Lord Oda's Revenge (35 page)

Mokuren felt that the only way to help his mother was to go after her to hell and discover what was troubling her. He found a way to follow his mother to Enma's realm, and from there to the realm of samsara dedicated to the
gaki
, the hungry ghosts. His teacher from the temple, who had died the previous winter, met him there, and warned him to be careful of the flames. Mokuren laughed. ‘Do not worry, old man,' he said, ‘my robe of
enlightenment will protect me.' But when he looked down, he saw that he was not wearing the robe of liberation, but the faded old robe that his mother had given him, so many years before. He understood truly at that moment that he had turned his back on nirvana and, through his love for his mother, condemned himself to reincarnation in this world, or worse.

Through the holes in his robe, his skin was red raw with the heat, scarred and burnt. He was a walking wound, in agony, but he pressed on behind his teacher, farther into the realm of hungry ghosts, which was just the same as this world, only there was no grass and no leaves and no food of any kind, and everything was always on fire.

Mokuren's teacher led him into the depths of the realm, showing him the poor sinners who were being tortured. As they walked, they passed a pot, which a demon was stirring with a spiked pole. Suddenly Mokuren's mother raised her head from the boiling liquid. ‘That is my son!' she cried, and now Mokuren could understand what she was saying, because he was in the land of the dead and all in the land of dead can speak the tongue of death. ‘Because you will not forget me,' she said to Mokuren, ‘I am bound to you, unable to leave this plane of hell. I suffer helplessly, consumed by hunger that I cannot feed and thirst that I cannot slake. Help me!' Mokuren's teacher tried to hurry Mokuren along, telling him that this was not really his mother. But Mokuren would have known her voice anywhere, even in hell.

‘That is my mother,' he said.

‘And that certainly is my son,' she said. ‘I may not have seen him for many years, but he is the spitting image of his father, the emperor.'

‘Show me my mother!' Mokuren commanded the demon,
who fished her out of the pot with his spiked pole. Mokuren recognized the Sanskrit letters that he had written on her body to prepare her for her funeral, and asked her what he could do to relieve her suffering.

‘You must go back to the world and do the following things,' she said. ‘On the fifteenth day of the seventh month you must copy the Lotus Sutra in one day. Then you must prepare an offering of clean basins full of rice and spices and the five fruits, and other offerings of incense, oil, lamps, candles, beds, and bedding, all the best of the world, to the
sangha
of the ten directions. On that day, all the holy assembly of Mount Hiei, whether in the mountains practising meditation, or obtaining the four fruits of the way, or walking beneath trees, should gather in a great congregation and all of like mind receive the
pravarana
food, accept its gift in spirit. Then, in offering the food and the readings of the sutra, you must truly let go of your love for me, and accept that I am gone. Only then will you and I be saved.'

Finally understanding why he had been met here by his great teacher, Mokuren returned to the world and did the things his mother had asked. Grateful, she appeared before him, telling him that she had – alone among women – been promoted to the Pure Land. He was so full of joy that he danced for an entire night.

 

‘A
ND EVER SINCE
then,' said the priest, ‘people have followed Mokuren's example, leaving food and drink for their dead relatives on the days of
obon
. People forget about Mokuren himself, but they remember the ritual.'

Taro sat on the floor of the hut, feeling empty.

‘So. . . For my mother to be at peace, I must forget her?'

‘Not forget,' said the priest. ‘Let go.'

Taro stood, frustrated. ‘But what about when Mokuren went to hell? How did he do it? You didn't say.'

The priest spread his hands. ‘I do not know. It is a story – it is meant to illustrate a point about attachment, and the way to enlightenment. It's not something that happened.'

‘How do you know?' said Taro.

‘Well. . . I don't, I suppose,' said the priest.

Taro shrugged. He would like to speak to his mother again, but he was not sure he was prepared to go to hell for it. Besides, his mother would not
be
in hell, he was almost sure of it. She had returned for
obon
, but so did many of the dead. It only meant that she had not yet entered the Pure Land, that her soul had remained in limbo, perhaps still being judged by Enma. She was gone now, and would return next year if she was still in the planes of existence.
He cursed himself. He wished he had spoken to her about the ball when they were both on Mount Hiei, about what it was and how it worked – it would have saved so much effort, and so much heartache.

He went to the door. ‘Thank you,' he said. ‘For helping me.'

‘You're going already?'

‘Yes. There are things I have to do.' He had to go to Hiro at the ninja mountain, make sure his friend was safe, and then he had to decide what to do about the ball. Was it worth trying to recover it from the samurai who had taken it? He would need to learn who it was – the man had worn no
mon
. Or, if it wasn't the true ball, he would have to look for it. But where to start?

He stilled his thoughts. The first thing was to return to Hiro. He could worry about the rest later. He opened the door and turned to the priest.

‘Goodbye,' he said. ‘Goodbye,' said the priest. ‘May the
kami
keep you from evil spirits.'

Taro laughed. ‘Too late for that,' he said. And then he closed the door on the man and left.

As he started up the path that led away from the village into the hills, and from there to anywhere he wanted to go, he turned one last time and looked out to sea. The dark boats far away, laden with men who wanted him dead, and the small boats in the bay, laden with the dead themselves, were both the same size from this vantage point.

Both tiny, and frail.

He was sure that it had been Shusaku's ghost on the ship. His spirit must have returned for
obon
and been drawn to Taro. In one night, Taro had been saved not once but twice: by the spirit of the ancient ama who had first dived for the ball, and by
Shusaku, who had died in the courtyard of Lord Oda's castle.

He sent out a silent thank-you to both of them, and a goodbye to his mother. Both of them, now, would be far from this shore and on their way back to hell, or limbo. But he would be back next year at the same time, to see them again. For now, he would go to the ninja mountain, to meet Hiro. Then, before making any decision about the Buddha ball, he would return with his friend to Mount Hiei. He might not be able to bring Hana back, but at least he could see her again, and witness his mother's cremation.

He set off up the path, but stopped dead at a fork where the shadow of a tree fell over the stones.

His mother stood there, shimmering in the darkness, holding out her hands to him. She was speaking, but the words made no sense, and the shapes of her mouth corresponded to no language he knew.

 

S
HUSAKU LAY PANTING
on the sand. The water lapped insistently at his feet, as if wanting to pull him into the sea again, as if angry with him for escaping its clutches.

He ignored it.

Over the mountains behind him, the glow of sunrise was beginning to pale the sky. He knew that he would have to find shelter soon, or experience the pain of burning again, as his scar tissue was roasted once more by the sun's rays.

He ran his fingers over his stomach, feeling the flesh and bone already knitting itself together. It was agony, but Shusaku was used to agony. He had been a vampire a long time, and this was not the first wound he had endured. If it was, he wouldn't have been able to pull himself through the water, wave after wave, bleeding all the while, just to reach the shore.

The strange thing was that he was not dead. Not because the wound had been a fatal one – it hadn't.

But that was just the problem. Lord Tokugawa knew how to kill a vampire – he had dealt with ninjas before and was aware that only a direct blow to the heart, or a decapitation, would destroy them.

Yet he had not aimed for Shusaku's heart. He had cut his
stomach instead.

And there was something else. Lord Tokugawa knew he could swim.

The more Shusaku thought about it, the clearer it seemed – Lord Tokugawa had deliberately kept him alive. And he had given him the ball before he kicked him over the side. Why?

Shusaku couldn't work it out. There was one, impossible explanation – that Lord Tokugawa had somehow recognized Taro as his son, had known who he was, and had preserved Shusaku's life so that he could preserve Taro's. It was said that Lord Tokugawa didn't plan in days or even in months, but in years – that he wasn't just several moves ahead on the chessboard, but playing an entirely different game. Could he have planned this –
all
of this?

But it couldn't be. How would the daimyo have known? So far as Shusaku knew, the man had never laid eyes on Taro since he was a baby.

For now at least, it wasn't important. What was important was that he still lived, and that Taro did too. Now he could go after the boy and help him. It had been months since he had last seen him. He had so much he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to teach. What had happened – his brush with death at Lord Oda's castle – had made him realize how much he wanted to impart the knowledge and skills he had learned over the years. Taro had been a good pupil – the best. Shusaku almost thought of him as a son.

In a way, too, he considered the boy his redemption. He had killed so many men, and as on that night in Nagasaki, he sometimes felt them crowding around him, an entourage of the dead. There was a saying the Tendai Buddhists had –
akuji mi ni tomaru
. All evil done clings to the body. Occasionally Shusaku
felt that this was literally true, that the ghosts of those he had killed were clinging to him. But when Taro was around, he'd felt something different – a possibility that he might redeem himself, if only he could teach Taro to make the most of his natural gifts.

Perhaps all those killings would even be worth it, if they put a good and just man on the throne of the country. A man with Taro's instincts of kindness, protection, and compassion.

His fingers brushed against the raw edge of his wound, where it was still open and ragged to the touch.

When I move, it's going to hurt very badly
, he thought. However, the stars were starting to fade now, as the light in the east brightened. He had to get to shelter, and very quickly. He stretched out his hand to pull the ball, which he had placed on the beach beside him, against his side.

Stupid thing
, he thought.
It doesn't even work
. And yet Lord Tokugawa had pushed it into his hands, and Lord Tokugawa didn't do anything without having a good reason. So although every fibre of every muscle in his body had screamed in fury at the pain of swimming with a heavy metal ball in one hand, he had kept it with him as he swam. And even though he himself was screaming inside with fury at the fact that Lord Tokugawa had wounded him, he knew he would pick up the ball and carry it with him, keeping it safe for whatever future moment Lord Tokugawa had foreseen. Because long before Lord Tokugawa had hurt him, he had saved his life – and Shusaku owed him still. And even if Shusaku didn't understand
why
, it seemed the daimyo had saved his life again. Lord Tokugawa could have killed him on that ship. He hadn't.

Sighing, Shusaku hauled himself to his knees.

He had been right. It hurt very badly indeed.