Heart of the Ronin (37 page)

Norikage said, “I am sorry, Gonta. We have learned nothing yet. In fact, that is why we are here. Perhaps you can help us.”

Ken’ishi did not believe that Gonta had anything to do with Tetta’s disappearance, but Norikage had a devious mind and was crafty enough to consider uncomfortable possibilities. Therefore, Ken’ishi would pay close attention to Gonta’s reactions to Norikage’s questions.

“Of course, sirs! I am happy to do anything.” Gonta appeared surprised and hopeful that he could help find his father.

“When did you last see him?” Norikage asked.

“Yesterday morning, he told me he was going fishing. There is a pond where he likes to fish not far from the village. I often went there with him when I was a boy.”

“But you did not go with him this time?”

“No. I seldom go with him anymore. There is too much work here for both of us to be absent.”

“Did anyone go with him?”

“No, he always goes alone. He says that he goes fishing to be alone.”

“But no one has seen him since yesterday? Are you sure that he went fishing there?”

“He always goes fishing there.” Gonta grew more fearful. “Perhaps something happened to him along the way! Robbers!”

Norikage said, “Or perhaps he did not go fishing. Perhaps he went to Hakozaki.”

Gonta shook his head. “I don’t think so. He would have told us if he was going to Hakozaki.”

“Very well,” Norikage said. His voice sounded as if he had asked enough questions for now.

Gonta said, “Um, honorable constables, there is something else. Two days ago, I saw a tanuki go under the inn.”

“A tanuki?” Norikage said.

“Yes. It saw me, and then it crawled under the inn. It was in broad daylight! Isn’t that strange? Perhaps it is a bad omen.” Ken’ishi imagined a naughty tanuki digging a burrow under Tetta’s inn, and its low-slung, furry body, with the playful-looking black mask over its eyes. Tanuki were well known for their mischievous natures, and they could change into the shape of anything, much like foxes.

“Yes, that is strange.”

“I was worried that the tanuki might harm the family, or the inn, or cause some other sort of trouble, and I told Father so, but he wasn’t worried. I’m afraid my father may have been tricked somehow by the tanuki.”

Norikage rubbed his chin.

Gonta continued. “Or maybe what I saw was a fox that shaped itself into a tanuki so that we would blame the tanuki and not the foxes!”

“Foxes and tanuki usually don’t like each other, but that seems a bit unlikely,” Norikage said skeptically.

“Perhaps,” Gonta conceded, “but it is possible that my father was tricked and lured into the forest, isn’t it?”

A chill trickled up Ken’ishi’s spine.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Well then, thank you, Gonta, for all your help. Rest assured we will find your father,” Norikage said.

With that, Ken’ishi and Norikage left the inn and went to talk outside. When they were out of earshot, Ken’ishi said, “Gonta had nothing to do with what has happened to Tetta.”

Norikage nodded. “You are right, Ken’ishi. That was evident, unless Gonta is an accomplished liar. It looks like the pond is going to be the place we need to investigate. What is it? What are you thinking?”

Ken’ishi said, “I am thinking about Tetta being lured into the forest by a fox. I know what it’s like to be fooled by a beautiful creature like a fox.”

Norikage nodded. “The scars on your spirit are still raw, I see.”

Ken’ishi said nothing, but continued to imagine a beautiful woman, a fox in disguise, leading a mesmerized Tetta into the forest to work some trickery on him.

“Well, anything is possible, isn’t it! We must keep an open mind, yes?”

Ken’ishi nodded, wondering what would come of all this.

Ten

A white swan swimming . . .
 

Parting with her unmoved breast

Cherry-petaled pond

—
Roka

Lady Kazuko sat on her favorite balcony, overlooking Lord Tsunetomo’s cherry orchard. The air would soon grow hot with the approach of summer, but the days were still pleasant with cool, fresh breezes, and lush new greenery. The afternoon breeze was warm, smelling of new life and fresh wonder. She sighed as she remembered the Cherry Blossom Festival here at the castle several days ago. It had been boisterous and joyous and . . . dreadful. How things changed in only one year. She looked back at the way she had been only such a short time ago and saw only a naïve, innocent fool. She had been nothing more than a tool to cement an alliance for her family, and she had served her purpose. Last year, she had been a child. This year, she was . . . what? The barren wife of an aging lord? A wife who had cuckolded her future husband on the day of their betrothal? A woman who had loved so passionately, so briefly, so brightly, that she had become blind to the rest of the world?

The beauty of the cherry blossoms, like the exquisite thrust of a dagger, so delicate, so ephemeral, should have given her feelings of wonder and happiness, but all she could think of were the events of last year, and the exultation and the devastation. She feared she would never be able to enjoy cherry blossom time again, and part of her was angered by that, as if she had lost something precious that could never be regained.

Most days, she was fine. She went about her duties, directing the business of her husband’s house, having tea with Hatsumi or Lady Yukino, practicing calligraphy and painting. She wanted to continue her training with the naginata, but for some reason Yasutoki had forbidden it at first. He said that martial weapons practice was unbecoming the lady of the house. This angered her, and she went to her husband, who intervened on her behalf. She sometimes found that the physical exertion of practice left her with spirits uplifted. Lord Tsunetomo would give her anything if she asked for it. That was a great deal of power she possessed over him, and she tried not to abuse it. She could have acted like a petulant, greedy child, but she chose not to. Sometimes she felt that Lord Tsunetomo was her only ally.

Hatsumi’s behavior had changed in the last year. In the old days, she had been a pleasant and kind-spirited companion; these days, she was usually sullen and mean-spirited. Kazuko wondered if sometimes her own black moods had contributed to Hatsumi’s behavior.

Soon after her arrival, Kazuko had been introduced to her new sister-in-law, Lady Yukino, Tsunemori’s wife. Lady Yukino was pleasant and matronly, in her early forties, more than twice Kazuko’s age. Kazuko sometimes enjoyed playing a game of Go with Lady Yukino, but this made Hatsumi angry for some reason. Perhaps because it was apparent that Lady Yukino did not like Hatsumi and treated her like a servant, rather than Kazuko’s friend. For this reason, Kazuko did not go out of her way to spend time with Lady Yukino, but she could hardly refuse when she was invited.

Lady Yukino enjoyed talking about her son, her pride and joy. He was a young samurai in Lord Tsunetomo’s service. Did Lady Yukino have aspirations that her son would become Lord Tsunetomo’s heir, if Kazuko failed to produce a son? If Lord Tsunetomo died without an heir, Tsunemori would be in a position to seize his lands. This sometimes made Kazuko wary of Lady Yukino’s motives, but she had never discerned anything underhanded in her manner or her company.

Yes, some days were passable. But on others, her world was a swirling typhoon of guilt and shame and misery. Some nights she still could not sleep for the sadness that consumed her. Sometimes, she had the same terrible dream, a dream that she longed to live, a dream she wished never to end. But it always did. Sometimes she wished she would die and leave her mortal body behind and slip into the dream world, never to return, never to be reborn. It was the only paradise she could imagine. But her sleep was so disrupted that she never felt rested. She would grow tired at the wrong times, as if her spirit forever wanted to return to that dream.

The breeze caressed her face, and she imagined that it was
his
touch, listened to the breeze’s susurration as it slid over the castle’s stone walls, rustling the leaves of the trees. Children played somewhere, their laughter echoing among the castle walls like the breath of ghosts. She wished for children again. If she could only produce an heir, her husband would be happy with her. He consulted every astrologer he could find, he prayed daily for a son and requested that she do the same, all to no avail. These days she saw the disappointment in his eyes when he looked at her, even though he tried to mask it. There had been times where his virility flagged, or perhaps his interest in her, or perhaps his hope of ever conceiving a son, and he did not come to her bed for many days. During those times, she was both relieved and disappointed. The closeness of his body, the brief stab of pleasure she experienced at their coupling, helped to stave off the perpetual loneliness, the endless longing for someone else.

She knew that she had indeed come to love her husband. He was a good man, a wise leader, and a brave warrior. But her feelings for her husband were different than when she was with. . . . She could not explain the differences, but there were many different types of love. She wanted to please her husband, and she enjoyed his company. But she still thought of the hard, rippling body she had seen practicing in the early dawn light and the handsome features, and those eyes filled with a bewildering mixture of kindness and ferocity.

She imagined herself walking through the garden again in some far-future day when she could be happy.
A day when she could sit in the cherry orchard on a warm spring day having a picnic, surrounded by her many children, handsome sons and beautiful daughters, all laughing and frolicking under the breathtaking canopy of cherry blossoms. She hears the sound of a flute playing nearby, somewhere behind her, so close she can almost touch it. A sound she has heard so many times in her dreams, with its lovely, lilting tones, breathy and subtle. She can feel the presence of her husband so close behind her, sensed but unseen. All she has to do to touch him, to feel his warmth, is to reach behind her. But she does not. Some part of her remembers that Tsunetomo does not play the flute, but she pushes that thought away as she always does, trying to immerse herself in the sound, the warmth, the beauty, the happiness of this moment, to stay here forever, frozen in time. Somehow, she knows that if she touches him, this timeless instant will end. Some part of her knows why, but she clings to the moment, and she feels warmth and joy and happiness and boundless contentment. So wonderful, this respite from . . . something. She cannot not remember, so she lets herself forget, lets herself float on the sounds of the flute and children. But the desire to touch the man behind her, the man she loves, is strong, made more acute by the knowledge that she cannot. Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe she can reach back and lay her cold, porcelain hand upon his warm flesh and he will remain, and this moment of happiness would not shatter like a falling teacup. A sharp end to the happiness, like the sudden slash of a naginata and a gout of black blood. She tries to ignore her desire, to prolong the feeling, but the desire grows, and along with it, the longing that maybe this time will be different. The desire grows until the concentration, the will required to resist, is too strong, threatening to destroy the happiness all by itself. Finally, she succumbs and reaches back to lay her hand upon her husband’s leg. She turns to look at him, smiling, and he turns to look at her, lowering his flute. She stares into his eyes, and just like all the other times, the knowledge that it is all wrong, all but a dream, out of reach, destroys the dream like a hammer hitting a pottery jar.

She awoke back on her husband’s balcony, her eyes puffy from weeping in her sleep, her spirit smothered in the same familiar ache.

A sudden, sharp cry snatched her mercifully from her timeless despair and into the moment. Someone was crying, howling in pain. She rubbed her eyes and shook herself. Had she been sleeping? Kazuko stood and ran toward the sound of the crying. There were other voices raised, loud, as if in protest. She followed the noise to Hatsumi’s chambers.
 

A servant girl lay on the floor there, the fragile young girl called Moé. She was sprawled on her belly, with her back arched in agony, tears streaming down her cheeks, with long, bloody slashes torn in the back of her robe. Hatsumi stood over her, flailing at her with a long, thin bamboo cane. Several other servants surrounded them, looking as if they wanted to stop the beating, but terrified of intervening.

“Whore!” Hatsumi shrilled. “Whore! Whore! Whore!” The strokes of her cane fell in unison with her words. At each blow, Moé convulsed in anguish, growing weaker with each strike.
 

“Hatsumi!” Kazuko cried.

No response. The cane rose and fell again.

“Hatsumi!”

No response, save for the hiss of the cane as it sliced through the air.

Kazuko darted across the room and seized Hatsumi by the wrist, halting her in mid-stroke. “Hatsumi! Stop this at once!”

Hatsumi stopped instantly, a lightning quick succession of emotions in her eyes. Rage, surprise, recognition, remorse, despair, fresh anger.

“Kazuko! I. . . .”

“What is the meaning of this?” Kazuko demanded.

Moé curled up into a ball on the tatami floor, sobbing, gasping, choking in pain.

Hatsumi’s mouth worked as if she was trying to speak. Kazuko tried to read her eyes, but the changes in emotion passed too quickly for her to recognize, as if she was in the midst of some terrible inner struggle.

“What is the meaning of this!”
Kazuko repeated. Hatsumi was still frozen in a mixture of horror and anger. Kazuko turned to the servants and pointed at Moé. “Take her out of here. Take care of her. All of you.”
 

The servants hastened to comply, lifting the weeping girl by the arms and carrying her out of the room. Her sobbing receded.

Kazuko grasped the bamboo cane and wrenched it out of Hatsumi’s quivering grip.