Although he could ignore the drunks, he couldn’t ignore himself. He was upset at himself for wanting to display his prowess with a sword, cutting a sake cup in midair. It was a weakness in himself, and he hated weakness. He could hear the voice of his sword teacher, his Sensei, saying, “When you play with fools, you act like a fool. When you act like a fool, you are one.”
Kaze could ill afford to draw attention to himself by engaging in foolishness with a couple of drunken buffoons. There were fifty thousand ronin wandering Japan, most of them displaced by a great civil war when they ended up on the losing side. Some had turned to banditry, others had already given up the warrior’s life for farming or trading, and many were still seeking employment with one of the victorious lords who had supported the winning Tokugawa clan. A few were still sought by the Tokugawas as enemies. Kaze was one of these few.
Kaze decided to continue his journey, and when it rained, he would simply get wet. Standing outside the teahouse, he stood looking up and down the wide dirt path that formed the Tokaido Road. This dusty strip of soil joined Japan’s past with its future. At one end of the Tokaido Road was Kyoto, the ancient capital for almost eight hundred years and the home of the Emperor. At the other end of the Tokaido Road was Edo, the new capital and the stronghold of the Tokugawas, the new rulers of Japan. Kaze stood physically and metaphorically between the old and the new, longing for a happier past but unafraid of a harsh future.
Before the civil war, the Tokaido Road had been thick with traffic, with travelers sometimes walking shoulder to shoulder at congested spots. During the civil war traffic had dropped precipitously. Since the Tokugawa victory almost three years before and the subsequent uneasy peace, traffic was beginning to increase, although the danger from bandits made a journey still precarious. Often only a few brave merchants, ronin, ne’er-do-wells and bandits were found along the road. Sometimes it was difficult to tell one from the other.
Kaze had been wandering Japan for almost three years, searching for the kidnapped nine-year-old daughter of his former Lord and Lady. Recently he had come across a clue to the girl’s possible location, a scrap of cloth with the Lord’s mon, or family crest, of three plum blossoms. This cloth was given to him by an unlikely group, a trio led by a grandmother who was on an officially sanctioned vendetta. With a serious grievance, it was possible to get the government to sanction private revenge.
Apparently this grandmother had obtained such a sanction. She proclaimed her mission with a headband emblazoned with the kanji character for “revenge,” and in his earlier encounter with her at another teahouse, Kaze had found her as fierce and willful as any samurai. The obaasan, the grandmother, was accompanied on her mission of vengeance by her fifteen-year-old grandson and an old servant who looked like a bag of bones.
The grandmother said she was looking for a merchant who traveled the Tokaido Road, so Kaze had also come to the great road, seeking the trio in an effort to learn more about where they had found the cloth with his Lord’s family crest.
Now that he was at the Tokaido, he had no idea which direction to go; toward Kyoto or toward his enemy’s stronghold of Edo? He had asked about the trio at the teahouse but had received no information from the proprietor. The teahouse owner had assured Kaze he would remember the group described, but it was only a matter of chance that any group traveling the Tokaido would stop at a particular roadside teahouse.
Kaze picked a stick off the ground. He removed the small ko-gatana knife that he kept in a groove in his scabbard and quickly cut a point on one end of the stick. Returning the ko-gatana, he threw the stick in the air, watching it tumble end over end before it hit the dirt road. The point was aimed toward Edo.
Squaring his shoulders, Kaze took his katana out of his sash and rested it on one shoulder, as one might carry a musket. He turned toward Edo and started walking down the Tokaido with the long gait of a man used to covering great distances on foot.
Once out of the village, the Tokaido Road turned into a wandering path that cut through forest, mountains, and fields. It usually took two weeks for a man to make the journey from Kyoto to Edo, although a fast dispatch could make the journey in three to four days, exchanging horses and sometimes riders at one of the fifty-three stations along the road.
Kaze had come out of the mountains near Edo. He had been in the mountains for months, methodically checking villages, looking for the girl. The tedious searching had not discouraged him. Now that he had finally come across the scrap of cloth that might be a connection to the girl, it was as if it was only the first day of his search, not almost the third year.
This section of the Tokaido was in rolling hills, with tall trees bordering the path. Sometimes the branches of the flanking trees merged, making the road a leafy tunnel. Kaze had walked sections of the Tokaido Road before, and he knew that in the heat of summer the wooded canopy that sometimes covered the road was a welcome shelter against the sun. Patches of blue were scattered throughout the branches, and spots of gold sunlight dotted the road, mirroring the bits of sky.
Today, with the threatening skies, the leafy tunnels were dark holes filled with unpleasant possibilities. Even in the open sections, the dark day made the road uninviting and gloomy. Kaze saw no others as he walked. He surmised that other travelers must be discouraged by the bad weather and holed up like badgers.
Kaze looked up at the roiling clouds and saw that the streaks of black were sweeping toward the earth. It was already raining behind him, and soon it would be raining on him. He decided that it would take a man driven by some great need, just as he was, to be traveling the Tokaido in this weather.
CHAPTER 2
I saved a red fox
from a snake. The fox bit me.
Good can bring evil.
Help! Somebody help! They’re killing us!”
The plea was punctuated by the distinctive clang of sword blades crashing against each other. The anguished shout and the sound of battle floated over the hillside ahead of Kaze.
Curious, Kaze ran across a small stone bridge and up to the top of the hill, using the gliding run of a man in Japanese straw sandals. At the hill’s apex, he stopped and looked down at the tableau spread before him.
Men were locked in desperate battle, like the bunraku puppets of a samurai drama. But in a bunraku the figures are coordinated. A black-robed master puppeteer moved each figure with one or two assistants, also clad in black, who trailed behind the puppeteer like the wings of a crow.
Kaze’s practiced eye could see that here there was no coordination, no plan of battle other than brute force and the weight of numbers.
Eight men were attacking four. The four formed a tight knot around a pushcart. One of the four was standing on the pushcart, an older man dressed as a merchant. He was the one crying for help.
Hishigawa could see that the situation was desperate. “Help!” he cried again. “Somebody help!” He had one foot on a large strongbox that was tied to the pushcart and in his hands he had a sword, which he was thrusting about inexpertly. He had been robbed earlier that same year and, although he came out of that experience with his life, he was desperate not to be robbed again. There was too much money involved this time. He was also fearful that he would not see his wife, Yuchan, again if he was killed.