A cry disturbed the summer morning’s humid hush: “Sōsakan-sama!”
Sano turned and saw Hirata galloping down the promenade after him. His senses returned. He couldn’t leave his post, and he couldn’t endanger Aoi further. Grief drew cords of pain tighter around his chest; the emptiness within yawned wider and blacker.
“Are you all right?” Hirata asked, catching up. “Where are you going?”
Sano rode faster to get away from him. “I just need some fresh air,” he lied. “I’m going for a ride-alone.”
“I’ll go with you.” Hirata obviously sensed that something was wrong, although he couldn’t know what. Now he stuck by Sano, secure in his new status and concerned enough about his master’s welfare to disobey an order.
Too tired and dispirited to argue, Sano let him come. Together they rode north out of the city, where the murders had ended with Chūgo’s arrest, and the fire and riots in the accompanying storm. As they journeyed through the tranquil, awakening streets, Sano saw that the ravaged areas had already been rebuilt. The Bundori Killer might never have stalked the city.
In the Asakusa temple district, Sano dismounted outside a minor temple. “Wait here,” he told Hirata.
Entering the gate, he crossed the small precinct and passed through another gate leading to the cemetery, where the cherry trees were in full leaf now. A sprinkling of dry, brown fallen blossoms mingled with the gravel on the paths. The air was heavy with summer’s rich, fecund fragrance, but underneath it, Sano smelled autumn’s incipient decay. The sounds of temple bells, priests’ chants, and the clack of pilgrims’ wooden shoes seemed muted, distant: part of the living world that encompassed this memorial to death.
Sano knelt before the grave monument, a square, upright stone shaft topped with a pagoda roof, where an urn hidden in the hollow pedestal held his father’s ashes. Evidence of his own and his mother’s faithful visits stood ranged around it: flowers; a decanter of sake and a bowl of dried fruits to nourish his father’s spirit; prayers printed on wooden stakes. But even here, Sano felt no sense of his father’s presence. In his despair, he spoke aloud:
“Otōsan. I’ve done what you asked.” His voice shook with his effort not to weep, but he didn’t care; there was no one to hear him. “Why isn’t the fulfillment of duty enough to make me happy?”
Footsteps crunched on the path behind him. Sano started, then turned and saw a strange samurai.
“Who are you?” he blurted. “What do you want?”
The samurai regarded Sano with a sad smile. “Don’t you recognize me, Ichirō?”
And now, with a staggering shock, Sano did. The voice-young and vibrant instead of old and quavery; the strong body not yet wasted by illness; the proud spirit not yet crushed under the hardship and shame of living as a rōnin. The features, so like his own. This stranger was his father-not old, sick, and feeble as Sano had last seen him, but with his life still ahead of him.
“Otōsan!” Awed, Sano bowed. “I’ve prayed so often for you to come. But you never did, until now. Why?”
The spirit’s warm, firm hands grasped Sano’s shoulders, raising him to his feet. Of equal height, they stood face to face, and in his father’s eyes Sano saw the look of forbearing patience he remembered so well.
“My son, I never left you,” the spirit said. “Haven’t I spoken to you through the lessons you learned from me? Am I not present in your thoughts? Do I not live through you, my flesh and blood?”
Seeing the truth of his words, Sano had no answer. As they strolled the cemetery together, he again sought his father’s wisdom. He told the spirit about his successful murder investigation, and the loss that had robbed his achievement of satisfaction and his existence of all joy.
“Father, what will I do, how can I live?”
“Your struggle is one that all samurai inevitably face, Ichirō.” The spirit’s far-gazing eyes contemplated the distance. “The struggle to understand right and wrong, good and evil. To do what is right and good and avoid doing that which is wrong and evil.”
Somewhere in that oblique remark, Sano knew from experience, there was a message for him. “And how does a samurai know what’s right?” he asked hesitantly, reduced to the role of ignorant young pupil by this spirit that appeared no older than he.
The spirit’s reproachful glance told Sano he’d missed the point, as he had so often during childhood lessons. “Better you should ask how a samurai makes himself follow the path of right rather than the one that leads to wrong.”
Sano waited, chastened but expectant.
“Although a samurai may at first be motivated to do right by the shame he feels when doing wrong, if he does that which is right often enough, then it will become a natural habit. In doing right, he will find the satisfaction of fulfilling his destiny, and of knowing he has mastered the most difficult part of Bushido.”
They’d reached the cemetery gate, and the spirit halted. “This is where we part, my son. But I am always with you.”
“Otosan!” Sano clutched his father’s arm. “Don’t go!”
His hand closed on empty space. The spirit had vanished.
“Sōsakan-sama?”
Sano turned to see Hirata standing in the open gate. “Gomen nasai-I’m sorry to bother you,” Hirata said with a trace of his old hesitancy, “but you were gone so long, and I was worried… ”
“I’m fine.” Sano spoke the lie through the fresh grief at his father’s abrupt departure. The combination of liquor, exhaustion, and longing must have produced his waking dream, but now it was over, and he was more alone than ever. “Let’s go.”
Yet as they left the temple and mounted their horses, Sano felt more at peace than when he’d arrived. His father’s elusive spirit had finally appeared to him, when he needed it most. The encounter hadn’t removed his pain, but had given him insight that illuminated this troubled period of his life. He now saw the resemblance between his pledge to his father and lord and Chūgo Gichin’s to General Fujiwara and Oda Nobunaga. Both represented attempts to do right, to embrace Bushido. Chūgo had avenged the betrayal of a ruthless warlord by committing crimes that had led to his own death. And Sano, who had risked his life serving a weak, self-indulgent despot, must continue to do so, no matter what the cost to himself. His own bundori-the war trophy he’d earned during the investigation-was his better understanding of what it meant to be a samurai. He had struggled, and despite his anguish, could admit he’d found satisfaction in performing well, in doing right. He must continue to do right- because the habit was already an integral part of him-until the act of doing right brought him happiness.
Someday.
Hirata was waiting beside him. “Where are we going now, sōsakan-sama?”
Sano sighed. “Back to the castle,” he said.
Though his spirit might ache forever for Aoi and his thoughts range across land and water in pursuit of her, he must seek happiness in his work, his marriage, and his continuing loyal service to his lord.
Because someday began now.
Acknowledgments
For their contributions to this book, I thank Pamela Gray Ahern, Marie Goodwin, John McGhee, Craig Nelson, and David Rosenthal.
About the Author
Laura Joh Rowland, the granddaughter of Chinese and Korean immigrants, was born in Michigan and is the author of Shinjū. She lives with her husband and two cats in New Orleans. Bundori is her second novel.