Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (39 page)

Brian's Story Concludes

1811

They left as soon the weather permitted. The landscape changed, slowly, as the road became endless again.

They were forced to take a breather in another nameless, small town, for other reasons. Nadezhda's courses had descended again—this was the first time since the winter—and she was rendered an invalid for those terrible three days. The two of them stayed in their room at the inn, keeping the door shut to everyone but Mugin and Miyoshi, who seemed to be finding enough to do in town.

As usual, by the third day, Nadezhda lost her lucidity from exhaustion, pain, and blood loss. The Japanese seemed to have very little to offer in the way of herbs or medicines, but they had numerous teas and broths. “Here. Try this one,” Brian said, holding another bowl up to her mouth. “I don't know what it is, but it smells good.”

On the fourth day she regained her sense, but not her strength, and remained in bed. Her hair was uncovered and not in braids, which was a rarity, and he loved to run his hands through it. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” She smiled weakly.

The door slid open behind them without a call, which meant it was Mugin who shambled in. “Any food around?” He had his own room with Miyoshi, but it was connected, and neither of them had been in last night.

“Here,” Brian said, not bothering to put up a fight, and offered up a bowl of rice. He had once asked them where they went at night, and the answer was the obvious one, which he had so politely overlooked.

“Well, where would you go at night if you didn't have regularly available access to a woman?” Mugin had answered, and that was the end of the discussion.

Now, he was more polite. “How are you, Nadi-chan?”

“Better,” she answered. “I'll be able to travel again in a few days.”

“
Sa
! It doesn't matter to me,” Mugin said.

“Does anything matter to you, Mugin-san?” Brian asked with a smile.

“Food, women, and money for the other two things,” Mugin said, grabbing at the globs of rice in his bowl with the chopsticks. “Maybe Shiro-chan; I like picking on him, and he hasn't killed me yet. He has tried though. So, Nadi-chan—you can't have children, right?”

Brian gave Mugin a cold stare, but Nadezhda merely said, “No. Brian, he's going to do it again.”

“What? Oh,” Brian said, and turned again to Mugin. “The three-way is still a no and will always be so. You can stop asking.”

Mugin huffed. “
Gaijin
are no fun.”

***

“—Doko doko yukuno—”

“Mugin.”

“
Hito mo nagarete
—”

“Mugin!”

“D
oko doko yukuno
—” Mugin's singing was only stopped by Miyoshi's blade inches from his neck. Mugin stopped walking. “You complain about everything. First I'm not allowed to gamble with our money, and then I'm not allowed to sing—” He turned to Brian and Nadezhda. “What's wrong with my singing?”

“The song was good,” Nadezhda said.

“The first hundred times,” Brian added.

“So why don't you sing something, Brian-chan?”

Brian put his hands together in a prayer position. “I am merely a pilgrim. I would not know any English sailing songs. And those are all I know.”

“He has a point,” Miyoshi said, replacing his blade. “We should get moving.”

“That's all you ever say!”

“It's true,” was Miyoshi's defense.

They continued on, the path sloping down, until they were forced to take a break in the shade of some trees. It was not unbearably hot, but nearly there. There was still an occasional passerby on the road, so Brian kept his hat on, doing his best to cool his brow beneath it with cloth. “Nady, do you want—”

Miyoshi raised his hand. Even Mugin stopped making noise.

“Fuma-no-Shiro,” said the voice from behind them. “I thought it was you.”

Miyoshi stood up. “I'm sorry; you are mistaken.”

They turned to the fat man with only one sword. He held up a scroll while samurai emerged from the woods, flanking him. “Ha! I remember you from court. Do you know how many
ryo
the
put on your head? I never thought you would come as far south as this. Did you know this is my prefecture? No, I suppose not.”

“I am sorry,” Miyoshi said, turning away from them and gesturing with his head for the others to move along, “but again, you are mistaken. I am a samurai to these pilgrims, and we must be on our way.”

The man wasn't listening. “When I heard a Fuma samurai was this far north, I knew it had to be you. So you might as well admit it and surrender to me, and I'll let the pilgrims go.”

All eyes were on Miyoshi, who stood quietly, his expression hidden beneath his
ronin gasa
. His hands were limp at his sides, not on his swords. Was he planning his battle strategy or contemplating the offer?

“There're too many of them,” Brian whispered to Mugin, watching the samurai emerge. There were half a dozen, all similarly attired, and more behind them.

“You think that way, you give up before the battle begins,” Mugin said, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “You can run or stay, whatever you think is best. No one will think less of you for it.”

“Will he fight them? It's ridiculous.”

“As opposed to giving in? It's more honorable to die in battle. This prefect knows that.”

Brian felt Nadezhda's hand over his in silent confirmation.

Miyoshi did not speak. Instead he removed his hat and tossed it at the head of the closest samurai. Before the warrior recovered, Miyoshi had drawn his katana and cut his head off.

“Get—” but the prefect got no further before he got a flying geta shoe to his head. It distracted him long enough for Mugin to jump in front of him, retrieving his shoe in one hand and stabbing the fat man in the shoulder with the other. He pushed the dead prefect, spurting blood all over him, off his blade with his foot.

“Is that all you have!” Mugin shouted. It was not a question.

“All they had” was quite a lot. Nearly a dozen samurai now surrounded Mugin and Miyoshi. “Kill them!”

“Halt!” Brian shouted, drawing his blade and stepping forward. He and Nadezhda threw off their tengai hats. “You are disrupting this mission, and we cannot allow that.”

“Foreigners!” said the nearest samurai, but the revelation had its intended affect. Miyoshi took the time to slay him while he wasn't looking, and Mugin slid beneath another two, cutting off one's leg with his free arm and somersaulting on the other.

“Kill the foreigners, the
ronin
, or the convict? Hard decision, samurai!” Mugin mocked them when he was back on his feet, parrying the swinging blade with his own and punching the samurai in the face hard enough to draw blood.

“Stay back,” Brian said.

“I suppose someone will have to rescue you,” Nadezhda said. Or at least, that was what he thought she said as Brian raised his sword and charged at the nearest samurai, who was too busy attacking Miyoshi from behind to see him coming.

He would always remember the sound of metal cutting through flesh, muscle, and bone. Everything else about that battle was a bloodied haze. He tried to remember what Miyoshi had taught him, at least long enough for the real warriors to do their work. He saw the coins from behind, tossed by Nadezhda, and a man fell merely from the coin landing in his skull, right between the eyes. The blood sprayed in Brian's face, and he was sure, as he went to wipe it, something hit him from the side, hard enough to make the haze turn to black.

***

He had not felled them. Even though Brian was sure of it, the samurai stood all around him, in full ceremonial armor, more than they had on before. They stood in a circle around his body, saying nothing, their long spears planted firmly in the ground.

“Is this it?” he said, not fully aware of what language he was speaking. “Is this how I am to die?”

They stood in silence.

“Have I already passed? Did I say good-bye?”

They did not move, but he felt as if they were moving closer.

“Please, tell me I said good-bye. I owe her that. 'Tis nature for a wife to outlive her husband, but I cannot bear it.” He sighed, but there was no pain. “I have to wish her well. I suppose she deserves more than a scoundrel like me.”

He did not move himself from his position on the ground, which he realized was empty, he felt as if he was floating.

“But—I have not been a scoundrel. I have been a good husband. At—at least, I've tried. Good Lord, I've tried. In every way I knew. Granted, all I knew was how to cut and run, but… I'm quite good at it.” He looked up at the masked samurai warriors without moving. “You think I will accept this? You think I will not try to flee one last time?”

They did not answer him.

“You are pulling me down, and I won't go. I have but one love in this life, and not even all the soldiers of Nippon can take her from me.”

Their poles became longer, as their bodies melted.

“See? Even you cannot intimidate me, the helpless, lame
gaijin
! Now bring me my Nadezhda, and leave me alone!”

Because he had to see her one last time. The poles were the only thing he could see now and the haze surrounding them, as his eyes slowly focused, and he realized he was looking at the bars of a window. Prison? No, just the Japanese way of things. He was, most definitely, looking at a window. Though he was not alone, the samurai were gone. Beside him he heard labored breathing, but it was a very long time before he could bring himself to turn his head, for his own aches had returned.

On one side, Mugin, without his jacket or shoes, unarmed; so odd to see him that way, not at the ready. He looked like a wild beast, but a wild beast that was uneasily asleep.

On the other, Miyoshi, wearing a different kimono, in a similar position.

“They are asleep.” The shadow crossed over him as her figure sat, in front of the light, next to him on the mattress. “We are alone, in a way.” She kissed him on the forehead. “You should drink, darling.”

He could not, of course, refuse her. With Nadezhda's help, he was able to sit up enough to drink from the bowl. When he was let back down, some of his senses were regained. “Where—are we—in prison?”

“No.”

“How—”

“Miyoshi Shiro is dead,” she said. “Or so the authorities believe. He took all of the men seeking him with him, but he died in battle. His body can be identified by his clothing, but the fugitives made off with his swords when they saw he was lost.”

It took him a very long while to understand, but she was patient. “You switched his clothing with one of the soldiers?”

“Yes.”

“We all escaped?”

“We went north. I paid the innkeeper to say so while she harbors us and you recover.”

He smiled. “A scheme truly worthy of the Maddox name.”

“Have I ever been unworthy of it?”

To this, he could give no proper response but to return her kiss.

***

In what, they later learned, was the spring of 1812, Brian and Nadezhda Maddox arrived in Nagasaki. They saw it first on the hill overlooking the port town and the ocean beyond it—the ocean that would lead them home. Brian sighed and put his arm around his wife's shoulders.

“Are we going to go already? Lazy
gaijin
,” Mugin said. “We didn't come for you to admire the view!”

But they had come, however long the last length had been, riding in a wagon that moved more slowly than a man could travel on his feet, as they recovered from their injuries. When they were well enough, they abandoned it and took on the road on their feet again.

“Foreigners are still not allowed in Japan,” Miyoshi explained as they descended the path that would lead them to the massive wooden city before them. “There is some wooden city where the traders live—out on the water.”

“Really take things to extremes, don't you?” Brian said. Miyoshi just smiled. A vast improvement.

Not far off was Dejima, the artificial island beyond the massive stone walls of the city's edge. The sun was already setting, and the gates that kept the foreigners from the Japanese and the Japanese from the foreigners were closed. One last inn, before their parting, however it would be. Brian realized then, he'd spent little time contemplating how they would split apart, or if Mugin and Miyoshi could enter the city at all.

They took two rooms at the inn, overlooking the waters. As Nadezhda went to find dinner, Brian sat down at the window and stared at the Japanese-style houses of the floating city, but the people he could see there were not Japanese. They had hair in colors—red, blond, brown. They wore pants and waistcoats. They had sideburns. Brian had just been mindlessly shaving, because it was easier to manage his tengai with. Tomorrow, he wouldn't need his basket helmet anymore. It would all be over.