Shogun (89 page)

“
Iyé. Watashi oyogu ima.”
No, I’m going for a swim.

“
Hai
, Anjin-sama.” Obediently she turned and called out. Two of the servants came running. Both were young men from the village, strong and known to be good swimmers.

Blackthorne did not object. Tonight he knew his objections would be meaningless.

“Well, anyway,” he said aloud as he lurched down the hill, the men following, his brain dulled with drink, “anyway, I’ve put him to sleep. He can’t hurt her now.”

Blackthorne swam for an hour and felt better. When he came back Fujiko was waiting on the veranda with a pot of fresh cha. He accepted some, then went to bed and was instantly asleep.

The sound of Buntaro’s voice, teeming with malice, awoke him. His right hand was already grasping the hilt of the loaded pistol he always kept under the futon, and his heart was thundering in his chest from the suddenness of his waking.

Buntaro’s voice stopped. Mariko began to talk. Blackthorne could only catch a few words but he could feel the reasonableness and the pleading, not abject or whining or even near tears, just her usual firm serenity. Again Buntaro erupted.

Blackthorne tried not to listen.

“Don’t interfere,” she had told him and she was wise. He had no rights, but Buntaro had many. “I beg you to be careful, Anjin-san. Remember what I told you about ears to hear with and the Eightfold Fence.”

Obediently he lay back, his skin chilled with sweat, and forced himself to think about what she had said.

“You see, Anjin-san,” she had told him that very special evening when they were finishing the last of many last flasks of saké and he had been joking about the lack of privacy everywhere—people always around and paper walls, ears and eyes always prying, “here you have to learn to create your own privacy. We’re taught from childhood to disappear within ourselves, to grow impenetrable walls behind which we live. If we couldn’t, we’d all certainly go mad and kill each other and ourselves.”

“What walls?”

“Oh, we’ve a limitless maze to hide in, Anjin-san. Rituals and customs, taboos of all kinds, oh yes. Even our language has nuances you don’t have which allow us to avoid, politely, any question if we don’t want to answer it.”

“But how do you close your ears, Mariko-san? That’s impossible.”

“Oh, very easy, with training. Of course, training begins as soon as a child can talk, so very soon it’s second nature to us—how else could we survive? First you begin by cleansing your mind of
people
, to put yourself on a different plane. Sunset watching is a great help or listening to the rain—Anjin-san, have you noticed the different sounds of rain? If you really
listen
, then the present vanishes,
neh? Listening
to blossoms falling and to rocks growing are exceptionally good exercises. Of course, you’re not supposed to
see
the things, they’re only signs, messages to your
hara
, your center, to remind you of the tran-science of life, to help you gain
wa
, harmony, Anjin-san, perfect harmony, which is the most sought-after quality in all Japanese life, all art, all …” She had laughed. “There, you see what so much saké does to me.” The tip of her tongue touched her lips so enticingly. “I will whisper a secret to you: Don’t be fooled by our smiles and gentleness, our ceremonial and our bowing and sweetnesses and attentions. Beneath them all we can be a million ri away, safe and alone. For that’s what we seek—oblivion. One of our first poems ever written—it’s in the Kojiko, our first history book that was written down about a thousand years ago—perhaps that will explain what I’m saying:

We would certainly go mad if we didn’t have an Eightfold Fence, oh very yes!”

Remember the Eightfold Fence, he told himself, as the hissing fury of Buntaro continued. I don’t know anything about her. Or him, really. Think about the Musket Regiment or home or Felicity or how to get the ship or about Baccus or Toranaga or Omi-san. What about Omi? Do I need revenge? He wants to be my friend and he’s been good and kind since the pistols and …

The sound of the blow tore into his head. Then Mariko’s voice began again, and there was a second blow and Blackthorne was on his feet in an instant, the shoji open. The guard stood facing him balefully in the corridor outside Mariko’s door, sword ready.

Blackthorne was preparing to launch himself at the samurai when the door at the far end of the corridor opened. Fujiko, her hair loose and flowing over the sleeping kimono, approached, the sound of ripping cloth and another clout seemingly not touching her at all. She bowed politely to the guard and stood between them, then bowed meekly to Blackthorne and took his arm, motioning him back into the room. He saw the taut readiness of the samurai. He had only one pistol and one bullet at the moment so he retreated. Fujiko followed and shut the shoji behind her. Then, very afraid, she shook her head warningly, and touched a finger to her lips and shook her head again, her eyes pleading with him.

“
Gomen nasai, wakarimasu ka?”
she breathed.

But he was concentrating on the wall of the adjoining room that he could smash in so easily.

She looked at the wall also, then put herself between him and the wall, and sat, motioning him to do the same.

But he could not. He stood readying himself for the charge that would destroy them all, goaded by a whimper that followed another blow.

“
Iyé!”
Fujiko shook in terror.

He waved her out of the way.

“
Iyé, iyé,”
she begged again.

“
IMA!”

At once Fujiko got up and motioned him to wait as she rushed noiselessly for the swords that lay in front of the
takonama
, the little alcove of honor. She picked up the long sword, her hands shaking, drew it out of the scabbard, and prepared to follow him through the wall. At that instant there was a final blow and a rising torrent of rage. The other shoji slammed open, and unseen, Buntaro stamped away, followed by the guard. There was silence in the house for a moment, then the sound of the garden gate crashing closed.

Blackthorne went for his door. Fujiko darted in the way but he shoved her aside and pulled it open.

Mariko was still on her knees in one corner of the next room, a livid welt on her cheek, her hair disheveled, her kimono in tatters, bad bruises on her thighs and lower back.

He rushed over to pick her up but she cried out, “Go away, please go away, Anjin-san!”

He saw the trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “Jesus, how bad are you—”

“I told you not to interfere. Please go away,” she said in the same calm voice that belied the violence in her eyes. Then she saw Fujiko, who had stayed at the doorway. She spoke to her. Fujiko obediently took Blackthorne’s arm to lead him away but he tore out of her grasp. “Don’t!
Iyé!”

Mariko said, “Your presence here takes away my face and gives me no peace or comfort and shames me. Go away!”

“I want to help. Don’t you understand?”

“Don’t you understand? You have no rights in this. This is a private quarrel between husband and wife.”

“That’s no excuse for hitting—”

“Why don’t you listen, Anjin-san? He can beat me to death if he wishes. He has the right and I wish he would—even that! Then I wouldn’t have to endure the shame. You think it’s easy to live with my shame? Didn’t you hear what I told you?
I’m Akechi Jinsai’s daughter!”

“That’s not your fault. You did nothing!”

“It is my fault and I am my father’s daughter.” Mariko would have stopped there. But, looking up and seeing his compassion, his concern, and his love, and knowing how he so honored truth, she allowed some of her veils to fall.

“Tonight was my fault, Anjin-san,” she said. “If I would weep as he wants, beg forgiveness as he wants, cringe and be petrified and
fawn as he wants, open my legs in pretended terror as he desires, do all these womanly things that my duty demands, then he’d be like a child in my hand. But I will not.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my revenge. To repay him for leaving me alive after the treachery. To repay him for sending me away for eight years and leaving me alive all that time. And to repay him for ordering me back into life and leaving me alive.” She sat back painfully and arranged her tattered kimono closer around her. “I’ll never give myself to him again. Once I did, freely, even though I detested him from the first moment I saw him.”

“Then why did you marry him? You’ve said women here have rights of refusal, that they don’t have to marry against their wishes.”

“I married him to please Lord Goroda, and to please my father. I was so young I didn’t know about Goroda then, but if you want the truth, Goroda was the cruelest, most loathsome man that was ever born. He drove my father to treachery. That’s the real truth! Goroda!” She spat the name. “But for him we’d all be alive and honored. I pray God that Goroda’s committed to hell for all eternity.” She moved carefully, trying to ease the agony in her side. “There’s only hatred between my husband and me, that’s our
karma
. It would be so easy for him to allow me to climb into the small place of death.”

“Why doesn’t he let you go? Divorce you? Even grant you what you want?”

“Because he’s a man.” A ripple of pain went through her and she grimaced. Blackthorne was on his knees beside her, cradling her. She pushed him away, fought for control. Fujiko, at the doorway, watched stoically.

“I’m all right, Anjin-san. Please leave me alone. You mustn’t. You must be careful.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

Wearily she pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared up searchingly. Why not let the Anjin-san go to meet his
karma
, Mariko asked herself. He’s not of our world. Buntaro will kill him so easily. Only Toranaga’s personal protection has shielded him so far. Yabu, Omi, Naga, Buntaro—any one of them could be provoked so easily into killing him.

He’s caused nothing but trouble since he arrived,
neh?
So has his knowledge. Naga’s right: the Anjin-san can destroy our world unless he’s bottled up.

What if Buntaro knew the truth? Or Toranaga? About the pillowing …

“Are you insane?” Fujiko had said that first night.

“No.”

“Then why are you going to take the maid’s place?”

“Because of the saké and for amusement, Fujiko-chan, and for curiosity,” she had lied, hiding the real reason: because he excited her, she wanted him, she had never had a lover. If it was not tonight it would never be, and it had to be the Anjin-san and only the Anjin-san.

So she had gone to him and had been transported and then, yesterday, when the galley arrived, Fujiko had said privately, “Would you have gone if you’d known your husband was alive?”

“No. Of course not,” she had lied.

“But now you’re going to tell Buntaro-sama,
neh?
About pillowing with the Anjin-san?”

“Why should I do that?”

“I thought that might be your plan. If you tell Buntaro-sama at the right time his rage will burst over you and you’ll be gratefully dead before he knows what he’s done.”

“No, Fujiko-san, he’ll never kill me. Unfortunately. He’ll send me to the
eta
if he has excuse enough—if he could get Lord Toranaga’s approval—but he’ll never kill me.”

“Adultery with the Anjin-san—would that be enough?”

“Oh yes.”

“What would happen to your son?”

“He would inherit my disgrace, if I am disgraced,
neh?”

“Please tell me if you ever think Buntaro-sama suspects what happened. While I’m consort, it’s my duty to protect the Anjin-san.”

Yes, it is, Fujiko, Mariko had thought then. And that would give you the excuse to take open vengeance on your father’s accuser that you are desperate for. But your father was a coward, so sorry, poor Fujiko. Hiro-matsu was there, otherwise your father would be alive now and Buntaro dead, for Buntaro is hated far more than they ever despised your father. Even the swords you prize so much, they were never given as a battle honor, they were bought from a wounded samurai. So sorry, but I’ll never be the one to tell you, even though that also is the truth.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Blackthorne was saying again.

“I know,” she said, the pain taking her. “But please, I beg you, be afraid of him for me.”

Blackthorne went for the door.

* * *

Buntaro was waiting for him a hundred paces away in the center of the path that led down to the village—squat, immense, and deadly. The guard stood beside him. It was an overcast dawn. Fishing boats were already working the shoals, the sea calm.

Blackthorne saw the bow loose in Buntaro’s hands, and the swords, and the guard’s swords. Buntaro was swaying slightly and this gave him hope that the man’s aim would be off, which might give him time to get close enough. There was no cover beside the path. Beyond caring, he cocked both pistols and bore down on the two men.

To hell with cover, he thought through the haze of his blood lust, knowing at the same time that what he was doing was insane, that he had no chance against the two samurai or the long-range bow, that he had no rights whatsoever to interfere. And then, while he was still out of pistol range, Buntaro bowed low, and so did the guard. Blackthorne stopped, sensing a trap. He looked all around but there was no one near. As though in a dream, he saw Buntaro sink heavily onto his knees, put his bow aside, his hands flat on the ground, and bow to him as a peasant would bow to his lord. The guard did likewise.

Blackthorne stared at them, dazed. When he was sure his eyes were not tricking him, he came forward slowly, pistols ready but not leveled, expecting treachery. Within easy range he stopped. Buntaro had not moved. Custom dictated that he should kneel and return the salutation because they were equals or near equals but he could not understand why there should be such unbelievable deferential ceremony in a situation like this where blood was going to flow.