The Nicholas Linnear Novels (36 page)

My God, he thought, what is it that he has hidden from me all these years? The old warrior is shrewd yet. And then the Colonel understood what he must do. There had already been too much time wasted in an obviously fruitless plot. He had, as Satsugai himself had just said, to face reality. And the reality of this situation was that he must break the stalemate in whatever way was possible. There was only one way now.

The Colonel knew only too well that, as far as Satsugai was concerned, he was invulnerable. He could, for instance, insult Satsugai and the other would not—could not—take action against him. There was an obligation to be met. Satsugai must grin and bear it. The reverse, however, did not hold true.

For a brief moment, the Colonel was filled with a deep regret. Nicholas was still so young. There had been so little time and there were promises he had made that could not now be kept.

The Colonel stared out at the wide expanse of his property, the trees dripping with moisture, bending in the wind. He looked for the wren but it had long gone, perhaps preferring the storm to idleness. So much beauty out there, but this day he could feel no joy.

“What have you learned from the
Go Rin No Sho
?” Kansatsu said one day at the
dōjō.

“Some of it is obviously quite useful,” Nicholas said, “though it’s mostly common sense.”

“Many consider it a revelatory work.” Kansatsu’s tone was entirely neutral, giving Nicholas no clue as to whether or not
he
thought it was so important. His eyes glittered like glass, quite opaque. Behind him the long afternoon slid into the muffled mauve of twilight. The sun was lost in a steep bank of haze; the resulting light, reflective and diffuse, suffused the sky, laminated the trees until the world seemed monochromatic.

“I almost wish you hadn’t given it to me.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Well, there is something—I don’t know—disturbing about it.”

Kansatsu said nothing, merely stood waiting. Behind him, the soft clash of
bokken,
the exhaled breaths in unison, filled the place.

“Some might say its purity is its ultimate virtue,” Nicholas said carefully. “But, to me, it’s more of a monomania. There is something intrinsically dangerous in that.”

“Can you tell me what, precisely?”

“Exclusion.”

As if he had been thinking of this all the time, Kansatsu said, “Do you know anything of the life of Musashi?”

“Not really, no.”

“Miyamoto Musashi was born in 1584,” Kansatsu said seriously. “As you no doubt know, this was not the best of times for Japan. There was and had been terrible internal strife brought about by the constant internecine warfare waged by the numerous
daimyo.

“Musashi was a
ronin
, little more than a brigand, really. His family came from the south, in Kyūshū, but by the age of twenty-one he had traveled north to Kyoto and there fought his first battle, decimating a family which had, years before, been responsible for his father’s demise.

“There are many, many tales told concerning Musashi and one must be most careful in reading these accounts. As is the case with most historical figures from this country’s feudal past, Musashi’s history is awash with myth. This blurring of fact and fancy is all well and good for the reader wishing simple entertainment. But for the serious student of history—and this should include all who study bujutsu—it can be a dangerous trap.”

“But myth sometimes sustains the samurai,” Nicholas said.

“Not so.” Kansatsu’s tone was emphatic. “It is history which must sustain the warrior. History and duty, Nicholas. Nothing more. Myth cannot enter into it, for myth distorts judgment. Even the senses become infected then.

“In bujutsu we deal with most serious matters. The defense of life, yes, but that is not all. Methods of dealing death occupy us daily and there is, literally, no known number to that catalog. One cannot be taught these things without the concomitant use of responsibility. And myth is the chief eroder of this responsibility. Without
bushido
, you see, we would be nothing more than ninja, common criminals stalking the streets. And it is so easy to slip into myth. So very easy.”

He put his hand out, indicating that Nicholas should sit. “You have come a long way,” he continued. “Your technique is flawless and your capacity for learning seems inexhaustible. However, I believe you have gone as far as you can here. There remains for you but one more hurdle and it is the most difficult. In fact, I must tell you that most students who have come this far never go any further.

“Nicholas, you must now find that hurdle within yourself and make the leap. I can no longer aid or even guide you. Either it will be there or it will not.”

“Does this mean you want me to leave the
ryu
?” Nicholas found that he was having difficulty swallowing.

Kansatsu shook his head. “I mean nothing of the sort. You are perfectly free to stay here for as long as you wish.”

Nicholas knew that he was missing something and, furiously, he backtracked over the conversation, trying to think what it was. Kansatsu did not seem disappointed with him. On the contrary, there was a subtle undercurrent of excitement running through him. Think! What had he missed?

Kansatsu stood up. “In lieu of a lesson today,” he said. “I’d like you to give a demonstration for the class.” He stared down at Nicholas. “Come along now.”

He went out into the center of the floor, clapped his hands together once. All sound, all motion immediately ceased and all heads turned expectantly toward him, student and
sensei
alike.

Kansatsu picked four students at what appeared to be at random. They were all last-year students and among the biggest physically in the
ryu.
All were older than Nicholas.

Kansatsu turned and beckoned to Nicholas, who walked out to stand beside him. In his right hand he carried a
bokken.
“Please form up around Nicholas,” Kansatsu said to the students; they moved around him in a rough circle. Kansatsu beckoned to a
sensei
, who gave over his
bokken
to the master. Kansatsu delivered this up to Nicholas. “Now,” he whispered so that only Nicholas could hear, “we shall see how well you have digested the words of the Niten
ryu
, Musashi’s school.”

He backed away, leaving Nicholas, a
bokken
in each hand, surrounded by the four students. They were all armed with single
bokken.
All of them had been at the
ryu
longer than he.

Darkness falling like a final curtain and he encircled; the stealthy pad of bare feet against polished wood; a sun orbited by four bright moons.

The dragonfly.

It was but one of the
tai-sabaki
, the circular movements consisting of glides and spins developed by Musashi’s Two Heavens
ryu.

He had seen this and others performed to perfection by Kansatsu countless times. He had read about these in numerous texts which the
sensei
had given him. He had, even, practiced some on his own. But never in combat.

He must let the strategy of the others dictate his first movements, for only by the convergence of their attacks could he successfully use the
tai-sabaki
and only the
tai-sabaki
would give him a victory against four opponents.

Two came at him, one on each side, both raising their
bokken
in the traditional two-handed kenjutsu grip. Crying aloud, they slashed at him simultaneously.

It was the reverse butterfly. He whirled in an arc and, as he did so, his right-handed weapon swept down, slamming against one student’s thighs. At the same time, the second weapon was rising and he continued the swirling motion of his torso, sweeping the rising
bokken
against the second student’s windpipe. Both crashed to the ground, were replaced by the second set of adversaries. He had half a mind to use the waterwheel here but changed his mind as the vectors changed, feinting it only.

He split them, whirling still, and, his back arched, his right
bokken
stabbed end first into the midsection of the student on his left while his left-hand weapon blurred upward, slamming into the last student’s. His
bokken
clattered to the floor. It was the interlacing cross, one of the most difficult of the
tai-sabaki.

He returned to stillness, his
bokken
poised, quivering the air as if they had a life of their own and wished now to see more action.

“Saigō,” he heard Kansatsu call. The four students quitted the field. Saigō stepped into it. He came to the
ryu
now less and less frequently. Nicholas did not know to which
ryu
he belonged; no one seemed to. But he knew that it was none of the ones in the Tokyo area.

Without warning, Saigō ran at Nicholas. His
katana
was still sheathed but in a blur it was out, extending outward and down toward Nicholas. Saigō had become adept at, among other things, iaijutsu, the art of the “fast draw.” The object was to incorporate the unsheathing of one’s
katana
into the actual thrust against an opponent. The
iai sensei
could kill his enemy before that person was ever aware that he had drawn his weapon.

One moment Saigō was unarmed, the next—perhaps a tenth of a second later—he had struck with lethal force. But even as he had used the
iai
draw Nicholas had been swiveling backward on his right foot so that he now faced Saigō with his left side only. The blow, which had been meant for Nicholas’ heart, now swept down into empty air and with his left-hand
bokken
Nicholas made contact., sweeping the
katana
’s blade up and away from him, swiveled again so that for an instant his back was to his opponent, driving the blade away still, using the other’s momentum. Then he had completed the circular sweep and his right-hand
bokken
slashed into Saigō’s exposed left side. The waterwheel.

He stood now with the entire class watching him, his feet spread, his
bokken
on either side of him, staring down at Saigō’s sprawled form. There would be, he knew, a wicked purple welt raising the flesh where he had hit the other which would stay with him for more than a week.

There was absolute silence in the room; the kind of stillness that weighs on the ears until it becomes in itself painful.

Nicholas saw nothing but the face of his cousin staring up at him. Never in his life had he seen a look which contained so much hate. Nicholas had caused him to lose face in front of the
ryu
; he, a graduate, felled by one of the pupils. The intensity of their silent private war was such that for a moment it appeared as if lightning might light the room.

Then Kansatsu had clapped his hands twice and the on-lookers broke up; class was out for the day.

Nicholas found that he was trembling, the muscles jumping as if out of control under the sheath of his skin. Tension and adrenalin both still coursed through him, having been released in enormous quantities by the stress situation. His mind knew that that was over but his body needed more time to accommodate itself to a return to normalcy.

He breathed deeply, in and out. It was like a shudder.

When he returned home that evening, it was not any of the servants who opened the door at his approach. Nor was it Cheong. It was, rather, Yukio.

He had not seen her in three years and then it was only one brief afternoon at a family funeral. It had been three and a half years since their incendiary meeting and he had never forgotten her.

She bowed. “Good evening, Nicholas.” She wore a dove-gray kimono with platinum-colored threads running through it vertically. It had a midnight-blue wheel-and-spoke pattern that recalled the signs of the feudal
daimyo.

He bowed in return. “Good evening, Yukio.”

She stood aside for him to enter, her eyes on the floor in front of her. “You are surprised to see me.”

He put his bag down, never taking his eyes off her face. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Aunt Itami brought me this afternoon while you were at the
dōjō.
I came up to stay with them but the house is being partially remodeled, including the spare bedroom.”

He took her through the house, out the back
shōji.
They stepped out into the night in the Zen garden.

It was clear, just a few stray clouds rising like wisps of smoke low on the horizon. The full moon was enormous, its reflected light turning the air aqueous; everything was bathed in blue shadows. He watched the soft light limn her profile, throwing her eyes into deep shadow. She might have been a statue at the Shinto shrine hidden within the cryptomeria. They might have been underwater.

A nightingale called softly from the treetops high over their heads, and farther away came the long lonely hoot of a snow owl.

“I’ve never been to Kyoto,” he said. It was where she lived.

“You must come sometime.” Her head turned slightly. She was staring at the mountains of the rocks, raising themselves like living entities above the lawn of round stones. Her voice was like velvet in the night. They stood quite still, not touching. “It’s very beautiful.”

Not as beautiful as you, Nicholas thought. He felt his heart beating hard. “I still remember what happened.”

She turned to face him and the moonlight glinted off her pupils. “What do you mean?”

Now he felt a fool. “At the party.” He paused. “When we danced—”

She laughed a bit self-consciously. “Oh, that. I had forgotten.”

He felt a bit deflated. He had felt before that part of her coming here was because of him. He saw how idiotic that notion was now. That one incident had happened three and a half years ago. Why should she remember it?

“Was Saigō at the
dōjō
today?”

“Yes. I hadn’t seen him for some time. He’s joined another
ryu
, I expect.”

“Perhaps that’s why he goes to Kyūshū a lot.”

He stared at her. “Kyūshū?”

She nodded. “It’s my uncle Satsugai’s doing, I’m certain. They’re always plotting this or that when they’re together. I can’t imagine that Saigō would get it into his head on his own to go so far away. Anyway, it’s a secret, I know that much.”