Bundori: A Novel of Japan (27 page)

Fighting tears, she put her ear to the door’s paper panel and listened. The depth of Sano’s breathing confirmed what her extra sense told her: He was fast asleep. She waited a moment to make sure all the sleep potion had burned away. Then, summoning all her courage, she opened the door.

He lay on his stomach, head pillowed on his folded arms. His face was turned toward her; sleep had smoothed away the worry, leaving him looking younger, more innocent, and less troubled than she’d ever seen him. She swallowed pity and self-hatred. Resisting the urge to shake him awake and warn him, she stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She crossed the floor and knelt beside Sano. The howling inside her rose to a deafening blare that sounded the same word over and over:

No
-
no
-
no
-
no
-

Under the noise, Aoi heard Sano’s soft, steady breathing quicken and catch, his pulse skip. She saw his eyelids flutter: He was dreaming. Still, she knew the potion wouldn’t let him awaken. It was time.

No
-
no
-
no
-

With unsteady hands, she removed from her hair a long wooden hairpin with a black lacquer head shaped like a lady’s fan. She tugged on the blunt shaft of the pin. The hollow wooden sheath came away, exposing the steel prong inside: sharp, needle-thin, and deadly.

Aoi’s tears spilled down her cheeks and over her lips. She wiped them away with her fingers. Her mind’s silent scream vibrated in every muscle of her body. Clutching the hairpin in her trembling right hand, she laid her left on the base of Sano’s neck. The feel of his warm, resilient flesh caused a rush of tenderness, which she choked down. As he writhed and moaned in his sleep, she felt the blood flowing beneath his skin, and the exuberant life force radiating from him. His heartbeat pounded up through her fingers, its quickening pulse matching her own. Slowly, gently, she moved her hand down his spine. Her fingers, wet with tears, left a damp trail on his skin.

Now, despite her anguish, the circumstances evoked a powerful contradictory response deep within Aoi. Her training had prepared her for this dreaded task. Her killing instinct stirred, like a dormant snake uncoiling. Even as her spirit sickened, reflex took over. Her fingers probed the bones and interstices of Sano’s spine. The hand that held the lethal hairpin ceased to tremble. With her inner eye, she saw the great energy wave whose roar drowned out her mind’s screams as it broke over her. She saw the colored lights. And her father’s image.

He stood in the classroom of the village ninja academy. Upon a table before him, a naked man lay facedown, with female students clustered around. Aoi recognized the anatomy lesson she’d attended at age eight.

“Here, between the vertebrae,” her father said, touching a spot on the young man’s spine, “is where you insert your needle. Death is instantaneous, and the needle leaves no trace except a tiny hole where no one will find it.”

One by one, the girls stepped forward to feel the spot, to memorize its position and texture. For a moment, Aoi inhabited her childhood body and world. She touched the man’s back. Then she returned to the present, with her finger at the same spot on Sano’s spine.

The wave’s roar grew louder. Aoi lost contact with her humanity and became a mere vessel for the power coursing through her. The swirling energy focused at two points: her fingertip, pressed against Sano’s flesh, and the hand holding the hairpin. Possessed by the irresistible force, the latter moved until the hairpin’s tip was poised directly over Sano’s back.

Faintly she heard her father’s voice: “Killing is the last, least desirable alternative. But when the time comes, you must recognize it and act without hesitation. Because the safety of us all depends on you.”

No
…

Her conscious mind’s weak protest quickly faded. Aoi’s fingertip moved aside, baring the space between Sano’s vertebrae. She lowered the hairpin as every impulse and instinct in her demanded satisfaction. Her heart pounded. The blood thundered in her head. Her breath came in gasps. Her fingers locked around the pin. Slowly she pressed down. The hairpin’s point pierced the outer layer of Sano’s skin. Aoi felt the dark strength gathering in her arm muscles in preparation for driving the weapon home-

Then some last vestige of her essential self rallied against the forces that possessed Aoi. Memory recalled her impossible vision of the future. Like a faded painting on transparent silk, the image of herself and Sano climbing the mountain together hung between her and the turbulent, luminous energy wave. But this time, black storm clouds boiled up over the distant peaks. The wind tossed the trees and rustled the grasses. Aoi saw herself smile and reach out to take the hand Sano offered her, with its promise of love and protection. Then his image shimmered and disappeared. She was alone on the mountain, in the storm.

“Come back!” Aoi pleaded.

At her cry, the dark energy abruptly dissipated. The wave receded. The roar ceased; the colored lights vanished. Her trance was broken.

Aghast at what she’d almost done, Aoi sat stiff and still for a long moment. Then her body went limp, spent of all strength by the effort of reaching the brink of murder. She let go the hairpin, which slid off Sano’s back and onto the futon, leaving behind only a tiny, harmless pinprick. With a low moan, she collapsed against Sano, clinging to him as sobs wracked her body.

Sedated by the poison, Sano slept on, oblivious to her grief, and to the threat against his life. Her weakness had saved him-for now. But she owed her first loyalty to others, for whose protection she’d learned the deadly ninja skills she so dreaded using.

Tomorrow she must find the strength and courage to do what she could not tonight.

Sano steered his mount up a twisting road into Edo ’s western hills. Wild azalea bushes, vivid with red blossoms, crowned the stone embankments that shored the road’s upper side; oak, laurel, cypress, chestnut, cedar, and flowering cherry trees adorned the grassy slopes that fell away on the lower. Narrow lanes branched off the main thoroughfare to picturesque, rustic summer villas. Small streams burbled beneath wooden bridges; birds darted and twittered. But Sano was virtually oblivious to the serene beauty of this place where Edo ’s wealthy citizens sought relief from summer’s heat.

He could see the cloud of smoke hanging over the area of Nihonbashi where yesterday’s fire still burned, its spread facilitated by the continuing riots and the weather, which was unseasonably warm and windy. Far to the east, dark storm clouds hovered; thunder rumbled. But the spring weather was unpredictable; rain might or might not come to extinguish the fire and disperse the rioters. And other doubts added to Sano’s concerns.

If Madam Shimizu really was the mystery witness from Zōjō Temple, would he get from her the evidence he needed to identify the Bundori Killer? He couldn’t shake the visions of suicide that had disturbed his sleep. He’d awakened at dawn to discover he’d missed his chance to shadow Chamberlain Yanagisawa-and that Aoi was gone. Had she decided to leave him after all?

Sano had resisted the temptation to hurry to the shrine in search of her. Much depended on what he learned today. By discovering evidence against someone besides Yanagisawa, he could save his life-but would Aoi cease to care for him?

The western hill country, like the rest of Edo, was divided according to social hierarchy, with the great daimyo villas occupying the loftiest peaks, and those of the rich merchants below. Halfway up this latter sector, Sano found the turnoff Aoi had described, where the road forked between two towering cypresses. He directed his horse down a narrow lane through oak and beech woods, over a short bridge that spanned a stream. A sharp curve left brought him to the Shimizu villa, composed of three attached buildings arranged on ascending levels of the, hillside amid more woods.

He dismounted, secured his horse, and approached the tree-shaded front entrance. Before he reached it, the door flew open, and a sour-faced peasant woman dressed in a gray cotton kimono hurried out.

“No visitors allowed!” she shouted. “You will please leave!”

She showed none of the usual deference to his rank, and the two men who followed her lent weight to her order. Both were youngish samurai-brothers, apparently, with the same wide mouths and prominent ears. They wore shabby clothes and a look of angry desperation. Sano recognized them as
rōnin
who made a precarious living by working as security guards for wealthy commoners. They stopped a few paces short of him, legs planted wide, arms folded, gazes hostile.

Sano introduced himself to the woman, whom he took to be the servant in charge of the house. “I’m here on the shogun’s official business. Take me to Madam Shimizu.”

The servant didn’t deny or confirm Madam Shimizu’s presence in the villa, but her quick glance backward told Sano that she was here-probably hiding from the consequences of her visit to the temple, whatever they were. “No visitors,” she repeated.

Her willingness to defy a
bakufu
official’s order demonstrated a fierce loyalty to her mistress that exceeded prudence. The
rōnin
grasped their sword hilts, and Sano didn’t like the message he read in their eyes. They were angry at the whole world and would welcome a fight, even with the shogun’s retainer. They would be betting that he valued his life more than they did theirs, and would forsake his errand rather than oppose them.

And they were right-partially.

“Good day.” Bowing politely, Sano turned and walked down the lane, retrieved his horse, and rode away. Then, once beyond the curve and out of sight from the house, he resecured his mount and doubled back through the forest, heading for the rear of Madam Shimizu’s residence.

He scaled the steep hill, staying within the cover of the trees, until he came to the road behind the villa. The rear of the uppermost, largest building had few windows, all shuttered, and no balcony. High walls extended from it, enclosing the two lower wings and the garden. Sano could see no doors, but there must be others besides the front entrance, through which the residents could escape during a fire or earthquake.

Sano looked around and saw neither the servant nor the guards. Skidding down the hill, he waded through the thick grass around the villa. As he examined the head-high, stone-faced earthen wall around the garden, he heard from within it a woman’s high, quavery voice, singing a slow, melancholy tune:

“
The green woods fade to brown, alas

Frost withers the peony and the rose
- ”

Sano smiled. The singer must be Madam Shimizu. Quietly Sano tried the heavy, weathered plank gate. It was locked. But the wall was covered with a network of vines; some had woody stems as thick as his wrist. Using these as a ladder, he climbed the wall. Cautiously he peered over the top.

He formed a quick impression of an overgrown garden, bordered on left and right by the verandas of the upper and lower buildings, and on the far end by a covered walkway connecting the two wings. Then he spotted a pavilion at the garden’s center.

Almost hidden by the vines that climbed the pavilion’s lattice wall and up its thatched roof knelt a woman. Sano could discern no more than her bowed head and blue kimono, but her plaintive song continued:

“
Summer’s birds are flown,

Love has gone
-

My heart dies, too
.”

Sano took a hasty look behind him, then pulled himself atop the wall. He jumped, landing in an ivy-choked flower bed. Eagerly he started toward the pavilion. Then he halted as a door in the covered walkway banged open.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

The
rōnin
guards ran toward him drawing their swords. Sano’s was already in his hand. He thought he could take these men without serious difficulty, but he wanted no more bloodshed. And if Madam Shimizu was terrified because she’d already witnessed one killing, then more wouldn’t improve her willingness or ability to answer his questions. Keeping his eyes on the
rōnin
, he addressed the woman in the pavilion.

“Madam Shimizu, I’m Sano Ichirō, the shogun’s
sōsakan
,” he called. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

Scuffles and whimpers came from the pavilion.

Swords raised, the guards circled Sano. The elder glared fiercely; the younger looked nervous.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Madam Shimizu?” Sano called. “You’re afraid; you’re hiding from someone. I can help you-but only if you call off your guards.”

Still no answer. Then the younger
rōnin
retreated a step. “He’s the shogun’s man-we can’t kill him! I don’t care how much she’s paying us to protect her. I don’t want to go to jail, or have my head cut off!”

“Shut up!” his brother shouted. “Do you want to go back to begging in the streets?” To Sano, he said, “Get out, or I cut you.”

He lunged at Sano-then fell back as the woman’s voice spoke softly but clearly:

“Stop… It’s all right. He can stay.”

The guards shrugged, and went back into the house. Relieved, Sano sheathed his sword and looked toward the pavilion.

She stood in its arched entryway, a short, plump woman dressed in a vivid aqua kimono printed with butterflies. Sano’s initial impression of youth and beauty quickly faded as he walked toward her. Her hair, though looped up at the sides and hanging long at the back in the style of a young lady, was an unnaturally dark, lusterless black: dyed. The heavy white face powder and bright rouge didn’t hide the pouches under her eyes, or the slackness of her cheeks and jowls. Her bright, girlish clothes only emphasized her thick waist, double chin, and the empty space in the upper row of her blackened teeth. Sano’s lingering distrust of Aoi melted away in a flood of gratitude as he stared, amazed to find the mystery witness just as she’d described: a fat, aging woman clinging desperately to youth.

“
Sōsakan-sama
.” Madam Shimizu bowed, then peered coyly at him from beneath lowered eyelids; but her smile was strained, her tone weary and resigned. “I’ve been expecting you… I’m glad you’re here at last.”

“I went to Zōjō Temple because my husband no longer loves me,” Madam Shimizu said.

Obviously distraught, she hadn’t invited Sano into the house. Instead she wandered aimlessly around the garden, leaving him to follow.

“For the past ten years, he’s never once looked at me… or spoken to me with affection.” Her speech was filled with long pauses and trailing endings, perhaps in deliberate imitation of highborn samurai women. Now her voice dropped to a whisper. “And no matter how much I beg, he won’t share my bed… ”

Sano, embarrassed by this intimate confession, nevertheless recognized her urgent need to tell her troubles to someone, anyone. By simply listening, he would learn more than through formal interrogation. Considerately, he turned his gaze from her sad, ravaged face to the garden.

Like her, it must have once been lovely. A huge cherry tree blossomed beside a pond; elaborate stone lanterns and benches graced a bower of luxuriant plant life. But this paradise had fallen into neglect. Withered vines clung to the buildings. Dead branches stuck out from the cherry tree like black bones. Rotting leaves, fallen blossoms, and green scum covered the pond. Shrubs were unpruned, lanterns and benches coated with moss and lichen, flower beds and lawn choked with weeds. If Mimaki and O-tama’s garden was a monument to love, this served as mute testimony to its loss.

Madam Shimizu’s thoughts seemed to follow his. “Do you see this garden?” Her soft voice quivered with pain. “My husband once employed gardeners to keep it beautiful. When we were young… before I bore our seven children… we spent many happy hours here.

“ ‘I can’t bear to be apart from you,’ he would tell me. He praised my beauty, and made love to me… there.” Madam Shimizu pointed to a spot beneath the cherry tree. Her plump hand was smooth and soft-looking, as if it had never done a day’s work. “But now I’m old and ugly… My health is poor; I suffer from congestion. My husband never comes here anymore.” Sano saw tears tracing rivulets through the thick makeup on her cheeks. “He’s brought two young concubines into our house in Edo, and often visits the courtesans in Yoshiwara, too.

“Ours was a marriage of love… that’s rare, you know, in this world where marriages are arranged for the sake of money and family considerations. One doesn’t expect to find love, and so it hurts all the more to lose it.”

“I know,” Sano said, wishing he could cut her story short. With his own romance threatened, he didn’t want to hear about lost love. If he should lose Aoi… For the sake of the investigation, he let Madam Shimizu talk.

“In summer, we would take our pleasure boat out on the river to watch the fireworks. It’s a big boat, with a comfortable cabin… We would drink wine and delight in each other’s company.” Madam Shimizu dabbed her face with her sleeve; it came away stained with powder and rouge. “But no more. The boat has been docked for ten seasons. I decided to become a nun because I could no longer bear living without my dearest one’s love… ”

With relief, Sano turned the conversation to the night of the priest’s murder. “So you went to Zōjō Temple and asked for sanctuary. What happened there?”

“I took my best clothes as a dowry for the priests. I hired a palanquin… and reached the temple at sunset.” Madam Shimizu’s narrative faltered. She ceased her stroll around the garden and dropped onto a bench. Her fingers picked at the lichen that encrusted it. “
Sōsakan-sama
… if I tell you what I saw, will you promise not to tell anyone else?” She raised pleading eyes to him. “Please… before you object, let me explain why I’m in hiding. Why I want no visitors, and have hired
rōnin
to protect me.”

She shot a nervous glance around the garden as if she expected an attack at any moment. “After I left the temple, I went home to Nihonbashi. But the very next morning, three strange samurai came and asked to see me. They wouldn’t say why, or who they were, so the servants told them I wasn’t home. They left, but a few hours later, they came back… I don’t know who they were, but I know why they came. They were sent by the Bundori Killer. He must have recognized me at the temple, or somehow found out who I was.
Sōsakan-sama
, he’s looking for me, he wants to kill me because he thinks I can identify him. Now do you understand why you mustn’t let anyone know I spoke to you?”

Sano sat beside her, wondering if the strange callers were really the killer’s minions, sent to eliminate a witness to the priest’s murder. If so, then which suspect had sent them? Matsui, who moved in the same social sphere as the Shimizu and might have recognized Madam Shimizu because he’d met her before? Chūgo or Yanagisawa, both of whom had access to the
bakufu’s
intelligence network-which no doubt included spies inside Zōjō Temple – and its files on Edo ’s prominent citizens? Or was Madam Shimizu imagining threats where none existed? He would have to question her servants and try to trace the three samurai. But of one thing Sano was certain: If he wanted the Bundori Killer convicted, he couldn’t keep Madam Shimizu’s testimony a secret.

“If you’ll sign a confidential statement that I can show the magistrate, you won’t have to come forward as a witness,” Sano proposed. After the killer’s capture, she would have no reason for fear. He suspected she had other motives for shunning publicity, which this plan might satisfy.

After a long moment’s thought, Madam Shimizu said, “Yes… all right.” With a sigh, she resumed her story.

“The abbot at the temple accepted my dowry and gave me a room in the guest quarters… but I couldn’t sleep. I missed my husband terribly, and wondered how he would feel when he found me gone. Would he be glad, or unhappy? I wondered if I was making a mistake. Might he come to love me again someday if I waited long enough? Finally I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again… Around midnight, I sneaked out of the guest quarters. I didn’t care if I had to walk all the way back to Nihonbashi, alone, in the dark. I just wanted to be near my husband… even when I knew him to be asleep in the arms of his concubines. And… ”