Year of the Demon

“Okuma-dono,” the abbot said when he opened the gate in the temple’s garden wall. “What a surprise! It’s late.”

He held a thin taper; its flickering flame caused his many wrinkles to deepen with shadow. The evening had become quite chilly, but the bald abbot wore neither a hat nor an overrobe. “May I come in?” Daigoro said.

“Of course, of course.”

Upon stepping through Katto-ji’s gate, Daigoro saw the moonlight playing on the broken skin of the huge, twisted, ancient pine that dominated the courtyard. The rocks surrounding the pine had been raked to form concentric waves around the fat, gnarled roots, like ripples retreating from stomping feet in a shallow pool. Here and there a candle flame quivered behind paper windows, but for the most part the abbey was dark and still.

“Please, sit, Okuma-dono. What can I do for you on this beautiful night?”

The abbot sat down on a short staircase that ascended to the meditation hall. Daigoro lowered himself to sit beside him, his right knee wobbling as he did so, his right hand protesting loudly as he used it to balance himself as he sat. He looked at the abbot, whose unbroken hands rested on two good knees, and found himself envious of the old man’s health. And just how old was he? Sixty? Eighty? Daigoro couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he himself was just sixteen and this wizened abbot got around more easily than he did.

“I’ve received a missive,” said Daigoro. “From General Toyotomi, the new regent.”

Daigoro studied the abbot’s face as he delivered this news. The abbot’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Toyotomi. Then his face became even more serene than it was already—and that was saying something, for this was a man who could teach the moonlit stones in the rock garden about serenity.

“Do you know him?” said Daigoro.

“The answer to that depends on what you mean by ‘know.’ I’ve never met him face-to-face.”

“But you met him on the battlefield.”

Again the eyebrows rose. “Ah,” said the abbot. “Now, that’s an interesting insight. What led you to it?”

“He wants me to deliver your head in a sack.”

“Does he, now?”

Daigoro marveled at the abbot’s tranquility. Yes, the old man had been samurai, and yes, he had been practicing Zen for years, but even so, he might still have let slip a hint of distress upon learning that the most powerful man in the empire wanted him dead. Once again Daigoro found himself envious.

And yet he was frustrated too. The abbot had an annoying habit of not answering questions, and the answers to tonight’s questions might keep both of their heads firmly on their necks.

“So you met him in battle,” Daigoro said, prodding.

“Yes, you could say that. In a sense the battlefield is the only place where one can truly meet another man. There his true face is unmasked. But asking your question that way will cause my answer to mislead you.”

Daigoro didn’t feel misled, but neither could he ignore the abbot’s warning. He felt his frustration mounting and took a deep breath in an attempt to quell it. “Sir,” he said at last, “would you please enlighten me as to how you know Toyotomi Hideyoshi?”

“You asked whether I met him in battle. That can mean two things, neh? Did I fight him in battle? No. Did I see his true face in battle? Yes.”

“So you served under him.”

“Not under him. Under one of his commanders, a man named Shichio. You may not know of him, but I assure you, that letter you received was his, not Hideyoshi’s.”

“You say you’ve never met the regent face-to-face,” said Daigoro, “and yet you refer to him and his commander by their first names. Why?”

“Shichio is Shichio. Hideyoshi is not Hideyoshi, but he is not not-Hideyoshi.”

Again the frustration swelled in Daigoro’s belly. He felt it pulsing in his neck, hot enough to choke him. It pulsed in his broken fingers too, biting at their sore and swollen flesh. It was all he could do to retain the thinnest shell of politeness. “You’ll have to tell me what you mean by that.”

“Shichio is Shichio because he has no other name. He comes from peasant stock. Have you ever heard of a peasant with a surname?”

“Of course not.”

“And Hideyoshi has as many names as the sky has stars. ‘Hideyoshi’ is as good as any of them.”

Daigoro was ready to growl. More than anything he wanted to shout, Damn you, unclog your doddering ears and listen to me. Instead he said, “Perhaps I should be clearer. A man with hundreds of thousands of troops at his beck and call wants me to kill you. If I refuse, he’ll call for my head as well. I need for you not to speak in riddles anymore.”

“Oh, but I’m not,” said the abbot, his face as innocent as a newborn kitten. “The man you call ‘the regent’ changes names as often as most men change clothing. When I fought under him his name was Hideyoshi. Before that it was Hashiba, and before that the Bald Rat, and before that it was Kinoshita, and before that it was who- knows-what. Now it is the Monkey King, or Imperial Regent, or Chief Minister. Most recently it is Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Who knows what name his mother gave him? I call him by the name he had when I met him.”

“Very well,” said Daigoro. “I am grateful for your explanation, but you’ll forgive me if I feel I’m no closer to understanding why this man should want me to deliver your head.”

“I’ve explained that already, neh? He doesn’t. Shichio does.”

Daigoro closed his eyes. It was all he could do not to strangle the abbot. “All right,” he said through gritted teeth, “so why does Shichio want your head?”

“I expect he’s recently met a man with a scar across his forehead. Years ago I watched that man receive his scar. As a result, an army of ghosts handed Shichio a defeat, and because Shichio was routed, Hideyoshi lost the day as well. And if Hideyoshi were ever to learn of this story, I expect he would seek Shichio’s head, not mine.”

Daigoro pounded his knee with his fist. “Damn you and your bewildering words! Is this as plainly as you can speak?”

“My lord, if you’ll just wait one moment more—”

“I’m through with waiting. Don’t you understand? I could end this conversation with one stroke of my sword. And I’d be better off if I did it, too. I have only to deliver your head and life will suddenly become very easy—for me, for my family, for the whole damned peninsula. Yet you want to play more word games. Enough with these stories and fairy tales! I don’t want to hear another word of any ghost armies.”

“Not even if it was your father’s ghost army?”

Daigoro groaned, massaging his forehead with his left hand. He was ready to shout at the old monk again —how dare he play on Daigoro’s heartstrings by dredging up memories of his father?—but then he remembered: his father and the abbot once faced each other in war.

Daigoro knew virtually nothing of that encounter, nor of any of his father’s battlefield exploits. His father had never spoken much of war; he’d always been careful not to glorify it overmuch for his sons. He’d never been one to test his mettle by entering into needless combat—or so was Daigoro’s impression anyway. Daigoro’s guesses vastly outweighed what he knew for certain.

And with the pressures of running the clan pushing in on him from every side, now more than ever Daigoro needed to know what his father was like. His father had always known what to do. The right path had always been clear to him, and so what Daigoro needed was to know his father’s mind.

“Very well,” Daigoro said. He pushed himself to his feet because he’d burned up what little tolerance he had left for sitting still. “Tell me about my father. But on the Buddha’s mercy, I beg you, be brief and be clear.”

The abbot bowed his head. “What do you know of Hideyoshi?”

“He is a master tactician. A master manipulator too, they say, more likely to win a battle with words than with swords. He is said to be uncommonly ugly, uncommonly canny, and uncommonly fond of both drinking and pillowing. And now that Oda Nobunaga is dead, he is the greatest general this side of China.”

“The greatest? I think not. Better to call him the mightiest. But let us begin where you began. Do you know where he garnered his reputation of being a master tactician?”

“Of course. He conquered the whole of Shikoku in a matter of months. Kyushu in a matter of weeks.”

The abbot shrugged. “Unimpressive. Swift victories come easily against unprepared enemies, and more easily still when enemies decide to become allies instead. One does not become a great general by bribing greedy