Death at the Crossroads (8 page)

“Let us in!”

“Open the damn door!”

“Lord Buddha protect me! Please, Sensei, let us in!”

The pounding had no effect, and the door remained solidly closed.

“Look, the way to the trail is open! Let’s run!”

The three boys started rushing pell-mell toward the trail that brought them to the hut, which was in the opposite direction from the apparition.

Kaze, still on his knees, glanced over at Okubo. The older boy’s face was so pale that he looked like a ghost himself. But he made no move to run. Whether this was caused by bravery, fear, or pride, Kaze couldn’t tell. For Kaze, it was simple caution. He wanted to see more before he went running into the night in terror.

Instead of seeing more, he heard more.

“BLOOD!” A deep, hollow voice came from the woods where the boys had seen the spirit. It reverberated in the mountain air with an unnatural resonance. “I want blood! Give me blood!”

Kaze stood up. He wasn’t ready to run yet, but he wanted to prepare to run if he had to. Okubo misinterpreted Kaze’s action. As soon as he saw Kaze move, Okubo jumped to his feet and bolted with the rest. Kaze risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see Okubo flying down the trail, then he returned his attention to the woods.

“I want
your
blood! Give me
your
blood!” the booming voice said, but Kaze saw no signs that the owner of that strange voice was doing anything to collect on its demand. He stood there, straining every sense he had to see, hear, or smell something from the woods, but now in the darkness it was silent. Kaze didn’t return to his bowing position, but he didn’t run, either.

The rest of the night was spent in silence, save for the rustling of an owl’s wings as it flew above the hut with the night’s prey in its claws. Kaze had never experienced a night where silence could build so much tension. He had sometimes been given mock guard duty on maneuvers and had once been caught sleeping at his post. He still remembered the beating he got for that transgression, administered by the hands of his own father. He never fell asleep again at his post as guard, but he had always found himself fighting the tug of dark
sleep while he stayed awake. That night the cold and the terror and potential for new terrors to come drove all thoughts of sleep from his body, and when the dawn came the next morning, Kaze was relieved to see the surrounding woods turn from black to gray to colors with the increasing light.

A few minutes after the sun was finally in the sky, the door of the hut opened and a spry old man came out. His hair was long, white, and shaggy, and his clothes were like a simple peasant’s, except for the two swords stuck in his sash. His eyes were sharp and arresting, like the eyes of a hunting hawk. His hands were large and powerful, and despite the man’s age Kaze could see he still had tremendous strength in his arms and shoulders. Kaze dropped to his knees and bowed.

The man walked over to Kaze and stared down at him. “I suppose you want to be a student?”

Kaze wanted to ask if the old man had heard or seen the ghostly happenings of the night before, but decided to stifle his questions, at least for now. “Hai! Yes, Sensei!”

“Do you know how to use an ax to chop firewood?”

“Yes, Sensei!”

“Then come on. You might as well make yourself useful while I decide if I want a student.”

K
aze spent an hour chopping firewood. The full-sized ax was heavy and clumsy, but he kept at it gamely despite his fatigue and the difficulty. He was proud of the pile of firewood he had managed to create when the Sensei returned. The Sensei looked at the pile of wood but made no comment. All he said was, “I suppose you’ll want some breakfast?”

“Yes, Sensei!”

“Then follow me.” The Sensei led Kaze into his hut, where a big pot of
okayu
, rice porridge, was bubbling over the fire. The hut was sparsely furnished and almost devoid of personal possessions. The major exception was a sword stand in one corner, where a long katana and a shorter wakizashi were stored. Like every boy of his age in the warrior class, Kaze fancied himself a judge of fine swords. These were exceptionally fine. They were swords much finer than the everyday swords worn by the Sensei and even finer than the swords Kaze’s father kept to wear on very special occasions.

The Sensei walked over to a corner of the room, and Kaze thought he was going to get a bowl for the okayu. Instead, the old man picked up a piece of firewood. Turning suddenly, he threw it at Kaze.

Shocked, Kaze nimbly stepped to one side as the firewood
bounced against the wall behind him and clattered to the floor. The Sensei looked at Kaze for a moment, then calmly proceeded to pick up a wooden bowl and a pair of hashi, as if flying pieces of firewood were the prelude to every meal. “Here,” he said, handing the implements to Kaze. “Help yourself.”

Kaze warily took the bowl and hashi from the Sensei, but the Sensei made no additional aggressive moves. “Find me when you’re done eating and I’ll give you a kendo lesson. You’re not my student yet, but it won’t hurt to see how stupid you are at learning.” Glancing at the piece of firewood that had been thrown at him, Kaze sat down to breakfast wondering what kind of teacher he had sought out.

His questions about this Sensei increased with the lesson, because the Sensei started Kaze’s formal instruction in the way of the sword by teaching him how to tie the sash on a kimono.

“In ancient times, we used to hang our swords from our sash with cords,” the Sensei began. “Now it is our custom to place our swords in our kimono sash. You have been wearing swords for ceremonial occasions since you were small. On those occasions the swords were for show. In battle the swords will be for survival. You have to learn to carry them as a samurai. Proudly, but also in a practical manner. You can’t carry them too loosely, or they will slip. You can’t carry them too tightly, or the sash will constrict your wind and cause you annoyance. Today you will learn how to tie the sash of your kimono in a proper fashion. It is a small thing, but from small, fundamental things the foundation for greater things is built. After you learn this lesson, you will observe how other samurai tie their sashes. That observation will teach you if a man is grounded in fundamentals or if he is just displaying his swords in a flashy manner.”

Under the Sensei’s instruction, Kaze tied and retied his kimono sash until he could do it perfectly. He had to admit that carrying the two swords of the samurai tucked into his sash was now more comfortable, but he couldn’t see what this had to do with sword fighting.

“Can I ask a question, Sensei?” Kaze said at the end of the lesson.

“What is it?”

“When will I be taught things that have to do with kendo?”

“Baka! This does have to do with kendo. Everything I teach you has to do with
bushido
, the way of the warrior. This morning you learned a lesson before breakfast. A
bushi
must keep fit, even if it’s through something like chopping wood. You should also learn calligraphy, art, and poetry, but a bushi can’t simply occupy his time with artistic pursuits while waiting for the next war. He must do things to stay in good physical condition. At breakfast you were taught another lesson, a famous one, when I threw the piece of wood at you. Bushi must remain alert and expect an attack at any time. Have you ever heard that?”

“Yes, Sensei.” Kaze anticipated another attack from the Sensei. That was what was usually done when students were taught this lesson, and he knew it. The student is told to expect an attack at any time, then he is asked if he understands that. When he says yes, the Sensei launches an immediate attack to illustrate that the lesson is fact.

“Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Sensei!” Kaze readied himself for the launch of some kind of attack, like the flying firewood. Instead, the Sensei merely continued with his lecture. Kaze was almost disappointed.

“In life things will happen to you and you must draw the lessons from them. You will not always have someone there to explain them to you, and you must learn to learn on your own. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Good, then go gather up some of the firewood you chopped this morning so we can make dinner.”

A simple dinner was eaten in almost total silence. After spending a sleepless night and a long day, Kaze could barely keep his eyes open. The dark hut and the flickering fire lulled him to drowsiness as surely as a mother’s lullaby. Kaze was given a futon and a quilt and shown a place to sleep in one of the outbuildings near the Sensei’s hut. “I’ll
tell you by tomorrow if I want you for a student,” the Sensei said as he left.

Kaze dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep. The sight of dragon footprints and flittering ghosts and unearthly voices calling for blood entered his dreams. The frightening events of the night before twisted his dreams into a nightmare, and he was certain he could feel the presence of a demon or malignant spirit right in the room with him. Suddenly, a sharp pain across his arm and shoulder jolted him out of sleep.

He sat up confused and bleary-eyed. He looked around and there, sitting next to him, was the Sensei. A clay lamp was by the Sensei, and he held a stick of bamboo. He was looking at Kaze.

Kaze rubbed his shoulder and was about to protest being hit with the stick. Then he shut his mouth. After a moment’s silence, Kaze said, “Be prepared for an attack at any time.”

The Sensei nodded. “Good! Very good! You’re not as thick and stupid as you seem. I’ll take you as a student. Chop some firewood when you wake up, and after breakfast we’ll continue your training.”

Kaze smiled. One of his first lessons was to expect attack at any time, and yet he had still been captured at Jiro’s hut. He expected an attack, but he didn’t think about the nature of the attack. From his circumstances, he knew the attacker must be the local Magistrate. He held the slow, stupid Magistrate in low regard. Yet even stupid men can kill you if you are careless. Kaze hoped that this time he would survive so he could benefit from that lesson in the future.

The sound of footsteps snapped him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes. People were coming.

“S
ooo yooou caaptuured thaaat samuraiiii.” Kaze couldn’t see the speaker yet, but the voice had the high pitch and long, chanting quality of court nobles. It surprised Kaze to hear it in this rural District where a court noble would not be found, but he had heard enough nobles to know that the accent was an affectation and not something the speaker was raised with.

“Yes, Manase-sama.” The voice of the officious Magistrate.

“Good. Well, let’s see them,” Manase said, using the same singsong inflection.

The two men entered the courtyard. The Magistrate was wearing the same kimono he wore when Kaze first saw him, but Manase’s costume was a surprise. Manase wore a brightly colored kimono with several rich robes. At his sleeves and the hem of the robes, the thick layers of cloth formed a dazzling rainbow that almost illuminated the drab courtyard. On top of Manase’s head was a tall, black-gauze cap, like that of a noble, with a black ribbon coming down around his chin to hold the peaked cap in place. The cut of the robes was old-fashioned, and the District Lord looked like the image on a very old scroll painting stepping off the silk and coming to life.

Manase stopped several feet from the cages. The Magistrate seemed surprised at the District Lord’s abrupt halt, so Manase explained.

“I don’t like to get too near.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “These types always smell so bad!”

“Yes, yes, my Lord. We can—”

Before the Magistrate could finish, Kaze decided to take a chance. “I am Matsuyama Kaze,” he said in a voice as clear as his painful face would allow. “Although my current circumstances are strange, Lord Manase, I want to repeat my praise for the fragment of
Dojoji
I saw yesterday. I hope some day to see a complete performance.”

The Magistrate bustled up to Kaze’s cage. “Here, here you. You shut up until you’re spoken to! Daring to address the Lord—”

“Magistrate.”

The Magistrate halted in midsentence and looked at Manase. “Yes, my Lord?”

“Take that man out of that cage and get him a bath and fresh clothes.”

“But my Lord—”

Manase gave a quick, but graceful, flip of his hand. His voice had a tinge of impatience to it. “Do as I order.”

“Of course, of course, my Lord. Fresh clothes and a bath. Right away!”

Manase turned and left the courtyard. The Magistrate also left, but in a few minutes he returned with two guards. They were as badly equipped and loutish as the two guards Kaze had seen at the crossroads. In fact, on closer inspection, they were the guards he had seen at the crossroads.

The Magistrate fumbled in the sleeve of his kimono and came out with a large brass key. It was a rectangular bar of metal with notches filed along one end. He gave the key to a guard, who stuck it in the lock of Kaze’s cage and opened the door.

Kaze unfolded himself from his cramped confinement. As he got
to his feet, he felt himself swaying slightly, the legacy of his beating and a night spent stuffed into the cage. He closed his eyes briefly, centered himself, and stopped the swaying.

The Magistrate grabbed Kaze’s arm. It wasn’t to support him but to escort him like some small child or prisoner. Kaze shook off the Magistrate’s hand and glared at him.

The jowly cheeks of the Magistrate were set in hard slabs. His small eyes were like two tiny black pearls in a sea of flesh. They radiated unadulterated malevolence toward Kaze.

“Come on, then,” the Magistrate said, walking out of the courtyard.

As Kaze followed he reflected on the danger of taking anyone too lightly. The Magistrate was a buffoon, but buffoons can be especially dangerous because they will kill out of stupidity. Life is so fragile and brief. It can be snuffed out by a misplaced step or a lack of caution or failing to properly assess the measure of a man.

Kaze was taken to the kitchen area of the manor and fed. The manor was set up as a large rectangle, with several open courtyards in the middle. The courtyards were edged by covered verandas with raised wooden floors and tile roofs. This was the typical design of most country manors, and Kaze was familiar with the general layout without ever having been in Manase Manor before.

Kaze was then given a bath in a wooden
ofuro
bathtub. The bathtub was chest-high and as wide as the armspan of a man. The wet, fragrant wooden slats of the tub were fitted together so cunningly that no caulking was needed to keep it watertight. Along one wall was a bench, where the occupants of the tub could sit while they relaxed in water up to their necks. A small fire in a copper box was stoked by a serving woman. The box protruded into one wall of the ofuro and heated the water to a satisfying degree of scalding pleasure.

Kaze stripped down and allowed the serving woman stoking the fire to help him scrub down before he got into the tub. He used a wooden scraper and a rag to remove the dirt, wincing in pain but not crying out as the cleaning tools were applied to the dark bruises
that mottled his skin. Being naked at an ofuro before a strange woman was something that held no erotic connotations for Kaze. Since childhood he had taken baths in this fashion, with servants of one type or another helping him. The woman scrubbing his naked back was as much a fixture of the ofuro as the bench seat or pile of wood to heat it.

When he was fully clean, the woman dipped water out of the ofuro and rinsed the dirt off him with bucket after bucket of steaming water. Then he climbed up on a small stool and stepped into the scalding water, sinking into the tub and sitting on the bench, letting the water lap at his chin. Kaze let the steaming hot water wash away his aches from the beating and night in the cage.

“Ahh, that feels wonderful,” Kaze said.

The woman made no comment but just looked down sullenly.

“This is a fine ofuro,” Kaze tried again.

“Hai. Yes.” The woman murmured it so softly that Kaze almost didn’t hear her reply.

He closed his eyes and put his head back against the edge of the tub. “Your master must enjoy this ofuro.” The woman made no answer, but instead busied herself shoving some more wood into the copper box.

“Doesn’t he enjoy this?” Kaze asked, curious.

Again answering so softly that Kaze had to strain to hear her, the woman said, “The Lord doesn’t use the ofuro much.” The thought of a Japanese not using an available bath was alien to Kaze, and he paused to contemplate what this meant about the District Lord. He speculated that perhaps the Lord was a devotee of Dutch learning, that strange set of beliefs and superstitions brought by the smelly Europeans. Kaze had never met one of these strange creatures, but they were notorious for not bathing like civilized human beings. These large, hairy barbarians brought with them a whole slew of fantastic stories about the customs of their homeland. Most people would be ashamed of the things the barbarians seemed proud of, and the stories about them that Kaze had heard alternatively fascinated
and disgusted him. They were notorious liars, and Kaze thought that anyone who would follow their outlandish customs or believe their silly tales must be feeble-minded. Still, Tokugawa Ieyasu kept several around him, and so did Nobunaga and Hideyoshi before him, but Kaze thought they must be kept as pets, the same way one would keep an interesting dog.

He tried to engage the serving woman in more conversation to find out about Lord Manase’s household, but she responded only with a few grunts and bobs of her head. Since becoming a ronin, Kaze had become accustomed to a style of treatment he had not been exposed to previously. Even the peasants treated him with less respect, though he was still a samurai. Yet Kaze wasn’t sure if the servant’s reticence was rudeness or something else.

She did provide Kaze with a copper mirror when he requested one, and Kaze studied the damage to his face. It was puffy and purple in spots, but Kaze dismissed the beating as work done by amateurs. He had been in worse fights, fights where he couldn’t move for a week after the battle was over, and he had been the winner.

The kimono that Kaze was given after the bath was a deep indigo blue with a white crane on the back. The crane pattern was created by protecting areas of the cloth with a thick paste, then putting the cloth in an earthen jar filled with dye. The cloth was left to sit for weeks, staining the fibers a deep blue, as blue as the deepest lakes or the Inland Sea itself. Later the cloth was removed and the paste cleaned off. A white pattern on a blue cloth was the result. This pattern was a very delicate one. The crane, a symbol of long life and prosperity, showed the outline of individual feathers.

Kaze’s own clothes, which were simple utilitarian things, were taken to be cleaned. They would be ripped apart at the seams, washed in a stream, put on special frames, starched, and then resewn when they were dry. The various panels of the kimono would be swapped around to even out wear on the garment.

After the bath, Kaze was fed miso soup, rice, and pickles. Finally, Kaze was taken into Lord Manase’s presence. As he followed the
serving girl leading him, Kaze noticed that the manor was in need of repair. A few errant tiles were seen peeking over the edge of the roof, and some of the shoji screens had holes where crude paper patches had been applied. Despite Manase’s fine kimonos and sumptuous Noh outfits, the District did not seem a prosperous one.

Kaze was shown to an eight-mat room that functioned as Lord Manase’s study. The room was dark, and Kaze could see that wooden shutters were used instead of shoji, leaving Manase to sit in a perpetual gloom as light filtered through the shutters in compressed slits. Manase was sitting on a
zabuton
cushion with a folded paper scroll spread out before him on the floor. Kaze could see that the scroll was an old one and that the writing on it was in
hiragana
, the fluid cursive script, often used by women, that spelled words phonetically. Kaze sat on the tatami mat a respectful distance from Lord Manase.

Without looking up, Manase asked, “Have you ever read
The Tale of Genji
?”

“Many years ago.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Lady Murasaki was a genius.”

Manase looked up in surprise and give a tittering laugh. He covered his mouth with his hand, just like a maiden. Kaze noted that Manase had his teeth blackened, like a Court noble in Kyoto. It puzzled and disturbed Kaze to see this rural District Lord adopting the language, clothes, and customs of the Court. It seemed out of place and presumptuous.

“A genius! A woman genius!” Manase gave another high-pitched laugh. “I can’t say I have ever heard of a woman being called a genius before.” Manase’s face had a light dusting of rice powder on it. His eyebrows were shaved, and small false eyebrows were painted high on his forehead.

“I judged her work, not her sex. No man I know wrote about life six hundred years ago with such passion and interest.”

Manase nodded his head. “In that I suppose you’re right. I’ve tried to read all I can about the courtly life of that period, and I keep
coming back to
The Tale of Genji
over and over again. If a woman can be a genius, she was one, but it’s strange to hear you call her that.”

Kaze said nothing.

Manase folded up the scroll and said, “You’re also a devotee of Noh.”

“I used to be, in times past. It’s been many years since I’ve seen a Noh play. That’s why it was a real pleasure to see you that day.”

“And how did you know it was me?”

“A Noh dancer learns balance and grace. His walk can be quite distinctive. When you were practicing
Dojoji
I was able to observe your walk for a long time. When I saw you enter the courtyard I saw the same walk.”

Manase laughed again. “That’s a useful trick, identifying a man by his walk.”

“It can be useful on a battlefield. You can see someone from far away and still tell who he is.”

“Surely the crest on his helmet will tell you that.”

“No, not always. A man can wear any helmet. Sometimes the crest on the helmet doesn’t identify the man. It’s a popular ruse in war to have someone else wear a leader’s helmet to confuse the enemy.”

“But I was able to identify General Iwaki Sadataka by his helmet. I would have been a complete fool to kill the wrong man and take his head to Tokugawa-sama.”

Kaze had a hard time picturing this dandy killing anyone, much less a famous general like Iwaki, but the manor they were sitting in showed that the Lord had been rewarded for something.

“If that happened, who do you think would be more surprised?” Kaze asked. “Lord Tokugawa or the man who lost his head because it was found under the wrong helmet?”

Manase gave his high-pitched, tittering laugh again. “You’re a droll fellow. I like you! It’s so deadly dull in this little backwater. Like your name, a fresh wind is always welcome.”

Kaze nodded. “How did you come to kill General Iwaki, if I may ask?”

“It was during the battle of Sekigahara,” Manase said in the tone of a man reciting something he’s said many times before. “Sekigahara was a confusing battle with two hundred thousand warriors present. In the morning the forces against Tokugawa-sama outnumbered his troops, but he had made secret agreements to get support from many of the lords who were supposed to be fighting against him. At the proper time, these troops would turn on their own army and help the Tokugawas. In addition, Tokugawa-sama had made arrangements for several other lords to remain neutral and not enter the battle at all. Despite that, it was a desperate battle, and it wasn’t decided until the forces who had agreed to turn against their own army did so.

“Toward the end of the battle General Iwaki became separated from his guards. I managed to come across him when he was alone and kill him.” Manase gave a flip of his hand. “The General was an old man but still skillful with the sword. I was lucky to kill him.”

“He was separated from his guards?”