Shogun

“Yes—yes,” she said breathlessly. Her face was daubed with mud. Her kimono was ripped and filthy. Both sandals and one tabi were missing. And her parasol. He helped her away from the lip. She was still numbed.

Then he looked at Toranaga. “Ikaga desu ka?”

Toranaga was unable to speak, his chest grinding, his arms and legs raw with abrasions. He pointed. The fissure which had almost swallowed him now was just a narrow ditch in the soil. Northward the ditch yawned into a ravine again but it was not as wide as it once had been, nor as deep.

Blackthorne shrugged. “Karma.”

Toranaga belched loudly, then hawked and spat and belched again. This helped his voice to work and a torrent of abuse poured over the ditch, his blunt fingers stabbed at it, and though Blackthorne could not understand all the words, Toranaga was clearly saying as a Japanese would, “The pox on the karma, the pox on the quake, the pox on the ditch—I’ve lost my swords and the pox on that!”

Blackthorne burst into laughter, his relief at being alive and the stupidity of it all consuming him. A moment, then Toranaga laughed too, and their hilarity swept into Mariko.

Toranaga got to his feet. Gingerly. Then, warmed by the joy of life, he began clowning on the ditch, burlesquing himself and the quake. He stopped and beckoned Blackthorne to join him and straddled the ditch, opened his loincloth and, laughter taking him again, told Blackthorne to do the same. Blackthorne obeyed and both men tried to urinate into the ditch. But nothing came, not even a dribble. They tried very hard, which increased their laughter and blocked them even more. At length they succeeded and Blackthorne sat down to collect his strength, leaning back on his hands. When he had recovered a little he turned to Mariko. “Is the earthquake over for good, Mariko-san?”

“Until the next shock, yes.” She continued to brush the mud off her hands and kimono.

“Is it always like that?”

“No. Sometimes it’s very slight. Sometimes there’s another series of shocks after a stick of time or a day or half a stick or half a day. Sometimes there’s only one shock—you never know, Anjin-san. It’s over until it begins again. Karma, neh?”

Guards were watching them without moving, waiting for Toranaga’s order. To the north fires were raging in the crude lean- to bivouac. Samurai were fighting the fires and digging at the rock avalanche to find the buried. To the east, Yabu, Omi, and Buntaro stood with other guards beside the far end of the fissure, untouched except for bruises, also waiting to be Summoned. Igurashi had vanished. The earth had gorged on him.

Blackthorne let himself drift. His self-contempt had vanished and he felt utterly serene and whole. Now his mind dwelt proudly on being samurai, and going to Yedo, and his ship, and war, and the Black Ship, and back to samurai again. He glanced at Toranaga and would have liked to ask him a dozen questions, but he noticed that the daimyo was lost in his own thoughts and he knew it would be impolite to disturb him. There’s plenty of time, he thought contentedly, and looked over at Mariko. She was tending her hair and face, so he did not watch. He lay full length and looked up at the sky, the earth feeling warm on his back, waiting patiently.

Toranaga spoke, serious now. “Domo, Anjin-san, neh? Domo.”

“Dozo, Toranaga-sama. Nani mo. Hombun, neh?” Please, Toranaga-sama, it was nothing. Duty.

Then, not knowing enough words and wanting it accurate, Blackthorne said, “Mariko-san, would you explain for me: I seem to understand now what you meant and Lord Toranaga meant about karma and the stupidity of worrying about what is. A lot seems clearer. I don’t know why—perhaps it’s because I’ve never been so terrified, maybe that’s cleaned my head, but I seem to think clearer. It’s—well, like Old Gardener. Yes, that was all my fault and I’m truly sorry, but that was a mistake, not a deliberate choice on my part. It is. So nothing can be done about it. A moment ago we were all almost dead. So all that worry and heartache was a waste, wasn’t it? Karma. Yes, I know karma now. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She translated to Toranaga.

“He says, ‘Good, Anjin-san. Karma is the beginning of knowledge. Next is patience. Patience is very important. The strong are the patient ones, Anjin-san. Patience means holding back your inclination to the seven emotions: hate, adoration, joy, anxiety, anger, grief, fear. If you don’t give way to the seven, you’re patient, then you’ll soon understand all manner of things and be in harmony with Eternity.’?”

“You believe that, Mariko-san?”

“Yes. Very much. I try, also, to be patient, but it’s hard.”

“I agree. That’s also wa, your harmony, your ‘tranquillity,’ neh?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him I thank him truly for what he did for Old Gardener. I didn’t before, not from my heart. Tell him that.”

“There’s no need, Anjin-san. He knew before that you were just being polite.”

“How did he know?”

“I told you he is the wisest man in the world.”

He grinned.

“There,” she said, “your age has fallen off you again,” and added in Latin, “Thou art thyself again, and better than before!”

“But thou art beautiful, as always.”

Her eyes warmed and she averted them from Toranaga. Blackthorne saw this and marked her caution. He got to his feet and stared down into the jagged cleft. Carefully he jumped into it and disappeared.

Mariko scrambled up, momentarily afraid, but Blackthorne quickly came back to the surface. In his hands was Fujiko’s sword. It was still scabbarded, though muddied and scarred. His short stabbing sword had disappeared.

He knelt in front of Toranaga and offered his sword as a sword should be offered. “Dozo, Toranaga-sama,” he said simply. “Kara samurai ni samurai, neh?” Please, Lord Toranaga, from a samurai to a samurai, eh?

“Domo, Anjin-san.” The Lord of the Kwanto accepted the sword and shoved it into his sash. Then he smiled, leaned forward, and clapped Blackthorne once on the shoulder, hard. “Tomo, neh?” Friend, eh?

“Domo.” Blackthorne glanced away. His smile faded. A cloud of smoke was drifting over the rise above where the village would be. At once he asked Toranaga if he could leave, to make sure Fujiko was all right.

“He says, yes, Anjin-san. And we are to see him at the fortress at sunset for the evening meal. There are some things he wishes to discuss with you.”

Blackthorne went back to the village. It was devastated, the course of the road bent out of recognition, the surface shattered. But the boats were safe. Many fires still burned. Villagers were carrying buckets of sand and buckets of water. He turned the corner. Omi’s house was tilted drunkenly on its side. His own was a burnt-out ruin.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Fujiko had been injured. Nigatsu, her maid, was dead. The first shock had collapsed the central pillars of the house, scattering the coals of the kitchen fire. Fujiko and Nigatsu had been trapped by one of the fallen beams and the flames had turned Nigatsu into a torch. Fujiko had been pulled free. One of the cook’s children had also been killed, but the rest of his servants had suffered only bruises and some twisted limbs. They all were overjoyed to find that Blackthorne was alive and unhurt.