One Life Well and Truly Promised

by Richard D. Parker

  Kiyomi knew she had little chance against the three trained warriors, but she raised her hands and rushed forward in any case. Her attack surprised the approaching men, and the first samurai barreled into her before he could bring his sword around. He slammed into her hard and together they tumbled to the ground. Kiyomi tried to trip the second samurai with her legs as he sprinted by but she missed, and then the third rammed his sword into her belly.

  Kiyomi screamed once, the sudden pain frightful in its intensity. She collapsed as the sword was jerked from her body, and as quickly as it arrived, the pain and the samurai were gone. She was suddenly very weak, but even so she somehow managed to push her body up off the ground. She looked longingly in the direction of Hayato, her love, and at first only spotted his lifeless body lying at the head of the path.

  “Hayato,” she said softly, blood filling her mouth. She had no strength to call any louder, though with a mighty effort she managed to crawl forward a few shaku. She stopped suddenly as she caught sight of her husband’s head, no longer attached to his body. His face was turned toward her, his expression surprisingly peaceful despite the horror of his death.

  “Hayato,” Kiyomi repeated and with the last of her strength lowered her body gently down onto the dirt road. She died moments later, happy to go with her husband though still anxious about her children.

  Katashi raced down the path directly behind Chisuzu. He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder but he could not see the samurai he knew were following. He heard them however, and from the sound, they were gaining.

  “Hurry!” He encouraged Chisuzu, but she was running just as fast as she could. They were almost to the beach when Chisuzu realized she could hear the samurai running behind them and shouting vain orders for them to stop. She weaved left and then right as the now familiar path worked its way through the stunted trees. Somehow Chisuzu increased her speed, desperately hoping to spot a boat in the shallows as they broke out of cover and onto the sand. Chisuzu was running all out when she emerged from the trees and crashed into a group of samurai, striking one head on. Her heart fell.

  ‘We’re caught!’ She thought despondently as she fell backwards in the sand, momentarily stunned by the force of the collision. Time slowed as she gazed up at the samurai she’d slammed into and it only took the briefest moment for her to recognize her father’s face. A wave of happiness was just beginning to bloom in her heart when one of her father’s guards drew his sword and with an elegant, effortless swing, removed Katashi’s head.

  “FATHER!” Chisuzu cried and without thinking scrambled toward Katashi.

  “FATHER!” She repeated and cradled the disembodied head, ignoring the gore. She was only dimly aware of the arrival of Hiroto and the others, and of the brief fight that ended her enemy’s life, along with all of his companions.

  “oChibi-chan?” her father said softly, and Chisuzu suddenly realized he was kneeling at her side. Despite his presence she did not look up from the face resting in her lap.

  “oChibi-chan,” Tokimasa repeated and placed a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder. The instant she burst from the tree line he’d recognized her, not at all fooled by her peasant clothes and hair. If her arrival had not been so sudden, he would have caught her in his arms. It was a tragedy that Takeo had not recognized her as well; it might have saved the life of her companion.

  “oChibi-chan, he’s dead.”

  “He saved me father,” Chisuzu finally said, “more than once. His family saved me.” She added and Tokimasa gently squeezed her shoulder in sympathy.

  “He will be honored,” Tokimasa replied with all seriousness, and nodded to Takeo to remove the head from his daughter’s lap. “They all will be honored.”

  Chisuzu resisted for a moment but then allowed the grisly prize to be taken away. She glanced up at her father, tears streaming down her face.

  “I loved him father,” she declared almost defiantly. “He was no samurai, but I loved him,” she repeated and felt lighter just for the telling.

  “Yes oChibi-chan, I know,” he answered and pulled her to her feet and led her to safety.

  ♀

  The battle for Atami lasted just over four hours. Kagechika and his forces were finally driven back and retreated to the west. Chisuzu spent most of the day on the beach surrounded by no less than a hundred samurai. Toward evening, when the town and the surrounding area were declared free of enemy warriors, she was moved up the hill, carefully guarded by a huge retinue of samurai.

  Naoki and his wife greeted Chisuzu warmly and welcomed her into their home. Her father was greatly moved by the genuine relief the old couple showed for his daughter’s safety. The fact that simple peasants risked everything for her meant much more to him than the duty bound sacrifice of his samurai, and he planned to reward the couple generously.

  Despite being safe and comfortable inside, Chisuzu was restless and tried several times to leave the house. “I need to find Hayato and Kiyomi,” she told her father when he gently stopped her. “They took me in,” she pleaded. “They kept me safe, made me part of their family.”

  Tokimasa frowned. The battle had not gone easily for the peasants of the village. Kagechika and his men killed many during their retreat, but he turned a hopeful eye toward Naoki, the village leader.

  “Find them,” he ordered and led his daughter back into the main room.

  Before the sunset, Chisuzu learned of the death of Hayato and his wife. Chisuzu was not surprised, but the pain struck deep into the wound carved out by Katashi’s passing. Only the fact that Sakura and Kaiya were still missing lightened her heart.

  At her insistence the search continued. She ate little and slept not at all. For two full days she sat silently in the Naoki’s garden and waited. Despite the ongoing battle for the peninsula, Tokimasa worried for his daughter. He waited with her when he could, making Naoki’s home his unofficial headquarters and giving Takeo free rein over the continuing fight.

  Finally in the wee hours of the third night, the front door slid open and Naoki led a pair of young girls inside. One was about Chisuzu’s age, but the other was much younger.

  The three cried out in unison as they spotted one another. Chisuzu leaped to her feet and rushed forward, and they all came together in a crushing embrace that lasted only a few moments before they all went to their knees, sorrow mixing poorly with relief. Tokimasa nodded, satisfied and almost went to his daughter, but instead he hung back and let the three have their moment.

  Naoki was smiling widely in the doorway and bowed low as he met Tokimasa’s eye. Tokimasa bowed almost as low in return. Both men watched with pleasure as the girls hugged and cried in greeting. It was many long minutes later that Chisuzu finally climbed to her feet and turned to face her tall, imposing father.

  “Otousan,” she began formally. “This is Araki Sakura,” she began and the older girl bowed respectfully, “and Araki Kaiya,” she added and the little one reluctantly released Chisuzu’s waist to perform her own elegant bow. Tokimasa was much impressed.

  “They will stay with me after you retake Kamakura,” she told him matter-of-factly, her eyes and voice steel. “They will be raised as samurai.”

  Naoki and Kyoko gasped in surprise, but Tokimasa just repressed a smile, overjoyed to see such strength coming from his daughter. He bowed very low to the new members of his household. When he straightened, the young one rushed forward and hugged his legs, crying. Outside he frowned at the familiarity, but inside he was quite moved and after a moment he knelt and tried to sooth the young girl’s wounded heart. There was not much he could do, only time would truly help, but as she hugged his neck he decided he might enjoy having another little one around, especially since his own daughter was now so obviously a lady.

  Encounter Five

  Chapter Thirteen

  Harriet Wilson and Peh Donghai

  April 28th, 1896 A.D.

  “Your tea Mum,” Ajit said softly, gently waking the old woman snoozing on the veranda o
f the main house.

  Harriet opened her eyes and gazed down at the lush gardens of the estate. The dark green of the tea plants dominated the view, but Harriet’s eyesight was still keen enough to make out the distant Himalayan range, including the imposing Mount Kangchenjunga. There was still snow on the mighty peak, though the weather down below had begun to moderate. Darjeeling, at over six thousand feet in elevation, had a climate ideally suited for growing and cultivating tea. Her late husband David had been quick to recognize the fact nearly fifty years ago. They made the discovery during one of their summer holidays up the mountains, climbing to escape the oppressive heat that dominated the valley below. He risked a good deal of his fortune to purchase the four hundred hilly acres where the tea garden now resided.

  David could never be accused of being a particularly astute businessman, but with Darjeeling, he had a vision. It was a shame he did not live to see this latest success.

  “Mum,” Ajit repeated, setting a cup before her. Harriet turned her attention back to the tea. It was light, the first flush of the season, called the lover’s flush by some, and Harriet, a connoisseur of tea since her Hong Kong days long ago, studied the brew carefully.

  The tea was a pale orange, darker though than previous seasons. It was exactly what David had been searching for all these years now. Harriet smiled. She took her tea straight, unlike many of her fellow Englishmen; none of the silly sugar and milk for her. It completely ruined the sublime taste of the different teas, interfering so much that you could hardly tell what you were drinking.

  She took a small sip, closed her eyes, and let the tea linger in her mouth before she swallowed. It had a light nutty flavor that surprised and delighted her. Taste was one of the few pleasures that hadn’t diminished in her life, and at eighty-nine she’d had a very long life.

  “Absolutely divine,” she finally said and glanced up at Ajit, who was smiling happily down at her.

  “Master Peh has done well, Mum,” the older man praised. Ajit was old, but not nearly as old as Harriet. He’d been her manservant and near constant companion since before David died, nearly twenty years ago now.

  Harriet nodded. “That he has,” she agreed and took another sip. She sighed. “Sit and have a cup with me,” she finally said.

  Ajit, a native of Bangalore, had joined the household with his wife Dipti nearly forty years past now, and they’d been with the Wilson family ever since. It was not a decision he regretted in the least. Their son Jagjit was now foreman over the entire garden, an opportunity he never would have received back in Bangalore.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t Mum,” he protested, though truth be told he wasn’t surprised by the invitation. As the years passed Mrs. Wilson put less and less importance on conventions. She was alone now, having lost her son to a heart attack some ten years back. His sudden death had made her melancholy for a long time, and when she finally snapped out of it the customs of the day no longer concerned her.

  “Sit,” she ordered and Ajit did as he was told.

  “Pour a cup,” she told him and watched as he delicately poured himself some tea. Harriet liked the small, quiet man sitting across from her. She was comfortable with both Ajit and his wife. They’d served her well through the years, and in the end kept her from feeling all alone when the rest of her family had passed on, or shipped off back to England.

  Ajit took a sip of tea, savoring the taste. In his youth he preferred a healthy dose of sugar in his drink, but Mrs. Harriet cured him of that vice long ago. He enjoyed the many subtle varieties of tea now, different with each flush.

  Harriet sipped along with him and they shared their success and enjoyment together.

  “You were right in bringing Master Peh here,” Ajit commented and refilled his cup, enjoying the steam and bright orange color of the brew. “This will change our fortunes,” he added and motioned to the tea.

  “And you couldn’t talk him into staying for the harvest of the second flush?” Harriet asked as she watched a host of women pour out of the large white factory building. They chatted noisily as they moved out into the gardens to tend the plants.

  Ajit shook his head in mock sadness. “No, he’s due to take the train down to the valley the day after tomorrow. Jagjit tells me he misses his family terribly,” he replied and took another sip and sighed. The tea was very good. “But he has graciously accepted your invitation to dine this afternoon.”

  “Tandoori chicken,” Harriet said, more of a question than a statement.

  “Yes Mum,” Ajit answered and then fell silent. They sat for a while sipping tea and watching the women work in the nearby gardens. After a moment Ajit glanced up and noticed that Harriet had dozed off again. It was not surprising; she was nearing ninety and tired almost all the time.

  He sat for a time, enjoying the morning and when Harriet did not wake up he carefully slipped out of his chair so as not to disturb her.

  ♀

  “They’re here,” Ajit said from his station behind her. Harriet nodded but remained silent, suddenly very curious about her approaching guest.

  Master Peh and Ajit’s son Jagjit climbed from the carriage just a touch before one o’clock…right on time. Harriet watched curiously from her seat on the veranda. These days she never strayed far from her spot on the big porch…at least during temperate days. It gave her an excellent view of the gardens and of the road leading up to the main house.

  Master Peh was short. It was all she could really tell from the distance. Jagjit was also short, but appeared to be a least half a head taller than the Master of Teas they’d coaxed out of Zhejiang Province in China. She watched very carefully as the two approached and noticed immediately that Jagjit was showing the man great respect.

  ‘He damned well better,’ Harriet thought. It had been her idea to woo the Tea Masters in China, even though Ajit thought it unlikely any could be persuaded to come. Harriet thought differently. Years ago, when she was quite young, she’d lived for over a decade in Hong Kong and knew the Chinese to be a pragmatic people that would not pass up a good opportunity lightly.

  Jagjit laughed at something Peh had said and Harriet smiled.

  “You’ve raised a good man,” she told Ajit proudly, and it was true. Jagjit was a good man and good with people, which was why she insisted he go to China in her stead. She was too old for such nonsense; in fact she hadn’t been to the valley below for over a decade, even though the little train now made the trip down the mountain much more pleasant.

  “You raised him as much as I,” Ajit replied as the two neared.

  “Hmmph,” Harriet grumbled. True, Jagjit was always around the big house growing up, but Harriet had little to do with his development. She’d mostly just held him when he’d let her, and spoiled him on the sly. Still, she was pleased with the sentiment.

  It wasn’t until the two men were half way up the stairs that Harriet realized she knew Master Peh. It didn’t seem possible, but something down deep told her she knew him well. She knew his walk, the set of his shoulders and all of his subtle mannerisms. As their eyes met for the first time he hesitated at the top of the stairs, reinforcing the strange feeling.

  “You!” Harriet whispered, unable to take her eyes off the young Chinese man who was now walking slowly across the veranda.

  “Mum?” Ajit questioned from directly behind her.

  Harriet frowned, still gazing directly into the eyes of Master Peh, who miraculously arrived at the table. He raised his hands chest high and placed his right fist inside his left palm and bowed very low, breaking eye contact.

  “Mrs. Wilson,” Jagit began, a little confused by the interaction between the Mistress of the Garden and the Master of Teas, “this is Master Peh from Zhejiang.”

  Harriet shook her head, as if trying to wake from a particularly disturbing dream. Of course she didn’t know Master Peh. Her first thought was perhaps they’d met in Hong Kong, but she hadn’t lived there since the late thirties, some sixty years ago. Master Peh was clearly not t
hat old, even accounting for difficulty she had discerning the age of many Chinese.

  ‘Mid-thirties at most,’ she thought and vowed quietly to keep silent on the matter so as not to appear senile. Clearly he was too young for her to have met while living in the country, and despite the growing feeling of certainty, she realized she must be mistaken.

  Master Peh straightened and then bowed again. “Have we met before Mrs. Wilson?” He asked in understandable but halting English, curiosity sparkling in his dark eyes.

  Harriet laughed nervously. “My thoughts exactly, but unless you’ve visited Darjeeling before, then I’m afraid not. The last time I was in China was well before you were born.”

  Master Peh shook his head sadly. “No, this is my first time in…Bengal,” he answered, clearly intrigued.

  The two remained silent for a time. They stared at each other so intently and for so long that Jagjit became uncomfortable. The atmosphere on the veranda was suddenly thick with tension. It was as if he’d interrupted the two during an intimate conversation. He cleared his throat softly, even so Harriet jumped a little in her seat.

  “Oh where are my manners,” Harriet exclaimed. “Please Master Peh sit and try some of this excellent tea you’ve harvested for us.”

  Peh bowed slightly before taking the seat opposite the matron of the house. He was curious, something about the elderly woman seemed familiar, but he hadn’t lied. Before three weeks ago, he’d not set foot in Darjeeling.

  Ajit poured tea for them all and Master Peh took a moment to study the color. It was a beautiful pale orange…just perfect.