Shogun

collapsed.

Blackthorne turned helplessly as the shoji of his room blew out. That wall vanished and so did the opposite one. Soon all the walls were in shreds. He could see throughout the house. But the roof supports held and the tiled roof did not shift. Bedding and lanterns and mats skittered away, servants chasing them.

The storm demolished the walls of all the houses in the village. And some dwellings were obliterated completely. No one was badly hurt. At dawn the wind subsided and men and women began to rebuild their homes.

By noon the walls of Blackthorne’s house were remade and half the village was back to normal. The light lattice walls required little work to put up once more, only wooden pegs and lashings for joints that were always morticed and carpentered with great skill. Tiled and thatched roofs were more difficult but he saw that people helped each other, smiling and quick and very practiced. Mura hurried through the village, advising, guiding, chivying, and supervising. He came up the hill to inspect progress.

“Mura, you made?.?.?.” Blackthorne sought the words. “You make it look easy.”

“Ah, thank you, Anjin-san. Yes, thank you, but we were fortunate there were no fires.”

“You fires oftens?”

“So sorry, ‘Do you have fires often?’?”

“Do you have fires often?” Blackthorne repeated.

“Yes. But I’d ordered the village prepared. Prepared, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“When these storms come—” Mura stiffened and glanced over Blackthorne’s shoulder. His bow was low.

Omi was approaching in his bouncing easy stride, his friendly eyes only on Blackthorne, as though Mura did not exist. “Morning, Anjin-san,” he said.

“Morning, Omi-san. Your house is good?”

“All right. Thank you.” Omi looked at Mura and said brusquely, “The men should be fishing, or working the fields. The women too. Yabu-sama wants his taxes. Are you trying to shame me in front of him with laziness?”

“No, Omi-sama. Please excuse me. I will see to it at once.”

“It shouldn’t be necessary to tell you. I won’t tell you next time.”

“I apologize for my stupidity.” Mura hurried away.

“You’re all right today,” Omi said to Blackthorne. “No troubles in the night?”

“Good today, thank you. And you?”

Omi spoke at length. Blackthorne did not catch all of it, as he had not understood all of what Omi had said to Mura, only a few words here, a few there.

“So sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Enjoy? How did you like yesterday? The attack? The ‘pretend’ battle?”

“Ah, I understand. Yes, I think good.”

“And the witnessing?”

“Please?”

“Witnessing! The ronin Nebara Jozen and his men?” Omi imitated the bayonet lunge with a laugh. “You witnessed their deaths. Deaths! You understand?”

“Ah, yes. The truth, Omi-san, not like killings.”

“Karma, Anjin-san.”

“Karma. Today trainings?”

“Yes. But Yabu-sama wants to talk only. Later. Understand, Anjin-san? Talk only, later,” Omi repeatedly patiently.

“Talk only. Understand.”

“You’re beginning to speak our language very well. Yes. Very well.”

“Thank you. Difficult. Small time.”

“Yes. But you’re a good man and you try very hard. That’s important. We’ll get you time, Anjin-san, don’t worry—I’ll help you.” Omi could see that most of what he was saying was lost, but he didn’t mind, so long as the Anjin-san got the gist. “I want to be your friend,” he said, then repeated it very clearly. “Do you understand?”

“Friend? I understand ‘friend.’?”

Omi pointed at himself then at Blackthorne. “I want to be your friend.”

“Ah! Thank you. Honored.”

Omi smiled again and bowed, equal to equal, and walked away.

“Friends with him?” Blackthorne muttered. “Has he forgotten? I haven’t.”

“Ah, Anjin-san,” Fujiko said, hurrying up to him. “Would you like to eat? Yabu-sama is going to send for you soon.”

“Yes, thank you. Many breakings?” he asked, pointing at the house.

“Excuse me, so sorry, but you should say, ‘Was there much breakage?’?”

“Was there much breakage?”

“No real damage, Anjin-san.”

“Good. No hurtings?”

“Excuse me, so sorry, you should say, ‘No one was hurt?’?”

“Thank you. No one was hurt?”

“No, Anjin-san. No one was hurt.”

Suddenly Blackthorne was sick of being continually corrected, so he terminated the conversation with an order. “I’m hunger. Food!”

“Yes, immediately. So sorry, but you should say, ‘I’m hungry.’ A person has hunger, but is hungry.” She waited until he had said it correctly, then went away.

He sat on the veranda and watched Ueki-ya, the old gardener, tidying up the damage and the scattered leaves. He could see women and children repairing the village, and boats going to sea through the chop. Other villagers trudged off to the fields, the wind abating now. I wonder what taxes they have to pay, he asked himself. I’d hate to be a peasant here. Not only here—anywhere.

At first light he had been distressed by the apparent devastation of the village. “That storm’d hardly touch an English house,” he had said to Mariko. “Oh, it was a gale all right, but not a bad one. Why don’t you build out of stone or bricks?”

“Because of the earthquakes, Anjin-san. Any stone building would, of course, split and collapse and probably hurt or kill the inhabitants. With our style of building there’s little damage. You’ll see how quickly everything’s put back together.”

“Yes, but you’ve fire hazards. And what happens when the Great Winds come? The tai- funs?”

“It is very bad then.”

She had explained about the tai-funs and their seasons—from June until September, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. And about the other natural catastrophes.

A few days ago there had been another tremor. It was slight. A kettle had fallen off the brazier and overturned it. Fortunately the coals had been smothered. One house in the village had caught fire but the fire did not spread. Blackthorne had never seen such efficient fire fighting. Apart from that, no one in the village had paid much attention. They had merely laughed and gone on with their lives.

“Why do people laugh?”

“We consider it very shameful and impolite to show strong feelings, particularly fear, so we hide them with a laugh or a smile. Of course we’re all afraid, though we must never show it.”

Some of you show it, Blackthorne thought.

Nebara Jozen had shown it. He had died badly, weeping with fear, begging for mercy, the killing slow and cruel. He had been allowed to run, then bayoneted carefully amidst laughter, then forced to run again, and hamstrung. Then he had been allowed to crawl away, then gutted slowly while he screamed, his blood dribbling with the phlegm, then left to die.

Next Naga had turned his attention to the other samurai. At once three of Jozen’s men knelt and bared their bellies and put their short knives in front of them to commit ritual seppuku. Three of their comrades stood behind