Shinju

Chapter 6

A little before the dinner hour, Sano arrived in the district where his parents lived on the edge of Nihonbashi nearest the castle, among other samurai families who had gone into trade and merged with the townspeople.

He rode through the gate that led to their street, nodding a greeting to the two guards stationed there. A short bridge took him over the willow-edged canal. At its opposite side, the road ran through a strip of debris-strewn ground where a recent fire had destroyed two houses on either side of the road. Sano looked upon the sight with sorrow. His father’s last letter had told him about the fire, which had killed members of all four families and destroyed their businesses. As he continued down the street, he wondered what other changes had come about since he’d moved away. He passed the grocer’s, the stationer’s and several food stalls, coming to a stop at the corner, outside the Sano Martial Arts Academy.

The academy occupied a long, low wooden building that stood flush with the street. Dingy brown tiles, the same color as the walls, covered the roof. Plain wooden bars screened the windows. A faded sign announced the academy’s name. The place seemed both older and smaller than when he’d last seen it only a month ago. He dismounted in the gathering dusk, tied his horse’s reins to the railing that bordered the narrow veranda, then entered. A wave of nostalgia swept over him.

In the practice room, oil lamps mounted on the wall lit the winter darkness. Two rows of young men dressed in loose cotton jackets and trousers faced each other in simulated combat. One row wielded wooden blades that substituted for actual steel swords, while the others parried the sword thrusts with a variety of weapons-staffs, spears, chains, iron fans. Their shouts and stamps echoed against the walls in a deafening roar. Sano breathed in the familiar combination of smells-sweat, hair oil, damp plaster, and old wood-feeling at once comforted and sad. He couldn’t remember a time when the place had not been home to him. As a boy, he’d learned his fighting skills under his father’s strict tutelage, beginning as soon as he was big enough to hold a child-sized sword. Later, as a young man, he’d instructed his own pupils. He’d planned to manage the school himself someday, in the way that any oldest or only son would take over the family business upon his father’s retirement.

But the school had not prospered. This was partly because many samurai no longer bothered perfecting their military skills or having their sons trained. However, the main cause lay with the academy itself. Unaffiliated with a major clan, it received no stipend, and Sano’s father had to pay the authorities for permission to operate. Lacking wealthy patrons and a prestigious location, and using teaching techniques learned from an obscure master with a small following, the academy attracted fewer pupils every year. Soon there weren’t enough to occupy both Sano and his father. Sano had begun tutoring to earn his keep and contribute to his family’s support. This year Sano’s father had announced that upon his death the school would be turned over to his apprentice, Aoki Koemon-the sensei leading this class. Shortly afterward, he had taken Sano to see Katsuragawa Shundai about a government position.

“Sano-san!” Koemon came toward him, smiling. Bowing low, he said, “Good evening.”

Sano greeted his old friend. They’d grown up together, but as adults Koemon always addressed Sano with the respect due him as the master’s son. Now, seeing Koemon looking relaxed and confident in the world he himself had left behind, Sano experienced a twinge of envy. His past was closed to him; he couldn’t go back. The present, with its greater financial rewards and troubling conflicts, was all he had.

“So what do you think?” Koemon asked, gesturing toward the class.

Contemplating the students, whose faces were familiar, and the array of weapons, which was not, Sano nodded. “Times have changed,” he said.

He and his father and Koemon had debated for several years whether to include nontraditional weapons in the school’s curriculum. His father, a strict devotee of kenjutsu, had wanted to limit instruction to the art of swordsmanship.

“Nowadays a samurai must be prepared to face opponents armed with a variety of weapons, and besides, the school must offer something new to attract pupils.” Sano repeated the arguments that he and Koemon had used to counter the old man’s opposition. But seeing that the change had been made in his absence gave him an inexplicable touch of uneasiness that he forgot when he noticed the weapon that Koemon held.

“You teach the art of the jitte?” he asked.

Koemon shrugged. “The basics. I’m no expert at it.”

More out of curiosity than need, Sano had experimented with the jitte in the practice hall at the barracks. “Let’s try it now,” he said, shedding his cloak and hat and rolling up his sleeves.

With Koemon using a wooden sword in deliberate slow motion, Sano demonstrated how to deflect its blade, and how to deliver counterblows with the jitte.

“Parry like this,” he said, raising the jitte to block a cut to his shoulder. “Counterstrike before your opponent recovers- quickly, because his reach is longer than yours.”

He swung the weapon around to tap its slender shaft against Koemon’s arm. After blocking another cut, he thrust the blunt end at his friend’s neck.

“And when the time is right-” He arrested Koemon’s next slice by catching the blade in the jitte’s prongs. One sharp twist, and he’d wrenched the weapon from his friend’s hand. “With enough force, you can break your opponent’s sword in two.”

Then they exchanged weapons so he could demonstrate how to keep one’s blade free of the jitte‘s prongs and the footwork necessary to avoid getting thrown or hit once the blade was caught. Soon he was hot and sweaty, his energy flowing with the welcome exercise. It felt good to be back in the familiar practice room. He could almost believe he still belonged there.

When they’d finished, Koemon turned to the class, raising his voice over the din:

“That’s all for today!”

At his command, the pupils froze. Silence fell over the room. They bowed to their opponents and to Sano and their sensei, then filed toward the dressing-room door.

“Where is my father?” Sano asked when he and Koemon were alone. “Out on business?”

Koemon hesitated. “He didn’t come in today.”

Sano’s uneasiness returned. His father never missed a day of work. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Koemon avoided Sano’s eyes, indicating that he did know what was wrong, but either didn’t want to say or had been told not to.

Sano bid a hasty good-bye to his friend. Now the change in the school’s curriculum took on an ominous significance. Why had his father finally consented to it? With a knot of worry tightening in his stomach, Sano left the practice room. He led his horse around the corner, down the narrow side lane. There high fences shielded the rear lots of the businesses, where the proprietors’ living quarters were located. Through chinks in the fences, he could see the yellow flicker of lamps burning in gardens and hear the customary evening sounds: servants chattering, wooden buckets thunking their way up from wells, horses whinnying in stables behind the houses. The pungent odors of miso soup and garlic drifted from kitchens. But food was the farthest thing from Sano’s mind as he pushed open his parents’ gate.

He backed his horse into its space in the stable in the garden. Seeing the other stall empty increased his anxiety. His father had been predicting his own death for several years now. But the old man’s failure to replace his horse when it died a few months ago was a more eloquent and sobering statement that his life was nearing its end.

Sano went into the house, leaving his shoes and swords in the entry way. In the large, earth-floored kitchen to his right, the elderly maid Hana knelt before the stove, stirring soup. Beside it, a pot of rice simmered. Vegetables lay on a wooden table beside the stone washbasin. Two black lacquer ozen stood near the wall, already set with bowls, chopsticks, and saucers. Sano nodded in response to Hana’s smiling bow. She’d worked for the family since before his birth; normally he would have paused to chat with her, but a deep, barking cough sounded from inside the main room. Sano slid open the door.

His father sat huddled beneath a voluminous quilt. Bent over double, he coughed wrackingly into the cloth that Sano’s mother held to his mouth. Then he drew a shallow, gasping breath and began to cough again. Sano’s mother made soothing noises. With her free hand, she pulled the end of the quilt over the brazier, so that its warmth might reach her husband. An oil lamp on the floor beside them cast their shadows against the walls of the small room and highlighted the lines of suffering on the old man’s emaciated face.