Cloud of Sparrows (15 page)

Another samurai, fleeing, took an arrow high in his spine.

Hidé crashed through the remaining horseman’s weak parry and sliced open his jugular vein.

Taro wheeled and charged back the way he had come. The last man standing threw up his arms to shield himself from death and screamed a final time.

Genji sighed. It was over. He urged his horse past the bodies littering the road. All these lives squandered. For what? A breach of etiquette? A congested road? An accident of history? Even without the assurance of a prophetic vision, Genji was certain such senseless violence would not be part of the world to come. It couldn’t be.

Shimoda glanced at the first dead man. He said to Hidé, “What did he say that made you cut him down so swiftly?”

“He said, ‘Times are changing.’ ” Hidé wiped his blade clean. “Then the wretch made an insulting remark about ‘vestiges of the past.’ ”

Shimoda said, “Times aren’t changing, they’re decaying. Such arrogance from men of low birth. Only seven years ago, this disgrace could not have occurred.” Seven years ago was when the American Commodore Perry had sailed into Edo Bay with his steamships and cannons.

“We did them a favor.” Taro shook off the bloody gristle clinging to his sword. “We saved them a futile journey. Wherever they were going, whomever they were fighting, they would have been defeated. What useless cowards.”

Hidé said, “The outsiders are destroying us without a battle. Their mere existence makes us lose our way.”

Genji looked at each of the dead as he rode by. The last one, the tenth, stared lifelessly at the clear winter sky, his skull split open. His right forearm remained connected to his elbow by some shattered bone and a stringy tendon. His left arm ended at the wrist. The hand had fallen near his feet. He wasn’t really a man at all. The face belonged to a youth barely past childhood, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Around his neck was a string of wooden prayer beads. An amulet of hope. Into each small piece of sandalwood was carved a
sauvastika,
the Buddhist symbol of infinity.

“The outsiders aren’t at fault,” Genji said. “The blame is ours alone.”

The incident was unfortunate, but it had its good side. Hidé, Shimoda, and Taro had shown their mettle. Genji was pleased to be such a good judge of character.

“Half his intestines and stomach have rotted away,” Dr. Ozawa said. “The damage to his vital organs is grievous. Poisonous bile pollutes his blood. Still, he breathes. I must admit, I am at a loss.”

“What does the doctor say?” Miss Gibson asked.

“He says Reverend Cromwell is very strong,” Heiko said. “Though he cannot predict what will happen, his condition is stable, which is promising.”

Cromwell pointed at the doctor. “Ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that.”

“Amen,” Miss Gibson and Mr. Stark said.

Dr. Ozawa gave Heiko a questioning look.

“He expressed gratitude for your care,” Heiko said, “and said a prayer of his own religion for your well-being.”

“Ah.” Dr. Ozawa bowed to Reverend Cromwell. “Thank you, honorable outsider priest.”

“Thou child of the devil, thou enemy of all righteousness.”

Heiko’s opinion, which she expressed to no one, was that Reverend Cromwell had been driven mad by his injuries. That would explain why he said what he did. No sane person would curse someone who was doing his best to care for him.

While Heiko understood the outsiders much better after five days, she still didn’t understand why Genji had sent her to be with them. The apparent purpose was obvious; she was to keep them company, translate for them, reduce their isolation in his absence. It also left her free to thoroughly investigate them in a way that would otherwise have been impossible. That was the part she didn’t understand. Only a person Genji trusted completely should be in this position. But trust had to be based on knowledge, and he knew almost nothing about her. Heiko had a fully elaborated past waiting to be discovered. A place of birth, parents, childhood friends, older geisha mentors, key events, significant locales. Facts expertly layered to hide the most important one—that she was an agent of the Shogun’s secret police. Everything awaited serious inquiry. Yet Genji had shown no interest except in who she seemed to be. In the devious world of Great Lords, only very young children were who they seemed to be. If he really trusted her, he was showing suicidally poor judgment. Since that was highly unlikely, she came back to the same conclusion again and again.

Genji knew who she was.

How he knew, she had no idea. It could be that the rumors about the Okumichis were true, that one in every generation foresaw the future. If he was the one, then he would know something she didn’t—whether she would betray him or not. Did his trust mean that she would not? Or that she would and he fatalistically accepted this outcome?

The irony did not escape her. Her suspicion and confusion were heightened by the apparent lack of the same on his part. Did some truly arcane deception lie hidden under the appearance of his trust? For five days, Heiko pondered the matter, and not even the shadow of an answer appeared. She was completely baffled.

“A penny for your thoughts.” Miss Gibson smiled at her. They were sitting in a room facing the inner courtyard. Since the day was unseasonably mild, all the sliding doors were open, almost making the space into a kind of garden pavilion.

“A penny?” Heiko said.

“A penny is our smallest coin.”

“Our smallest coin is the sen.” Heiko knew Miss Gibson wasn’t actually offering to pay her for her thoughts. “You are asking me what I am thinking?”

Again Miss Gibson smiled. In Japan, homely women smiled more often than pretty ones. It was a natural, ingratiating effort that apparently was practiced by homely American women, too. Miss Gibson smiled very freely. Heiko thought that was a good habit. It emphasized her personality and took attention away from her awkwardness. “Awkward” hardly began to describe the American woman’s unfortunate lack of physical gifts. But as Heiko had gotten to know her, she had begun to develop an affection for the kind, gentle person inside the repulsive, unwieldy husk.

“That would be impolite,” Miss Gibson said. “When I say ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ I acknowledge that you appear thoughtful, and I offer to listen if you wish to speak. That is all.”

“Ah, thank you.” Heiko herself also smiled very freely. That was the secret of her charm. While the rest of Edo’s famous geisha maintained a haughty air, Heiko, the most beautiful of them all, smiled as often as the plainest farm girl. But only for those she favored. It was as if, in their presence, she felt her beauty to count for nothing, that her heart, undefended, undisguised, was theirs. It was all an act, of course, and everyone knew it. The act was so effective, however, that men were happy to pay for it. Only with Genji was it not an act. She hoped he didn’t realize it. If he did, then he would know she loved him, and if he knew that, all balance would be gone. Perhaps he did know, and that is why he trusted her. Back to that again. What was Genji thinking?

Heiko said, “I was thinking how hard it must be for you, Miss Gibson. Your fiancé is injured. You are far from home and family. A most difficult situation for a woman, yes?”

“Yes, Heiko. A most difficult situation.” Emily closed the book she had been reading. Sir Walter Scott had been her mother’s favorite author, and among his books she had practically worshipped
Ivanhoe
. Apart from her locket, it was the only possession of hers Emily had kept when the farm was sold. How often since then had she read her mother’s treasured passages, recalled her voice, and wept, in the solitude of school, mission, ship, and now, here in this lonely place so far from the graves of her loved ones. She was glad she had not been crying when Heiko appeared. “Please, call me Emily. It is only fair, since I call you Heiko. Or you can tell me your family name and I will call you Miss, too.”

“I have no family name,” Heiko said. “I am not of noble birth.”

“I beg your pardon?” This took Emily by surprise. It was like the condition of the bondsmen in
Ivanhoe
. But that was hundreds of years ago, during the blighted Dark Ages of Europe. “Didn’t I hear a servant calling you another name, a longer one?”

“Mayonaka no Heiko, yes. That is my full geisha name. It means ‘Midnight Equilibrium.’ ”

“What is a geeshaw name?” Emily asked.

“Geisha,” Heiko said slowly.

“Geisha,” Emily repeated.

“Yes, that is right,” Heiko said. She thought about what she had read in Genji’s English dictionary. “Your closest word is probably ‘prostitute.’ ”

Emily was so shocked she couldn’t even speak.
Ivanhoe
fell from her lap. She bent down to pick up the book, grateful for an opportunity to look away from Heiko. She hardly knew what to think. All along, she had assumed her hostess was a highborn lady, a relative of Lord Genji. It seemed to her that all the servants and the samurai treated Heiko with the greatest deference. Had she missed something mocking in their behavior?

“Surely there is some error in the translation,” Emily said, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

“Yes, perhaps,” Heiko said. Miss Gibson, or Emily, as she now asked to be called, had surprised her as much as she had apparently surprised Emily. What had she said that was so unsettling?

“I knew there had to be.” Emily felt greatly relieved to hear this. To her, a prostitute was one of those alcohol-drenched, disease-ridden slatterns who had occasionally taken refuge at the mission house in San Francisco. This elegant young woman, barely more than a child, could hardly be more different.

When Emily dropped her book, Heiko had been seeking the right English words to explain the different classes of female companions. There was one for every stratum of society. At bottom were the artless purveyors of simple sexual relief. The barred warrens of the Yoshiwara pleasure district were full of these, mostly peasant girls indentured to pay off family debts. At the top were a select few geisha like herself, nurtured from childhood, who carefully chose with whom they spent their time and in what manner; her company and her favors could be paid for, but only if she was willing, for neither could be compelled. In between, there were nearly infinite gradations of cost, services, talent, and beauty. Seeing Emily’s continuing discomfort, Heiko hesitated. She had assumed that everything in Japan had its counterpart in America, and vice versa. The words would be different because the languages were different, but the underlying essence would be the same. People everywhere were driven by the same needs and desires. So she had thought.

“In America, some well-bred ladies become governesses,” Emily said, still struggling against the implications of Heiko’s words. “A governess instructs the children of a household in manners, looks after their welfare, even sometimes tutors them in certain subjects. Might this not be what you meant?”

“A geisha is not a governess,” Heiko said. “A geisha is a female companion of the highest order. If I did not use the right word, then please teach me, Emily.”

Emily looked into Heiko’s open gaze. It was her Christian duty to be honest, no matter how painful the truth. She said, “We have no equal word, Heiko. In Christian countries, such work is not considered honorable; indeed, is against the law.”

“There are no prostitutes in America?”

“There are,” Emily said, “because of human frailty. But prostitutes must hide from the police and rely upon vicious criminals for protection and sustenance. Their lives are shortened by violence, addictions, and diseases.” She took a deep breath. Any cohabitation outside of marriage was a sin, but surely there were degrees of wrongdoing? She couldn’t believe that Heiko actually meant to say she was a prostitute. “Sometimes a rich and powerful man will have a mistress. A woman whom he loves, but who is not his wife under the law or in the eyes of God. Perhaps ‘mistress’ is a closer word than ‘prostitute.’ ”

Heiko thought not. “Mistress” and “concubine” were much alike, and neither was quite as close to “geisha” as “prostitute.” There was something strangely hesitant in Emily’s whole attitude toward the subject. What was the cause? Was it possible that she herself had been a prostitute, and was ashamed of her past? She could not have been the equivalent of a geisha, of course. No matter how great her skills and charms, they could not overcome her dreadful appearance.

“Perhaps,” Heiko said. “Let us ask Lord Genji when he returns. His understanding is deeper than mine.”

Emily was saved from having to reply to this outrageous suggestion by Brother Matthew’s arrival.

“Brother Zephaniah is asking for you,” he said.

“You mean to tell me my uncle has been in the armory for the past four days?” Genji did his best to keep from smiling. Abbot Sohaku’s embarrassment was plain to see.

“Yes, lord,” Sohaku said. “We made three attempts to recapture him. The first time, I got this.” He pointed to the raised welt across his forehead. “If he had used a real sword instead of a wooden one, I would have been spared the dishonor of living to give you this report.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Reverend Abbot.”

Sohaku glumly went on. “The second time, he seriously injured four of my men, rather, the monks. One of them is still in a coma, and will probably not recover. The third time, we went in with bows and arrows made of green bamboo. Not the best, but good enough, I thought, to sufficiently disable him. He perched there on the powder barrels, grinning, with a lit fuse in his hand. We made no further attempts.”

Genji sat on a small dais under a tent fifty paces from the armory. The monks who were not on guard sat in ranks before him, looking less like monks and more like samurai awaiting his command. Six months ago, his grandfather had secretly ordered his best cavalrymen into the monastery. They supposedly left the world behind in protest against his befriending of True Word missionaries. The idea, of course, was to keep his enemies guessing. Who, seeing these men of obvious martial mien, would ever be fooled into thinking they had become world-leaving monks?

“Well, I suppose I should go and talk to him.” He rose from the dais and went to the armory, followed by Hidé and Shimoda. Mutterings came from the other side of the barricade. “Uncle, it’s Genji. I’m coming in.” He gestured at the barricade and his men began removing the obstructions. The inside of the armory became very quiet.

“Lord, please be careful,” Hidé said softly. “Taro told us Lord Shigeru is completely deranged.”

Genji slid the door open. A hot miasmic stench flooded from the interior and washed over him. He reeled backward.

“Forgive me,” Sohaku said, offering a perfumed scarf. “I have grown so accustomed to his condition, I didn’t think to warn you.”

Genji waved off Sohaku’s offer. He would have liked to use it, but with his face covered, Shigeru might not recognize him. Disregarding the way the foul odors twisted his stomach, he stood again in the doorway. Shigeru squatted like a monkey deep in the shadows of the shuttered space, covered in his own filth. Only the long blades he held in his two hands were pristine. They gleamed so brightly, they could have been emitting their own light.

“I am very disappointed to see you in such unclean condition.” Genji spoke very gently. “On the one hand, I am only your nephew. On the other, I am your liege, Great Lord of Akaoka Domain. As your nephew, I am obligated to visit you where you are. As your liege, I cannot permit myself to tolerate such filth. As your nephew, I beg you to look to your health. As your liege, I command you to present yourself to me within the hour, with an explanation for this highly inappropriate behavior.”