The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn (8 page)

The judge guided his horse past
all of them. Seikei expected that he would stay at the headquarters
of the local government official. Again, he was wrong. The judge
stopped at a stable, where he paid to have their horses fed and
watered and kept for the night.

Then they walked to a back street
where the houses were small and shabby-looking. Seikei was glad to
be able to stretch his legs, but wondered what the judge was
looking for here. A few of the houses had simple signs in front,
reading TEA or RICE. None were as fancy or appealing as the shops
on the main street.

“Did you keep track of that komuso
we saw earlier?” the judge asked.

Seikei admitted that he had lost
sight of the man.

“There he is,” said the
judge.

Seikei saw the komuso standing in
front of one of the teahouses, playing a soft, haunting song on his
flute. It did look like the same man, Seikei thought, but it was
impossible to tell because of the basket on his head.

The judge walked past the komuso
without looking at him, and went into the teahouse. Seikei
followed, kicking off his sandals at the door. Inside, people sat
at a long table, drinking cups of tea. They looked curiously at the
fat samurai who had just walked in, but immediately a little man in
a brown kimono appeared, carrying a tray of teacups. When he saw
the judge, he put the tray down and beckoned for him to
follow.

The man silently led Seikei and
the judge down a narrow corridor. He slid open a door at the far
end, and they went inside. The room was small and bare of any
furniture except straw mats that covered the floor. The judge sat
down on a mat and sighed deeply. Seikei started to ask him a
question, but the judge put up his hand.

In a moment, the man returned with
bowls of soup and a pot of tea. The soup was surprisingly tasty,
with pieces of green onion and tuna in it. When they had finished,
the judge took his swords from his belt and laid them carefully on
the mat.

“Perhaps we should get some
sleep,” he said. “Tonight we are going to a kabuki
play.”

Seikei stared. “I thought samurai
were not allowed to go to kabuki theaters.”

“That is true,” said the judge,
“but I am forced to do so as a duty to the shogun. You may enjoy
it. I want you to pay close attention, so rest now.”

In a moment the judge was snoring,
but Seikei lay on his mat, his mind racing. He had too much to
think about.

10: The Forty-Seven
Ronin

Seikei and the judge walked up the hill that led
to the holy shrine of Ise. The judge had left his two swords behind
so that he would not be known as a samurai. But he told Seikei to
wear his wooden sword. “Sometimes,” the judge said, “the crowds are
rough, and there are pickpockets among them. I’m depending on your
keen eyes and courage.”

Secretly, Seikei hoped there would
be no trouble. He loved to feel the sword tucked under his belt,
but he had no confidence in his ability to use it.

The shrine contained many
buildings. One was a monastery, where Buddhist monks spent their
lives. Another building was open to travelers who could afford no
other place to stay. Beyond the monastery stood the two ancient
wooden shrines that were the heart of Ise. But the stream of
travelers that visited them by day did not come at night, for the
sun goddess slept then, and did not like to be awakened.

During the night hours, the
pilgrims crowded into one of the theaters just outside the
monastery grounds. Pretty paper lanterns of many colors decorated
the entrances, and just as at the inns of the town, women tried to
lure customers inside.

Walking from theater to theater,
the judge asked what type of entertainment was being offered. One
woman told him acrobats and tightrope walkers, and Seikei thought
this must be the place where the thief could be found. But the
judge shook his head and moved on.

At one of the
theaters, they learned that a kabuki troupe was presenting the play
called
The Forty-Seven
Ronin
.
The
judge nodded and paid the price of admission for them both. When
they went inside, they found that the hall was already crowded. The
best seats, on the floor in front of the stage, were already taken.
But there were a few places left near the two wooden runways that
actors used to go to and from the stage. Seikei and the judge sat
down there.

The bright lanterns hanging over
the stage cast a light over the audience. People talked loudly as
they waited for the fun to begin. For many of those in the
audience, the trip to Ise was the most exciting thing they would
ever do in their lives. People in farm villages saved money for
years so that a few of them could go, and then held a drawing to
choose the lucky ones. They would return and describe to the other
villagers everything they had seen and done.

“I know the story of this play,”
said Seikei.

“Most people do,” said the judge.
“Yet that does not seem to lessen its popularity. Some versions of
the play take three days to perform. I hope we will not be here
that long. The floor is hard.”

“Is it really a true story, as
people say?” Seikei asked.

“Yes, and it happened not very long ago,” the judge replied.
“I once met a man who claimed to have known one of the
ronin
.
But remember, we are here to look for a criminal
who may be one of the actors. Search their faces. Try to remember
if any looks like the ghost who visited your room, or even like the
young acrobat you saw earlier.”

“What made you choose this
theater? There were acrobats performing at one of the
others.”

“I have a feeling that this
particular story is admired by the thief. If you pay close
attention, you may discover something about his character—the
reason why he became a bent tree while others grew straight and
tall.”

Before Seikei could ask anything
else, he heard the sound of two wooden blocks clapped together, the
signal for the play to begin. A man ran down the wooden runway that
led from the back of the theater. Suddenly he stopped and let out a
wild cry—so loud that the audience hushed at once.

The actor turned and Seikei saw
his face, which was covered with white paint. But his lips were
bright red and his eyes outlined in black so that everyone could
see his expression. He twisted his face in fear as he called out:
“Oh, what terrible things have I seen!” He looked around as if he
were alone. “Who will listen? Who shall I turn to? Our lord, our
daimyo is dead! What shall I do?”

Musicians hidden
behind a curtain began to play. Seikei recognized the plunking
strings of the
samisen
,
accompanied by drums and wooden
clappers. Another actor appeared on stage and called, “What has
happened?” One by one, more joined him there, all wearing the two
swords that marked them as samurai.

The first samurai, still out on
the runway among the spectators, began to tell his story, all the
while weeping, shouting, and tearing his hair. His master, the Lord
of Ako, had gone to the shogun’s court in Edo. As everybody knew,
the shogun commanded every daimyo in Japan to live in Edo one year
out of every two. That way, the shogun could keep his eye on
them.

But this was the young Lord of
Ako’s first visit. Coming from a distant area, he did not know the
correct behavior of the court. He spoke plainly and simply, not
understanding when to bow and how to speak during the
ceremonies.

One of the shogun’s officials,
Lord Kira, began to make fun of the Lord of Ako. Lord Kira called
him a country bumpkin, a stupid man. The Lord of Ako ignored these
insults as long as he could, but finally he heard Lord Kira
question his honor.

No samurai could bear this.
Although no one was permitted to wear weapons at the shogun’s
court, the Lord of Ako carried a dagger in his robe. He drew it and
struck out at Lord Kira, wounding him.

Such an act of
violence, inside the shogun’s castle, was strictly forbidden. When
the shogun learned of it, he commanded the Lord of Ako to
commit
seppuku
,
to kill himself. There was no other way, no appeal. The shogun’s
command was law. And so the Lord of Ako died by his own sword. The
wooden clappers offstage sounded loudly at the story of his death.
The actors on stage froze in sorrow.

“Now that our master is dead,”
cried the messenger, “what will become of us?” He had left Edo on
horseback, riding without rest for many days to inform the other
samurai of the fate of the Lord of Ako.

One of the men on stage stepped
forward. Some of the people in the audience clapped, recognizing
the character he played—the samurai Oishi. The actor was a short,
wiry man, just like the acrobat Seikei had seen jump out of Lord
Hakuseki’s way on the road. Seikei stood up to see him more
clearly. But because the man wore makeup it was impossible to see
if he had a scar on his face.

The actor’s
voice rang throughout the silent theater. “We are
ronin
now,” he said,
“samurai without a master.” He danced slowly down one of the
runways into the middle of the theater, and the samisens played a
mournful tune. “The shogun will take our lord’s lands and give them
to another daimyo. We can stay here to serve him. We can forget the
insult that our master died for.” He stopped, and turned to the
others.

“Is that honorable?” His voice
sounded like a clap of thunder, echoed by the drums.

Seikei could not stop himself from
shouting, as many in the audience did, “No! No!”

The actor turned in a circle,
staring grimly at everyone in the theater. Seikei could not tear
his eyes from the man’s face. “Then we must agree to give up our
lives, our families, everything else that we love. We must dedicate
ourselves to one thing—to avenging our master’s honor, and our
own!”

He ran back to the stage and then
turned to face the audience. His eyes were fierce. “Do you agree?”
he cried.

A great cry of “Yes!” arose. Then
the Forty-Seven Ronin (there were not actually that many actors,
but everyone knew how many there were supposed to be) ran off in
all directions, disappearing from the stage.

Seikei felt his heart beating. He
sank back onto the floor. Honor! The code that all samurai must
follow, to the death. Since death came someday to all, it was more
important to preserve one’s honor than to save one’s own
life.

Yet during the next hour, each of
the ronin who had served the Lord of Ako appeared to have abandoned
all thoughts of honor. It was hard to watch. Oishi himself
appeared, staggering as if drunk, his clothes dirty and his hair
hanging down around his face. He fell to the ground in a stupor,
and passers-by kicked at him and laughed. “That pitiful creature is
Oishi,” they said. “He once served the Lord of Ako, but now he is a
drunken fool.”

Seikei squirmed, feeling the
insults as keenly as the forty-seven ronin did. He watched each of
the actors play the roles that the real ronin had taken. They
wandered alone, spending their time in wine-shops, begging for
coins, and conducting themselves in the most disgraceful ways they
could think of.

The only thing that made this
bearable was that Seikei knew all this was part of Oishi’s plan.
Finally, the last of the ronin shuffled across the stage, broken
and disgraced. The lanterns overhead were snuffed out, leaving the
theater in darkness. The music continued, and while the spectators
waited for the next act to begin, many of them ate the food they
had brought along.

But then new lanterns winked on
over the stage, burning white like the light of the moon. Flakes of
paper began to fall from the ceiling. It was snowing, and now the
audience hushed in anticipation, for this was the wintry night when
the ronin took their revenge.

One of them appeared from the
shadows, clad all in black, his two swords hanging from his belt.
His step was sure and purposeful. Another arrived with a rope
ladder that he threw over a wall. More ronin appeared, stealthily
climbing the ladder. Others surrounded the high wall. The music
grew louder, and the audience tensed.

The ronin had met, as Oishi had
planned, at the castle of Lord Kira, the man who had insulted their
master and caused his death. Sword fights broke out as Lord Kira’s
own samurai awakened and tried to fight off the intruders. Seikei
gasped as the blades gleamed and clashed together. He had dreamed
of taking part in such a fight, but he could not believe the skill
and speed that the actors displayed. They danced across the stage,
swinging their swords in a display of beauty and death.

Oishi—the actor who played
Oishi—seemed to be everywhere at once, gliding as if his feet were
wings, his silver sword flashing in the air. Two of Lord Kira’s
samurai cornered him, and pressed forward with their swords raised
to kill him. Then the audience gasped as Oishi flipped
backward—once, twice, three times— without dropping his sword.
Then, without pausing, he turned and ran it through the two samurai
who had pursued him. Seikei knew then: this must be the man he had
seen defy Lord Hakuseki.