The Blonde Samurai (25 page)

One thing I cannot fail to document is James’s outrageous behavior in regards to my correspondence with Mr. Fawkes. I was tempted to write over this since I have drawn my husband’s character in such a debauched manner, but I must show him as he is. I found several letters from my dear friend ripped open, passages underlined, words crossed out by an angry hand, dark jagged stains crinkling the tissue paper, as if the reader spilled brandy while languishing over them. I received the letter printed below two days before our scheduled departure for Yokohama. It set into motion the final act in my story. Had I not intercepted it, dear lady reader, the ending to my memoir would have been vastly different.

Guilt washed over me for having to continue with this farce and mislead both my dear friend, Mr. Fawkes, and the empress. Knowing how much the elegant ruler wished for a child of her own, I was certain she would have been so pleased to know that a child was born from the union of her loyal subject, Lord Shintaro (in spite of his enemies at court labeling him a rebel, he had never revoked his allegiance to the mikado), and this Irish lass, who so admired the empress’s kindness and tenacity in encouraging the education of native women. I had no idea then whatever measure of happiness I would know originated from this fragile thread. Mr. Fawkes wrote further:

Shintaro.
I began to breathe hard, the intensity of his memory sending a very real physical reaction through me, the deep feelings I had for him and our child making me weak-kneed, unsteady. I closed my eyes, willing my mind to focus, think clearly. The Englishman was telling me my samurai’s enemies knew he had moved camp. I opened my eyes, continued reading.

I panicked. If Shintaro moved his camp farther west, he would be in grave danger.

I closed the letter and slipped the thin paper between my breasts, my pulse racing, my face perspiring. I had to warn my samurai, but how?
The old swordsmith.
He would help me, he
had
to, for I wouldn’t leave for Yokohama without warning Shintaro. And seeing my child. The thought of my innocent babe in danger racked my mind with insane thoughts, tore at the fiber of my soul, unmasking my layers of defenses in a cold, harsh light.
How could I have left my child, my samurai?
What I must do and what I desired struggled with each other, thrusting me into such turmoil I couldn’t bear to live if anything happened to them. I was so distraught, I gave no thought to the whims of the face of evil in this play when I grabbed my hat and gloves and headed for the front door, determined to walk to the shop if I must.

“Going somewhere, my dear wife?”

James.
I hadn’t realized his lordship was home. As long as I appeared at the table for meals, he hadn’t given much thought to my comings and goings.

“Yes…” I began, wiping my forehead with my glove and to hell with my sweat staining the fine leather. “I—I want to buy some curios and embroideries to take back with me.”

“You can do that in Tokio,” he said in a firm voice, then added, “I don’t want you out of my sight until we leave.”

I didn’t try to hide the anger in my words. “Then why don’t you tie me to the bed?”

“Tempting.” He looked me up and down with a conscious
pleasure. I swore I saw a glint in his eye that sent a shiver through me. “There will be time for that once we’re back in London and you’re ready to resume our little game.”

“I agreed to be your wife, not your whore,” I retorted.

“Is there any difference?” he said, laughing, then slapped me on the backside.

“You
are
a bastard, James, aren’t you?” I yanked off my hat and gloves and raced upstairs to my room and slammed the door. I don’t know how long I stood with my back against the wooden frame, my heart racing, my mind planning, knowing I must fulfill the intangible promise I’d made to my samurai when I took up the way of the sword. I closed my eyes and drew upon that strength to clear my mind and find order and harmony to cleanse my soul. It was a delicate balance, to become so focused when facing danger so as to see with total clarity a single leaf upon a tree, but Shintaro had taught me well. To prepare myself for what was to come, I removed the items I had brought back with me from my black cloth traveling bag and held them in my hand, touching them, deriving strength from them: a poem Shintaro had written for me on crisp parchment in his strong black calligraphy; the sharp-pointed willow-leaf arrowhead Akira gave me, telling me I had pierced his heart; the blue silk kimono from Nami, the scent of my lord’s pleasure mixing with mine; the wooden charm I clutched in my hand when my baby daughter was born. And the dirk Shintaro insisted I carry with me to protect myself.

The hours passed, waiting as I was until after James retired to his rooms, since we had taken to our original arrangement regarding separate quarters. I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the house. The tall standing clock ticking, the wind beating on glass windowpanes, loud voices passing by outside disturb
ing the peace of the night. They all seemed strange to me, why? Was it because I yearned for the soft chatter of the cicada, the hoot of a tired owl, the hushed whispers carried on an ancient breeze? I dared admit, though I knew danger lurked, I found a nudge to my heart most pleasant at the thought of seeing Shintaro and my baby, holding the child in my arms, leaning my head against the strong shoulder of my samurai. I had struck a tentative peace with my husband, but I had no guarantee his lordship wouldn’t find a way to take what I loved most from me.

When the clock struck twelve, I undressed, tossing my corset and petticoats onto the floor, then donned a riding jacket and divided skirt and sneaked downstairs, careful not to wake the maid or cook, and slipped through the side door and exited through the back of the garden. I worked my way from house to house, heading in a zigzag direction toward the Motomachi, darting behind an old camphor tree with a fat trunk near the main street, my senses alert. I kept out of sight, a vested prayer upon my lips that the gods would grant me safe passage to the shop of the old swordsmith. A moonless night afforded me no help in finding my way nor did I expect any, for no being, celestial or human, could deter me. I was filled with a supernatural fever like a she wolf on the prowl, my spirit possessed, hungry, driven, for only in the blackness of the night would I dare to find freedom.

I
n the summer of 1875 I ran away from my husband for a second time. I was twenty-two. I had birthed a child. I had shared my futon simultaneously with two samurai, wielded a sword with enough dexterity to split stone and embraced the way of the warrior with such fervor no saint could have carried her knightly banner into battle better than I. Why this diatribe so close to the ending of my tale, you ask? When I began writing my memoir, I admit I was filled with the need to seek revenge against what I perceived was the pettiness and jealousy a pampered aristocrat like you, dear lady reader, thrived on to feed your boredom. I wanted to shock you, titillate you, make you hungry for sex, knowing you find little satisfaction in your marriage or your dalliances. Yes, I was also petty, wishing to make you wide-eyed and jealous with stories of my samurai, playing games with you, teasing you, attaching more importance to my adventure than need be. Flaunting my rebelliousness and expecting you to understand. For
that, I am truly sorry. You are a woman of your circumstance as I am of mine. ’Tis not fair of me to judge you, as I do not wish to be judged. To some, I remain an amusing piece of drawing room gossip that will soon be forgotten. But to
you,
the woman who has followed me on this journey of self-discovery and who believes in a deep love and in a life made richer by a child you both created, I beseech you to ride with me to the end of my story and accept whatever happens. Cry if you must, but don’t set the book aside. For all that I have written is as it happened with its Oriental mystery, strange beauty and raw desire. If you wish to tout it as a fairy story, so be it. If you have the courage to come with me and understand it was a far more important thing I did than merely record my story, that I made the right decision to warn Shintaro and hold my child again in my arms, then you shall have your reward. For like a faded silk embroidery that retains the scent of the Orient even when hidden between the finest French lace, my story will linger in your heart and warm your soul when you find yourself alone and without a man to hold you. I know too well the ache that eats at you, burns your skin though the nights are cold, makes you reach for something,
anything
that will bring forth the flow of your juices and the sweetest of scents to turn your gray and bitter world into a ripe, golden fruit to quench your thirst. Know that I have also suffered, but I pray I have cast the glow of my adventure with my samurai upon you and have given you a more enlightened view of my love for them.

And now to my dilemma: I need your help to finish my story. Before I go forward, dear lady reader, I must be certain you have aligned yourself with me, because I face a great difficulty to relive this part of my tale. Yes, the loss I have spoken of occurs here…but I cannot continue writing until I know
I have your support. I will not disappoint you, but if at any time you feel you must stop and linger a moment, please do, as will I. So with your permission, I shall deliver to you the most exciting chapter of my memoir. Though it be tragic in part, it shall also fill you with the most astounding ending you will
never
forget.

I cannot describe the exhilaration that filled me as I made my way up into the hills behind the foreign settlement on horseback following the old swordsmith. Smelling of tanned leather and sake, he remained quiet, never looking at me, careful to keep the side lanterns on our mounts from dimming the farther we went into the darkness. I had found my way along the alley to his shop, calling out to him in the native language, praying I wouldn’t hear the slice of his sword and feel the sharpness of his blade upon my shoulder. I told him I had an urgent message for Shintaro and he must take me to him. He nodded and within minutes we were on horseback, headed away from the settlement and up into the shadows lying over the mountains, but not toward the samurai village. No, up,
up
to the summit toward the sanctuary, where not long ago we had brought Reiko on a sunlit morning when the bees buzzed their approval and the birds sang the ancient prayers that lingered here. Sheltered by lofty pines, our mounts made their way over the terrain of cascading rocks with little light to guide them, but they were creatures of habit and seemed to know the way. I prayed Shintaro had not yet set out on the journey westward where his enemies could find him. I clung to that belief, hoping it wouldn’t fade away like a mythic dream into the mist.

When we reached the sanctuary, all was quiet except for the gentle chirp of crickets mixing with the bells fringing the
eaves of the black tiled roof and swaying in the wind. I noted the hedge of stone votive lanterns weren’t the only guards on watch. I spied Shintaro’s men hidden in the shadows, waiting, watching. The old swordsmith waved his hand in greeting and they remained in place. Dismounting my horse, I raced up the copper-tipped steps to the veranda of the prayer hall, nearly tripping over the sandals and clogs placed on the lower steps, and yanked open the double wooden doors. Only later did I remember the two crossed emblems embedded on the doors symbolized thunder, reminding the souls who slept nearby of the fatal power of the gods.

“We shall break camp and travel east to the higher mountains,” Shintaro bellowed, giving orders, waving his arms wildly so his kimono sleeves blew about in a tempest, “where the streams are clean and pure and the land rich for planting until this matter is settled.”

“It will never be settled, Shintaro, until you make peace with the mikado.” It was a delicate matter I broached with him, something oft discussed at London soirees, where the subject of politics created fodder for men in ill-fitting tails eager to make or break each other’s fortunes. A minor tragedy at best. Here honor above all disciplined the samurai soul and untruths were not tolerated and viewed as cowardly.

“Why do you still not understand that we samurai are fighting for our survival.” He paused, his face filled with pain, his neck rigid with corded veins. I could see his anger challenged whatever feeling he had for me. I believe he knew then it was a matter of time before the end came, but because he was concerned for his people, he had scattered his clan into these mountains, taking refuge in thatched huts, abandoned shrines and here in the sanctuary at the summit hilltop.

“Your fight is also mine, Shintaro,” I cried out. “Why can’t you see that?” I breathed hard, pulling in the strong scent of incense into my lungs, feeling at one here in the dim, mysterious light, the heady scent emitting from the lit joss sticks in honor of the gods. I discovered it was more difficult for me to exit this world than I had believed.

“No, you must go back to your husband as your duty demands.” He cupped my chin, his eyes so filled with emotion they lay heavy on his heart and did not find their way into words. Instead, he said, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

I saw the hurt in his eyes, as if he had accepted he would never see me again. “I
had
to warn you, my lord,” I said, explaining, “and to see you…and Reiko.”

Without taking his gaze off me, he said, “Nami, bring the child.” He knew that she waited for his command behind the screen in the shadowy recesses of the room. She came forth with Reiko in her arms and for a brief moment I envied her, envied their relationship molded by centuries of duty and tradition. I imagined her kneeling with her own child in her arms, alone in a serene, quiet garden, breathing in the fragrance of blossoms. She had lost that peace, but I had given her back her place with my daughter. I could not take that from her.

“The gods must have seen you riding up the mountain,” Shintaro said to me, “for the child awoke and started crying.” He looked at Nami with mock rebuke. “Or so I am informed.”

She smiled, then bowed low. “She is hungry and misses her mother.”

“I have missed her, too, Nami, but I know you have given her your heart.”

I couldn’t resist the urge to nurse my child, my maternal
instinct too strong to deny. My breasts were heavy with milk, liquid often seeping through my chemise and my bodice. I removed my riding jacket, my dirk, then unlaced my chemise and bared my breasts. Smiling, I tickled the baby’s lips with my nipple and when she opened her mouth wide, I brought her up quickly so she could latch onto me, her tiny mouth suckling, her small perfect head showing signs of light-colored hair among the dark. I ran my fingers through the soft strands, marveling at seeing me in her, her tiny hand holding on to my finger with a strong grip. The grip of her father, Lord Shintaro. I thanked him with my eyes. He nodded, then smiled, and I could see the fondness he had for our daughter gleaming on his rugged face clearly visible in the burning light of the chandelier cast with gilded copper and encrusted bronze.

Then, a moment later, he was troubled. I ignored the warning in his eyes telling me I must be strong and bend like the bamboo, for bamboo was hollow inside. Empty. I could not have written a better description of my life without them. Leaving here would be the hardest thing I’d ever done, a fearful restlessness grabbing my heart, but I must, my duty shaped clearly in my mind.

“My lord, is it true she is here?” I heard a male voice call out behind me.

I turned to see Akira rush into the small antechamber where we sat upon threadbare brocade cushions where honorable monks had prayed for a thousand years. His handsome face beamed an intense brightness in the silvery-gray light filtering through the dark interior. I shivered, his beauty reminding me of the passion we three had shared together, his eyes like a mirror where I could see a vivid reflection of his feelings for me.

He loved me, wanted me, why couldn’t Shintaro show me his feelings? What was stopping him?

“I am so pleased to see you, Akira,” I called out, bowing my head. Reiko held fast to my breast and sucked harder, sending that private joy through me that I missed so much.

He bowed low in respect. “To see you again is a gift from the gods.”

“Lady Carlton cannot remain here, Akira,” Shintaro interrupted in a stern voice.

Indignant that he spoke for me, I said, “’Tis true, Akira, I must leave and return to London.” I refused to weaken, though I was tempted to throw myself on Shintaro’s mercy and plead to stay with him, with our child. I turned to my samurai. “I beg you to think about what I have said, Shintaro. Meet with the mikado and do what is best for your people and our daughter.”

“I fear she speaks the truth, Lord Shintaro.” Akira laid his hand upon my shoulder to show his support. “Our enemies will not give up trying to destroy us.”

“I have made my decision. We are samurai and have fought long and hard for our cause. We must be treated with respect,” Shintaro snapped at me. “Until then, we will make our stand. It is our destiny.”

He glared at his squire, his eyes glowing in an unusual show of emotion, but it was the jealous tone in his voice that secretly pleased me. I wasn’t in love with Akira, but I harbored passionate feelings for him, made more so by his courage to challenge his lord and provoke him to think in a way no one ever had.

“They have guns, cannons,” I said hotly, “many will die, Shintaro, is that the way of the warrior?”

Ignoring me, he turned to Akira. “You will take her back
to the settlement, then return quickly.” He became the clan leader again, his demeanor changed, his mind planning. “We must be gone from here before the night comes to visit us again.”

Dawn broke with a fierceness, windy and cold high in the mountains. I nursed my child before leaving, capturing to memory how she smelled like sweet jasmine before Nami strapped her onto her back. I smiled, watching her bare toes sticking out and curling up in tiny balls as a ticklish breeze found her. I didn’t pretend to myself I would ever feel whole again, only that I would never forget that somewhere in thickly wooded mountains my child would grow up under Nami’s guidance, loyal to those who loved her, her samurai family, and for that I gave thanks to the gods.

With hot tea and rice warming our stomachs, we began our journey down the summit, Akira in front, me following behind, my horse keeping a steady pace. When we reached the clearing, the shimmer of summer green hit me with such intensity I blamed that for the moistness in my eyes, for samurai do not cry. I looked up ahead at Akira, his youthful smile engaging me when he turned around to ask me if I wanted to stop and rest. I wasn’t tired, but I nodded. I had the feeling he wanted to talk, but we never had that chance.

I cried out when an arrow shot past me and found its mark near his left shoulder where the armor didn’t protect him. I screamed, he grimaced in pain, then another arrow and another flew around us, missing me but striking his horse, the animal’s knees buckling and throwing him from the saddle. Wounded, Akira got to his feet, broke off the arrow embedded in his flesh, his eyes finding me, his face in anguish at not being able to protect me.

“Take cover in the woods, my lady!” he called out, drawing both his swords from their wooden sheaths, his head swiveling from side to side, looking, waiting, challenging the attackers to show themselves.

“Who—” I cried out, then I knew.
Ninja.
Raiders and assassins whose services were bought by anyone who paid them, most likely corrupt officials in the mikado’s court. They were everywhere at once, three, four, five stealth figures in black coming out of the woods armed with short bows, darts and spears springing into full length with a flick of their wrists, like night devils with sharpened claws and tails. They targeted Akira first, then me.

“Go!”
he shouted. “Warn Shintaro!”

“I won’t leave you,” I cried, kicking my heels into my horse’s flanks and jumping him over a tree trunk to reach the young samurai. I chased after a dark-garbed assassin running toward Akira, my horse rising up on its hind legs, kicking him and making him drop his sword. The assassin picked up his weapon and tried to attack my horse, but I drew my dirk from inside my jacket, aimed and threw it…yes, I killed him.

I jumped from my horse and grabbed the dead man’s sword then I took off after the two assassins engaged in swordplay with Akira. Strong, stalwart, his swords slicing, hissing, the clang of steel against steel, he held them. I came up behind the assassin going after Akira, swinging the sword in an arc and bringing it down between his shoulders, slicing through his dark clothes into his flesh and drawing blood. I saw the pride in Akira’s eyes, approving, his manly beauty glowing in the rising sun and pulling at something inside me I didn’t understand then, but I do now.