Shogun

Zukimoto calmly poked the parboiled flesh of the man’s legs with a stick as one would a simmered fish to see if it was ready. “He’ll come to life again soon. Extraordinary how long he’s lasted. I don’t think they’re made like us. Very interesting, eh?” Zukimoto said.

“No,” Omi said, detesting him.

Zukimoto was instantly on his guard and his unctuousness returned. “I mean nothing, Omi-san,” he said with a deep bow. “Nothing at all.”

“Of course. Lord Yabu is pleased that you have done so well. It must require great skill not to give too much fire, yet to give enough.”

“You’re too kind, Omi-san.”

“You’ve done it before?”

“Not like this. But Lord Yabu honors me with his favors. I just try to please him.”

“He wants to know how long the man will live.”

“Until dawn. With care.”

Omi studied the cauldron thoughtfully. Then he walked up the beach into the square. All the samurai got up and bowed.

“Everything’s quiet down there, Omi-san,” one of them said with a laugh, jerking a thumb at the trapdoor. “At first there was some talk—it sounded angry—and some blows. Later, two of them, perhaps more, were whimpering like frightened children. But there’s been quiet for a long time.”

Omi listened. He could hear water sloshing and distant muttering. An occasional moan. “And Masijiro?” he asked, naming the samurai who, on his orders, had been left below.

“We don’t know, Omi-san. Certainly he hasn’t called out. He’s probably dead.”

How dare Masijiro be so useless, Omi thought. To be overpowered by defenseless men, most of whom are sick! Disgusting! Better he is dead. “No food or water tomorrow. At midday remove any bodies, neh? And I want the leader brought up then. Alone.”

“Yes, Omi-san.”

Omi went back to the fire and waited until the barbarian opened his eyes. Then he returned to the garden and reported what Zukimoto had said, the torment once more keening on the wind.

“You looked into the barbarian’s eyes?”

“Yes, Yabu-sama.”

Omi was kneeling now behind the daimyo, ten paces away. Yabu had remained immobile. Moonlight shadowed his kimono and made a phallus of his sword handle.

“What—what did you see?”

“Madness. The essence of madness. I’ve never seen eyes like that. And limitless terror.”

Three petals fell gently.

“Make up a poem about him.”

Omi tried to force his brain to work. Then, wishing he were more adequate, he said:

“His eyes
Were just the end
Of Hell—
All pain,
Articulate.”

Shrieks came wafting up, fainter now, the distance seeming to make their cut more cruel.

Yabu said, after a moment:

“If you allow
Their chill to reach
Into the great, great deep,
You become one with them,
Inarticulate.”

Omi thought about that a long time in the beauty of the night.

CHAPTER FIVE

Just before first light, the cries had ceased.

Now Omi’s mother slept. And Yabu.

The village was still restless in the dawn. Four cannon had yet to be brought ashore, fifty more kegs of powder, a thousand more cannon shot.

Kiku was lying under the coverlet watching the shadows on the shoji wall. She had not slept even though she was more exhausted than she had ever been. Wheezing snores from the old woman in the next room drowned the soft deep breathing of the daimyo beside her. The boy slept soundlessly on the other coverlets, one arm thrown over his eyes to shut out the light.

A slight tremor went through Yabu and Kiku held her breath. But he remained in sleep and this pleased her for she knew that very soon she would be able to leave without disturbing him. As she waited patiently, she forced herself to think of pleasant things. ‘Always remember, child,’ her first teacher had impressed on her, ‘that to think bad thoughts is really the easiest thing in the world. If you leave your mind to itself it will spiral you down into ever- increasing unhappiness. To think good thoughts, however, requires effort. This is one of the things that discipline— training—is about. So train your mind to dwell on sweet perfumes, the touch of this silk, tender raindrops against the shoji, the curve of this flower arrangement, the tranquillity of dawn. Then, at length, you won’t have to make such a great effort and you will be of value to yourself, a value to our profession—and bring honor to our world, the Willow World.?.?.?.’

She thought about the sensuous glory of the bath she soon would have that would banish this night, and afterwards the soothing caress of Suwo’s hands. She thought of the laughter she would have with the other girls and with Gyoko-san, the Mama-san, as they swapped gossip and rumors and stories, and of the clean, oh so clean, kimono that she would wear tonight, the golden one with yellow and green flowers and the hair ribbons that matched. After the bath she would have her hair dressed and from the money of last night there would be very much to pay off her debt to her employer, Gyoko-san, some to send to her father who was a peasant farmer, through the money exchanger, and still some for herself. Soon she would see her lover and it would be a perfect evening.

Life is very good, she thought.

Yes. But it’s very difficult to put away the screams. Impossible. The other girls will be just as unhappy, and poor Gyoko-san! But never mind. Tomorrow we will all leave Anjiro and go home to our lovely Tea House in Mishima, the biggest city in Izu, which surrounds the daimyo’s greatest castle in Izu, where life begins and is.

I’m sorry the Lady Midori sent for me.

Be serious, Kiku, she told herself sharply. You shouldn’t be sorry. You are not sorry, neh? It was an honor to serve our Lord. Now that you have been honored, your value to Gyoko-san is greater than ever, neh? It was an experience, and now you will be known as the Lady of the Night of the Screams and, if you are lucky, someone will write a ballad about you and perhaps the ballad will even be sung in Yedo itself. Oh, that would be very good! Then certainly your lover will buy your contract and you will be safe and content and bear sons.