Cloud of Sparrows (18 page)

“The kingdom was sealed for two centuries and a half,” Mr. Cromwell said, “until Commodore Perry forced open its gates five years ago. Our own Reverend Tuttle has opened a mission house there, under the protection of one of their warlords. Next year, I shall be ordained and follow, to build another.”

“You’re leaving Rochester?” Emily’s heart plummeted.

“My name shall be great among the Gentiles, saith the Lord of hosts.” When there was no amen from Emily, Mr. Cromwell turned a harsh gaze upon her.

“Amen,” Emily whispered. Without Mr. Cromwell, it would begin again. She could bear the girls’ enmity. Such cruelties as they could devise were insignificant. But the men. Who would hold them away once he was gone?

Mr. Cromwell did not usually let such weakly uttered amens pass unrebuked. Perhaps Emily’s very visible discomfiture caused him to make an allowance this time. He paused by a series of tinted daguerreotypes.

“These are ladies of that land,” he said.

Through eyes blurry with tears, Emily saw figures as dainty as porcelain dolls, hair piled high in elaborate coiffures, wearing wide-sleeved gowns with wide sashes that flattened their torsos. Long, narrow eyes looked out of faces childishly round and shallow.

Emily pointed at one of the ladies, whose slightly open smile revealed a dark and toothless mouth. “She has no teeth, sir.”

“Not so, Emily. Their highborn women blacken their teeth.”

She looked at the placard explaining the daguerreotypes. It was entitled “Famous Beauties of the City of Yokohama.” When she turned back to Mr. Cromwell, she saw him staring at her with his hard, unblinking eyes.

“In Japan, you would be considered homely at best,” Mr. Cromwell said. “More likely outright hideous. The gold of your hair, the blue of your eyes, your height, your size, your shape. All wrong, all very, very wrong.”

Emily stared at the ladies’ narrow eyes, at their blackened teeth, at the flat bodies that displayed none of the gross feminine swellings and protrusions with which she was cursed. Mr. Cromwell was right. Two women could not be more unalike than Emily and any famous beauty of Yokohama.

“Take me with you,” Emily said. She didn’t know which surprised her more. Her sudden plea or Mr. Cromwell’s calm reaction.

“I have long thought of it,” he said, nodding. “We were brought together for a purpose, you and I. And that purpose, I believe, is Japan. We will bear forth the True Word, and we will be exemplars of that word with our very beings. If you truly wish it, I will write to your guardians without delay.”

“I truly wish it, sir,” Emily said.

“Outside the classroom, you should call me Zephaniah,” Mr. Cromwell said. “It is excessively distant for one affianced to call her future husband ‘sir.’ ”

And so it was done. Without intending to do so, she had given herself away. Mr. and Mrs. Parton freely gave their consent. Emily and Zephaniah agreed to wed in the new mission house they themselves would build in the domain of the warlord of Akaoka Province. The imminence of the marriage she had not thought of did not trouble her in the least. There was no other way for her to reach Japan. The engagement, the journey, the destination, became the treasury of her only hope, the hope of sanctuary from her own accursed beauty.

She was two months shy of her seventeenth birthday when the
Star of Bethlehem
sailed west from San Francisco. She took only three things with her, and they were everything. Her mother’s copy of
Ivanhoe,
her locket, and a heart full of the past.

Emily was disappointed to hear the fading sound of Brother Matthew’s boots. She had thought he might keep her company. Conversation with Zephaniah was punctuated by long periods of silence as he passed in and out of sleep. When he was unconscious, as he was now, there was nothing to distract her from the hopelessness of her situation. This was the man who would have been her husband. Because of him, she was here, in this strange land that, miraculously, blessedly, showed every sign of being the place of deliverance for which she had prayed. During her five days in this palace, not a single man had looked at her with those eyes she feared. In every face that displayed expression, male or female, she saw only disdain, pity, disgust. It was as Zephaniah had promised. They saw her as hideous.

Yet she had found safety only to lose it. When Zephaniah was gone, she, too, would have to go. Back to America.

The prospect horrified her. Once there—she did not think of it as home—she would have nowhere to go. She could not return to the mission house in San Francisco. During the last weeks before sailing, her situation there had grown increasingly perilous. A dozen new missionaries had arrived from Boston to prepare for posting in China. Several among them took far too much interest in her. At first, the polite veneer was maintained. But it didn’t last. It never did. Finally, their faces grew hungry when they looked at her, and their eyes began to wander too freely over her person. She found herself bumped, or touched, or pressed against, in the hallways, in the dining room, on her way to chapel, or on her way back. Neither the commandments of the True Word, nor her betrothal to Zephaniah, nor her consistent coldness toward them was sufficient defense. Not for long. Sooner or later, whatever restraint they had would dissolve. She could see it in their eyes.

Zephaniah sighed in his sleep. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. The smile she gave him held back her tears.

“Bless you, Zephaniah. You did your best. No one can do more.”

During the early autumn rains, he executed the entire bodyguard corps, sent every concubine into a nunnery, banished the cooks, married the stablemaster’s daughter, and declared war against the Shogun.

Lord Koseki ruled for thirty-eight years.

For the first time, his footsteps on the small stones of the pathway were utterly silent. Without trying, he was accomplishing a feat that had so far eluded the most skillful of his samurai. His body had known this before his mind, and knowing, a deeper realization had penetrated to his marrow. In a sudden flash of insight, Sohaku saw a possible assassin he had never thought of before.

Himself.

If the Okumichi clan was doomed, as it surely was, then his true responsibility was to the survival of his own family. Unless he could become the vassal of another lord, he and his descendants would be extinguished along with all the others who maintained their ancient loyalty. Sohaku considered the possibilities. The only lord who could guarantee a smooth transition in these uncertain times was the Shogun. Or rather, the people around him. The actual occupant of the office, Iemochi, was a sickly boy of fourteen. Clearly, the person with whom to make contact would have to be Kawakami, the head of the secret police.

Before he did that, he had to make sure of his own men. Which ones could he rely on? Which would he have to eliminate? And what of his old comrades at the palace in Edo, Saiki and Kudo? He would sound them out at the first opportunity. The danger would be much less if they joined with him.

If Lord Kiyori were still their leader, these thoughts would never have come to him. But the wily old warrior was dead.

Sohaku saw the future as clearly as in a vision. Saiki and Kudo would join with him, or they, too, would die.

With his next step, his full weight came down on the pathway. The stones clattered beneath his sandals. Lost in the multitude of things to come, Sohaku heard nothing.

After pouring tea for Lord Genji and Shigeru, Hidé bowed and began to back out of the abbot’s meditation hut. He didn’t think it was such a good idea for his lord to be alone with Shigeru, especially now that he was armed once again. Of course, even without a sword, Shigeru could easily overpower Lord Genji, so the weapons didn’t really make a significant difference. It made him wonder, not for the first time, whether the young lord was frivolous and impetuous, or brilliant and determined. In the course of a single hour, Shigeru had undergone an incredible transformation. He was once again behaving like the clan martial arts instructor he had been before the onset of his madness. How had it happened? The only thing that had changed, as far as Hidé could see, was that Lord Genji had arrived and given him back his swords. It was difficult to fathom, impossible, in fact, for someone as limited as himself. The only decision he was competent to make was to decide whom to obey, then to obey without question. Since the old lord’s death, this was a matter that never left Hidé’s mind for long. Who was really in charge of the clan now? Saiki, the chamberlain? Kudo, the chief of security? Sohaku, the commander of cavalry? Or could it be the young lord? That seemed most unlikely of all. Surely he was no more than a figurehead. And yet, here he was, to all appearances completely at ease with a man who had recently slaughtered more than a dozen of his kinsmen. On the surface, it seemed like exceedingly poor judgment. But under one specific set of circumstances, it would be judgment of the clearest kind. If Lord Genji knew what would transpire, then there was no risk at all. And if he knew, then he was without doubt the one to follow, for who was superior to a Great Lord with mystical foresight?

“Stay with us for a time,” Lord Genji said. He gestured at a teacup.

Hidé bowed deeply, took the cup from the tray, and kept bowing as Lord Genji filled it. That the lord himself should pour tea for him was astonishing. Only those in the innermost circle were treated with such intimacy.

“Thank you, lord.”

“Your conduct on our journey here was exemplary,” Lord Genji said. “I was impressed by your skill and your courage. But, most especially, I was impressed by your decisiveness. In these uncertain times, a samurai who does not hesitate is a true samurai indeed.”

“I am unworthy of such praise,” Hidé said, bowing again. Despite his modest words, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride in his breast.

“That is not for you to say,” Shigeru said. “When your lord speaks, you have only to be silent, thank him, apologize, or obey, as the case may be. That is all.”

“Yes, sir. Forgive me my discourtesy, Lord Genji. I am better suited to the stables than to your presence.”

Shigeru slapped the floor with such force that the walls of the hut shook. “What did I just say? Offer thanks, apologies, silence, obedience. Did you not hear me? I said nothing about mouthing excuses. Never make excuses. Never. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Chastened, Hidé pressed his forehead to the floor.

Lord Genji laughed. “We need not be so formal, Uncle. We are only three comrades sharing tea and discussing plans for the future.”

A shuffling of footsteps rapidly approached the door to the hut.

“Lord,” a tense voice said, “is everything in order?” The explosive slap had undoubtedly brought the assembled company to the door with their swords drawn.

“Yes, yes. Why would they not be? Leave us.”

“Yes, lord.”

Lord Genji waited until the retreating footsteps faded away before continuing.

“As I was saying, your actions have led me to a decision.” He looked hard at Hidé and stopped speaking. He was silent for so long, Hidé began wondering whether a response was expected from him. If so, was it thanks or an apology? He glanced furtively at Shigeru, hoping to see some indication, but the young lord’s fearsome uncle sat stonily, his eyes hooded as if in meditation. Hidé was saved from yet another verbal blunder when Lord Genji spoke again just as he opened his mouth to thank him. “No doubt you have heard talk about my supposed prescience.”

“Yes, lord.”

“What I say now, you must never divulge to another.”

“Yes, lord.”

“It’s true.”

Chilly winter air rushed into Hidé’s lungs. He couldn’t say a word. That Lord Genji could see the future was not particularly shocking. Most of the men were of the opinion that whoever was Lord of Akaoka had the gift, and most of the time Hidé shared that view. Like everyone else, his confidence had been badly shaken when Shigeru poisoned Lord Kiyori and went on his rampage. Who, foreseeing such a tragedy, would allow it to happen? His friend Shimoda turned the tide back in favor of the mystical view when he pointed out that no one knew what else Lord Kiyori had seen. Unimaginable though it was, perhaps the alternatives had all been worse. And was it not a fact that the greatest triumphs often arose from the worst disasters? Consider the founding of Akaoka Domain itself, six hundred years ago, with the omen of the sparrows. No, what surprised Hidé so much was that the lord was sharing the clan’s most treasured secret with him, one of the lowliest of retainers.

Exhaling at last, too stunned by the revelation to be embarrassed by the sound of his breathing, Hidé bowed deeply all the way to the floor. “Lord Genji, you honor me with your trust. I will not fail you.”

“I know you will not, Hidé, for I have seen your future.”

Hidé swayed on his heels, dizzied by what he was hearing. Only the discipline he had built through a lifetime of martial training kept him from hyperventilating and toppling over.

“You will be loyal to me unto death,” Lord Genji said. “Since I know there is no one more trustworthy, I appoint you captain of my bodyguard. I will make the announcement to the assembly after my uncle and I discuss some other matters. In the meantime, consider whom you will want as your lieutenants. They will help you select the rest of your men.”

Hidé felt his chest tightening with emotion. At this most dangerous time, when the fate of the nation as well as the clan was in doubt, his lord had chosen him above dozens of more accomplished, more senior retainers—him, Hidé, the buffoon, the gambler, the drunkard—to be his shield! He could restrain himself no longer. Tears of gratitude fell to the mat, plopping loudly like the start of a winter squall.

“Thank you, Lord Genji.”

Hidé left the meditation hut in a daze. He took his place among the other samurai awaiting Lord Genji’s reappearance. Uncharacteristically, he neither smiled nor exchanged pleasantries with his companions. How unexpectedly, how suddenly, how irrevocably his life had changed within this very hour.

Loyal unto death.

Hidé’s greatest fear had always been that he would make the wrong choice in some complicated crisis and betray his lord, not by cowardice, but out of stupidity. Now that fear was gone. Lord Genji, who saw the future, guaranteed it. He would be loyal unto death. He could feel himself grow stronger and steadier from this certainty alone.

“You were in there for a long time,” Shimoda said. “What did they want?”

“It’s not for me to say,” Hidé replied. Turning inward once again, he knew he had found his first lieutenant. Though Shimoda was only fair with a sword, and downright pathetic in unarmed combat, no one in the clan could outshoot him with bow, musket, or pistol, from a stationary position or from horseback. And, equally important, he was honest to the core. If he gave his word, he would keep it, though it cost him his life.

Shimoda sat back, surprised by Hidé’s reticence and even more surprised by his serious demeanor. What had happened in the meditation hut? His carefree friend seemed like someone else entirely.

“So, what’s up?” Taro sat down next to Shimoda. He rubbed the stubble of new growth on his scalp. It itched. Like all the other temporary monks, he had stopped shaving his head as soon as it was known that Lord Genji would be called to the monastery. That was the long-awaited signal for their return to duty. All of them had already changed into their former clothing and once again wore their two swords in their sashes. The erstwhile monks were notable only by their lack of hair. It was an embarrassing distinction, one that would be even more embarrassing once they returned to Edo. The samurai’s elaborate coiffure was an important part of his wardrobe. But it couldn’t be helped. Sometimes it was necessary to endure the unendurable. Taro rubbed his head again. “What did Hidé tell you?”

“Nothing,” Shimoda said testily.

Taro was taken aback. “I thought we were friends. If he told you, you should tell me.”

“I’m telling you,” Shimoda said. “He said nothing.”

“Really?” Taro looked past Shimoda. He saw a samurai sitting with spine erect, eyes half closed, in alert quietude, as still as a stone Buddha. Taro had to look twice to be sure it was really Hidé.

Genji smiled at Shigeru. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Ask what?”

“The obvious.”

“Very well,” Shigeru said. “Why did you say those things to Hidé?”

“Because it’s the truth?”

Genji and Shigeru both laughed.

Immediately growing serious, Shigeru said, “I think you’ve made a mistake. Hidé is a frivolous wastrel. All his peers have gone on to greater responsibility. He alone is still among the rank and file with men ten years his junior. Moreover, his appointment will offend Sohaku. He was my father’s chief bodyguard, and he no doubt expects to continue as yours.”

“Your words are very wise, Uncle,” Genji said, “and this in itself could be considered baffling. Not an hour ago, you were naked, covered in your own excrement, and making faces like a trained monkey. One might wonder how such a sudden transformation is possible, and whether it is to be trusted. How would you advise me?”

Shigeru colored and stared at the floor.

“Ah, well, we can deal with that later. I have some thoughts on the matter I will share with you. You may find them salutary. As for Hidé, you are certainly right about his past performance. And without doubt, many in his situation would be crushed by the weight of such unexpected responsibility. But I believe the opposite will happen with this man.”

Shigeru gave Genji a questioning look. “You believe? You don’t know?”

“Why would I know?”

“In every generation of our family, one person inherits the curse of foresight. My father in his, I in mine. In yours, it must be you. There is no one else.”

“There’s no one else now,” Genji said. “There were three others. Your children, my cousins. One of them might have been the one.”

Shigeru tried not to remember when he last saw them. He shook his head. “They were spared. They saw no more than what was in front of them, and in their normal childish dreams.”

Genji said, “My father was a drunkard and an opium addict. He could easily have had unacknowledged offspring without even knowing it.”

Again Shigeru shook his head. “Alcohol and opium in the quantities in which he consumed them have a highly suppressive effect on sexual desire. It is remarkable that he sired you.” Shigeru smiled, though his eyes were sad. “There is no use denying it. You know.”

“Are you sure there are no others?” Genji said. “Grandfather was extremely virile, was he not? Could you have brothers or sisters you don’t know about? And they children of their own?”