“I’ve asked our house kami to watch over you,” Midori had said just before she left, referring to the particular Shinto spirit that had their house in his care, “and I’ve sent an offering to the Buddhist temple for prayers. I’ve told Suwo to be his most perfect, and sent a message to Kiku-san. Oh, Omi-san, please let me stay.”
He had smiled and sent her on her way, the tears spoiling her makeup.
Omi was sad to be without her, but glad that she had gone. The screams would have pained her very much.
His mother winced under the torment on the wind, moved slightly to ease the ache in her shoulders, her joints bad tonight. It’s the west sea breeze, she thought. Still, it’s better here than in Yedo. Too marshy there and too many mosquitoes.
She could just see the soft outline of Yabu in the garden. Secretly she hated him and wanted him dead. Once Yabu was dead, Mizuno, her husband, would be daimyo of Izu and would lead the clan. That would be very nice, she thought. Then all the rest of the brothers and their wives and children would be subservient to her and, of course, Mizuno-san would make Omi heir when Yabu was dead and gone.
Another pain in her neck made her move slightly.
“I’ll call Kiku-san,” Omi said, referring to the courtesan who waited patiently for Yabu in the next room, with the boy. “She’s very, very deft.”
“I’m all right, just tired, neh? Oh, very well. She can massage me.”
Omi went into the next room. The bed was ready. It consisted of over- and under-coverlets called futons that were placed on the floor matting. Kiku bowed and tried to smile and murmured she would be honored to try to use her modest skill on the most honorable mother of the household. She was even paler than usual and Omi could see the screams were taking their toll on her too. The boy was trying not to show his fear.
When the screams had begun Omi had had to use all his skill to persuade her to stay. “Oh, Omi-san, I cannot bear it—it’s terrible. So sorry, please let me go—I want to close my ears but the sound comes through my hands. Poor man—it’s terrible,” she had said.
“Please, Kiku-san, please be patient. Yabu-sama has ordered this, neh? There is nothing to be done. It will stop soon.”
“It’s too much, Omi-san. I can’t bear it.”
By inviolate custom, money of itself could not buy a girl if she, or her employer, wished to refuse the client, whoever he was. Kiku was a courtesan of the First Class, the most famous in Izu, and though Omi was convinced she would not compare even to a courtesan of the Second Class of Yedo, Osaka, or Kyoto, here she was at the pinnacle and correctly prideful and exclusive. And even though he had agreed with her employer, the Mama-san Gyoko, to pay five times the usual price, he was still not sure that Kiku would stay.
Now he was watching her nimble fingers on his mother’s neck. She was beautiful, tiny, her skin almost translucent and so soft. Usually she would bubble with zest for life. But how could such a plaything be happy under the weight of the screams, he asked himself. He enjoyed watching her, enjoyed the knowledge of her body and her warmth—
Abruptly the screams stopped.
Omi listened, his mouth half-open, straining to catch the slightest noise, waiting. He noticed Kiku’s fingers had stopped, his mother uncomplaining, listening as intently. He looked through the lattice at Yabu. The daimyo remained statuelike.
“Omi-san!” Yabu called at last.
Omi got up and went onto the polished veranda and bowed. “Yes, Lord.”
“Go and see what has happened.”
Omi bowed again and went through the garden, out onto the tidily pebbled roadway that led down the hill to the village and onto the shore. Far below he could see the fire near one of the wharfs and the men beside it. And, in the square that fronted the sea, the trapdoor to the pit and the four guards.
As he walked toward the village he saw that the barbarian ship was safe at anchor, oil lamps on the decks and on the nestling boats. Villagers—men and women and children—were still unloading the cargo, and fishing boats and dinghies were going back and forth like so many fireflies. Neat mounds of bales and crates were piling up on the beach. Seven cannon were already there and another was being hauled by ropes from a boat onto a ramp, thence onto the sand.
He shuddered though there was no chill on the wind. Normally the villagers would be singing at their labors, as much from happiness as to help them pull in unison. But tonight the village was unusually quiet though every house was awake and every hand employed, even the sickest. People hurried back and forth, bowed and hurried on again. Silent. Even the dogs were hushed.
It’s never been like this before, he thought, his hand unnecessarily tight on his sword. It’s almost as though our village kami have deserted us.
Mura came up from the shore to intercept him, forewarned the moment Omi had opened the garden door. He bowed. “Good evening, Omi-sama. The ship will be unloaded by midday.”
“Is the barbarian dead?”
“I don’t know, Omi-sama. I’ll go and find out at once.”
“You can come with me.”
Obediently Mura followed, half a pace behind. Omi was curiously glad of his company.
“By midday, you said?” Omi asked, not liking the quiet.
“Yes. Everything is going well.”
“What about the camouflage?”
Mura pointed to groups of old women and children near one of the net houses who were platting rough mats, Suwo with them.
“We can dismantle the cannon from their carriages and wrap them up. We’ll need at least ten men to carry one. Igurashi-san has sent for more porters from the next village.”
“Good.”
“I’m concerned that secrecy should be maintained, Sire.”
“Igurashi-san will impress on them the need, neh?”
“Omi-sama, we’ll have to expend all our rice sacks, all our twine, all our nets, all our matting straw.”
“So?”
“How then can we catch fish or bale our harvest?”
“You will find a way.” Omi’s voice sharpened. “Your tax is increased by half again this season. Yabu-san has tonight ordered it.”
“We have already paid this year’s tax and next.”
“That’s a peasant’s privilege, Mura. To fish and to till and to harvest and to pay tax. Isn’t it?”
Mura said calmly, “Yes, Omi-sama.”
“A headman who cannot control his village is a useless object, neh?”
“Yes, Omi-sama.”
“That villager, he was a fool as well as insulting. Are there others like him?”
“None, Omi-sama.”
“I hope so. Bad manners are unforgivable. His family is fined the value of one koku of rice—in fish, rice, grain, or whatever. To be paid within three moons.”
“Yes, Omi-sama.”
Both Mura and Omi the samurai knew that this sum was totally beyond the family’s means. There was only the fishing boat and the single half-hectare rice paddy which the three Tamazaki brothers—now two—shared with their wives, four sons and three daughters, and Tamazaki’s widow and three children. A koku of rice was a measure that approximated the amount of rice it took to keep one family alive for one year. About five bushels. Perhaps three hundred and fifty pounds of rice. All income in the realm was measured by koku. And all taxes.
“Where would this Land of the Gods be if we forgot manners?” Omi asked. “Both to those beneath us and to those above us?”
“Yes, Omi-sama.” Mura was estimating where to gain that one koku of value, because the village would have to pay if the family could not. And where to obtain more rice sacks, twine, and nets. Some could be salvaged from the journey. Money would have to be borrowed. The headman of the next village owed him a favor. Ah! Isn’t Tamazaki’s eldest daughter a beauty at six, and isn’t six the perfect age for a girl to be sold? And isn’t the best child broker in all Izu my mother’s sister’s third cousin?—the money-hungry, hair-rending, detestable old hag. Mura sighed, knowing that he now had a series of furious bargaining sessions ahead. Never mind, he thought. Perhaps the child’ll bring even two koku. She’s certainly worth much more.