lightning flashing in the background.

  “This is interesting.” I held up the book to Chang-wei, who only spared it a cursory glance before returning to the elekiteru.

  “He’s a famous scientist from Měiguó,” Chang-wei said dismissively. “He lived a hundred years ago.”

  Měiguó. The beautiful country on the other side of the world. America, they called it. I had met a merchant from this place once. Dean Burton had been an associate of Chang-wei’s. Mister Burton was fair skinned with yellow hair and eyes that were disconcertingly blue. This scientist had been drawn with similarly pale hair. A key hung cryptically from the end of a long kite string. I pondered that for a moment before turning the page.

  Reading Japanese script presented an endless puzzle. Some of the characters were similar to Chinese ones, but other than a few words here and there, I couldn’t make sense of it. The pictures themselves told a story of mysterious devices and wires and energy flowing between them.

  “There is a branch of study using electricity to treat illness,” Chang-wei commented from the corner. His arms disappeared into the wooden box as he tinkered with the device. “They believe elekiteru can be used to stimulate the organs.”

  “Like our concept of qi,” I suggested. “Our medical practices are based on redirecting internal energy to specific points to stimulate organs and promote balance and healing.”

  “It’s possible. I haven’t given it much thought.”