The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn (15 page)

Seikei could not resist. It was
the chance to learn from a master. For hours they practiced in the
empty theater with the dull swords that the kabuki troupe used.
Tomomi taught Seikei how to move his feet swiftly, sliding not
stepping, never crossing one foot over the other, moving back and
forth and side to side, as easily as if he were a dragonfly on
water.

At last Tomomi nodded. “You can
imitate the footwork, but of course you are holding the sword
completely wrong.” He replaced his own sword in the scabbard, and
then drew it again with a flash. “One hand brings out the sword,”
he said. “But then you must seize it with both hands. Like
this.”

Seikei followed his example,
finding that the hilt of the sword was long enough for both of his
hands.

“Raise it! Raise it!” Tomomi
commanded, and Seikei lifted it high over his head.

“That’s right,” Tomomi said, and
without warning slapped his own sword across Seikei’s cheek. Stung
by the blow, Seikei rushed forward, trying to return it.

But the actor stepped aside,
tripping Seikei as he went by and sending him sprawling to the
floor. Tears rushed to Seikei’s eyes, but he was determined not to
let Tomomi see them.

“What do you say? What do you
say?” Tomomi shouted.

Seikei stared at him,
open-mouthed. He did not know what a samurai said when humiliated.
“Must I kill myself?” he asked.

“You say,” Tomomi replied slowly,
“I swear that I will see you disgraced.”

Silence fell over the room. “Say
it! ” Tomomi commanded.

“I swear,” Seikei repeated, “that
I will see you disgraced.”

“That will be your most important
line in the play,” Tomomi said. “Always watch your opponent’s
eyes,” he added casually. “And now to bed. Tomorrow we must reach
Edo.

18: A Sword Fight

Tired as he was, Seikei got little
sleep that night. Dreams of what he had learned kept waking him.
The image of Tomomi dressed as the geisha burned in his memory. If
he needed any further proof that Tomomi had stolen the jewel, that
provided it. Now Seikei knew that it was Tomomi, wearing that same
costume, who had appeared in the doorway of the room in the Tokaido
Inn. Because Seikei had just heard the story of the horned
jikininki, he had imagined that was what it was.

Seikei could hear his father’s
voice scolding him for having too much imagination. Somehow, Judge
Ooka had guessed the truth, connecting Seikei’s story to the troupe
of actors who had performed nearby. But the mystery only seemed to
deepen, for why would Tomomi go to such trouble to steal the jewel
and throw blame on someone else by leaving a false one— and then
leave it at the shrine of Ise?

The answer must be revealed in his
new play. Judge Ooka had thought so. “There may be another
criminal,” he had said. Who could that be?

Most of all, Seikei’s dreams were
haunted by the sword, the real sword, in Tomomi’s trunk, and the
actor’s strange reaction when he discovered Seikei handling it.
Anyone else would have been enraged. But over and over, Seikei
heard the woman’s voice— the geisha who had ceased to be
Tomomi—asking, “What do you think of my son’s sword?” The sword,
sharp and shining and deadly, flashed toward Seikei in his
dreams.

Seikei jumped awake when a hand
touched his shoulder again. He still felt the geisha’s long nails
digging into his neck. But it was not Tomomi—only Kazuo looking for
help gathering wood to start the cooking fire for
breakfast.

As the actors started out on the
road again, Seikei’s legs felt as if they were made of stone.
Tomomi, however, seemed full of life and energy. He did cartwheels
along the road, causing a group of travelers to laugh and
applaud.

Kazuo dropped back alongside
Seikei and asked, “What were the two of you doing last night? You
didn’t come back from the theater until very late.”

Seikei shook his head. “We were
rehearsing,” he replied.

‘Then it’s true? That you’re
getting a role in the play Tomomi is writing?”

Seikei heard the disappointment in
Kazuo’s voice, and said, “It’s only one line.”

“But
still...“
Kazuo said, “it will be a very important
performance. Tomomi has been telling some of the others that we
will appear before the shogun himself.” Seikei stared at him.
“That’s impossible. Everybody knows samurai are forbidden to attend
the kabuki.”

Kazuo shrugged.
“Samurai often come to our plays. They just disguise themselves as
ordinary people.” True enough, Seikei thought, for the judge had
brought him to see
The Forty-Seven
Ronin.
“But not the shogun,” said
Seikei.

“People say that the shogun is
fond of entertainment,” said Kazuo. “He who makes the laws may
disobey them, don’t you think? Who would punish him? Anyway, it
will be interesting to see Edo. I’ve never been there
before.”

Seikei was about to reply that he
hadn’t either, when a sudden blow from behind knocked him sprawling
onto the ground. He rolled over and saw Tomomi standing over
him.

“Caught you!” laughed Tomomi.
“Merchant boy, don’t you know that samurai are never off their
guard?”

Seikei did know that. The book by
Daidoji Yuzan, written for samurai in training, had told him so.
“Sleep with one eye open,” it had advised. He gritted his teeth and
stood up, determined not to let Tomomi catch him again.

But he did. An hour later, when
Seikei had been thinking about the sword in Tomomi’s trunk,
something hard slapped across his cheek.

This time, Seikei realized at once
what it was. He whirled and saw Tomomi with a sword. But it was
only a play sword, one from the chest of props.

“What do you say?” Tomomi taunted
him.

“I swear,” replied Seikei, “that I
will see you disgraced.”

“That’s right,” Tomomi said with a
nod. “Now you have it. You’d like to draw your own sword now and
strike me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Seikei muttered.

“But you must never do that when
you are angry. You will only charge forward blindly and put
yourself at the mercy of a swordsman whose mind is calm. Catch your
enemy when he does not expect you.”

Seikei walked on and after a time
became aware that his fatigue had left him. Now that he was truly
on guard, and angry, he realized that his senses were sharper. He
kept Tomomi always in view and whenever the actor fell back, Seikei
slowed his own pace as well. He discovered that he could keep the
actor in the corner of his eye.

At the same time, Seikei was
searching the crowd on the road for another figure. Judge Ooka had
said that Bunzo would follow him, and Seikei looked for the komuso
with the basket over his head. He felt that it was important for
the judge to know about the real sword in Tomomi’s trunk. The
threat of its sharp blade hovered over his thoughts. He rubbed his
cheek, still smarting from the blow Tomomi had given it, and
thought about the scar on Tomomi’s own face.

Today when they
stopped for lunch, the actors did not have to perform for their
meal. They had collected plenty of money from the audience
for
The Double Suicide
.
Even so, Tomomi approached Seikei
with the play sword in his hands. “Like to practice your skills?”
the actor asked.

Seikei dreaded what would happen
if he accepted. No doubt Tomomi would humiliate him once more, and
the others would have a laugh at his expense. He looked around,
hoping that Bunzo would suddenly appear to save him. Then Seikei
reproached himself. Tomomi had presented a challenge, and he must
accept.

Seikei put his bowl of noodles
aside and drew his sword, keeping his eyes steadily on Tomomi.
“That’s right,” Tomomi said with a grin. “Two hands, now, remember.
Slowly wave it back and forth to keep me at bay. Don’t think of it
as a wooden sword. It’s steel, sharpened to an edge that a fly
could not walk on without cutting its feet.”

Seikei nodded, knowing that
whatever happened he would learn something, for Tomomi was a master
swordsman. Playfully, Tomomi jabbed his own sword forward, and
Seikei sidestepped easily.

“Good, good,”
said Tomomi, “and now
...
prepare to duck!” He sliced his sword through the
air toward Seikei’s head, and Seikei crouched down so that it would
miss. But as he rose, the sword came back again swiftly and this
time Seikei barely avoided it.

Tomomi gradually increased the
speed of his swings and thrusts, and beads of sweat broke out on
Seikei’s face. Yet, to his surprise, he felt a thrill at the sense
of danger. His body responded almost before he asked it to,
ducking, jumping, and sliding to the side to avoid Tomomi’s blade.
Seikei moved in ways that he had not known he was capable of, and
he saw Tomomi smile slightly as he too recognized what was
happening.

Seikei knew that he was not really
winning— Tomomi was not using all his skill. But then he realized
how Tomomi intended to end the fight. Just for an instant, Tomomi’s
eyes gave his intention away. He could not keep from flicking a
glance at Seikei’s right cheek—the cheek that on Tomomi’s own face
bore a scar. At once, Seikei understood that was where his opponent
would strike, and when Tomomi feinted to the left, Seikei forced
himself not to turn with him. In a flash, Tomomi whirled around in
a circle, whipping his blade at Seikei from the right. But Seikei
had prepared for this. He lashed out with his wooden sword, feeling
it knock against Tomomi’s hands.

Tomomi’s sword fell to the
ground.

The other actors roared with
amazement, and then delight. “He caught you,” they taunted. “The
pupil has beaten the master.”

For a moment, Tomomi’s face
darkened, and Seikei felt even greater fear than before. “He let me
win,” Seikei stammered, but then Tomomi laughed loudly and dropped
to his knees. The actor bowed his head to expose his neck. “Finish
me off,” he said. “Preserve my honor and kill me.”

Seikei stepped
back, but the other actors pushed him forward. “Go ahead, go
ahead,” they shouted. “It’s
bushido
,
the way of the warrior. You must take his head.” Seikei knew
that. It was the only honorable action, for a defeated samurai is
already dead. He tapped his sword on the back of Tomomi’s
neck.

“Hai, give him a real knock,”
urged one of the other actors. He reached for Seikei’s sword to do
it himself, but suddenly Tomomi was on his feet and caught the
man’s arm. “This boy has earned the right to kill me, not you,” he
said. His voice was full of menace, and the other actor retreated,
muttering, “Anyway, he beat you.”

“Tomomi wasn’t using all his
skill,” Seikei protested again. But Tomomi turned and looked at him
with his penetrating eyes. “You won fairly,” he said. “I
underestimated you. You learn quickly. But remember, the play will
end differently. Then, you must be an actor, not a
samurai.”

Seikei nodded, glad that Tomomi’s
anger had cooled so easily.

As they moved out on the road
again, Kazuo fell in step beside Seikei. “That was strange,” he
said. “You know, Tomomi never lets anybody win when he practices.
He’s too proud. I don’t understand it.”

Seikei shook his head. He found no
joy in the victory. Now that the battle was over, his legs were
weak and shaking. He realized that he was leaving himself open to
another of Tomomi’s surprise attacks, but he could not recover the
feeling of sharp awareness he had earlier.

But Tomomi made no more attempts
to catch Seikei off guard that day. When the troupe reached the
Rokugo River, they paid one of the boatmen there to pole them
across. Though this was one of the busiest parts of the great
Tokaido Road, a bridge had never been built across the river.
According to legend, one of the boatmen’s ancestors had rescued
Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa shogun, when his enemies were chasing
him. In gratitude, Ieyasu had guaranteed that the boatman’s
descendants would always have the right to ferry travelers across
the river.

After the actors crossed, they
walked the last stretch of the Tokaido Road. The sun was just
setting when they caught sight of the brightly painted roofs of
Shinagawa, the pleasure-quarters on the outskirts of the shogun’s
capital.

A high black gate stood over the
road. The shogun’s soldiers were stationed there, questioning
travelers, and the actors had to wait. On the left side of the road
was a roofed structure that looked like a shrine. Inside, open to
view, were many boards with writing on them. These were the edicts
of the shogun—warnings and commands to those who were about to
enter the city.

Seikei hardly glanced at them, for
his eyes froze on a more frightening sight on the other side of the
road. Resting on top of a wooden platform were three heads—from
executed prisoners who had violated the peace of the shogun’s
realm. Two of the heads were dry and withered. But the third was
fresh, and blood still oozed from it, running down the wood in long
streams.