The shadows from the shoji were sharpening. Men are such babies, she thought. So full of foolish pride. All the anguish of this night for something so transitory. For a passion that is in itself but an illusion, neh?
The boy stirred in his sleep. Why did you make the offer to him? she asked herself. For his pleasure—for him and not for me, though it amused me and passed the time and gave him the peace he needed. Why don’t you sleep a little? Later. I’ll sleep later, she told herself.
When it was time she slipped from the soft warmth and stood up. Her kimonos whispered apart and the air chilled her skin. Quickly she folded her robes perfectly and retied her obi. A deft but careful touch to her coiffure. And to her makeup.
She made no sound as she left.
The samurai sentry at the veranda entrance bowed and she bowed back and she was in the dawning sunshine. Her maid was waiting for her.
“Good morning, Kiku-san.”
“Good morning.”
The sun felt very good and washed away the night. It’s very fine to be alive, she thought.
She slipped her feet into her sandals, opened her crimson parasol, and started through the garden, out onto the path that led down to the village, through the square, to the tea house that was her temporary home. Her maid followed.
“Good morning, Kiku-san,” Mura called out, bowing. He was resting momentarily on the veranda of his house, drinking cha, the pale green tea of Japan. His mother was serving him. “Good morning, Kiku-san,” she echoed.
“Good morning, Mura-san. Good morning, Saiko-san, how well you are looking,” Kiku replied.
“How are you?” the mother asked, her old old eyes boring into the girl. “What a terrible night! Please join us for cha. You look pale, child.”
“Thank you, but please excuse me, I must go home now. You do me too much honor. Perhaps later.”
“Of course, Kiku-san. You honor our village by being here.”
Kiku smiled and pretended not to notice their searching stares. To add spice to their day and to hers, she pretended a slight pain in her nether regions.
That will sail around the village, she thought happily as she bowed, winced again, and went off as though stoically covering an intensity of pain, the folds of her kimonos swaying to perfection, and her sunshade tilted to give her just that most marvelous light. She was very glad that she had worn this outer kimono and this parasol. On a dull day the effect would never have been so dramatic.
“Ah, poor, poor child! She’s so beautiful, neh? What a shame! Terrible!” Mura’s mother said with a heart-rending sigh.
“What’s terrible, Saiko-san?” Mura’s wife asked, coming onto the veranda.
“Didn’t you see the poor girl’s agony? Didn’t you see how bravely she was trying to hide it? Poor child. Only seventeen and to have to go through all that!”
“She’s eighteen,” Mura said dryly.
“All of what, Mistress?” one of the maids said breathlessly, joining them.
The old woman looked around to ensure that everyone was listening and whispered loudly. “I heard”—she dropped her voice—“I heard that she’ll . . . she’ll be useless . . . for three months.”
“Oh, no! Poor Kiku-san! Oh! But why?”
“He used his teeth. I have it on the best authority.”
“Oh!”
“Oh!”
“But why does he have the boy as well, Mistress? Surely he doesn’t—”
“Ah! Run along! Back to your work, good-for-nothings! This isn’t for your ears! Go on, off with the lot of you. The Master and I have to talk.”
She shooed them all off the veranda. Even Mura’s wife. And sipped her cha, benign and very content.
Mura broke the silence. “Teeth?”
“Teeth. Rumor has it that the screams make him large because he was frightened by a dragon when he was small,” she said in a rush. “He always has a boy there to remind him of himself when he was a boy and petrified, but actually the boy’s there only to pillow with, to exhaust himself—otherwise he’d bite everything off, poor girl.”
Mura sighed. He went into the small outhouse beside the front gate and farted involuntarily as he began to relieve himself into the bucket. I wonder what really happened, he asked himself, titillated. Why was Kiku-san in pain? Perhaps the daimyo really does use his teeth! How extraordinary!
He walked out, shaking himself to ensure that he did not stain his loincloth, and headed across the square deep in thought. Eeeee, how I would like to have one night with the Lady Kiku! What man wouldn’t? How much did Omi-san have to pay her Mama-san—which we will have to pay eventually? Two koku? They say her Mama-san, Gyoko-san, demanded and got ten times the regular fee. Does she get five koku for one night? Kiku-san would certainly be worth it, neh? Rumor has it she’s as practiced at eighteen as a woman twice her age. She’s supposed to be able to prolong . . . Eeeee, the joy of her! If it was me—how would I begin?
Absently he adjusted himself into his loincloth as his feet took him out of the square, up the well-worn path to the funeral ground.
The pyre had been prepared. The deputation of five men from the village was already there.
This was the most delightful place in the village, where the sea breezes were coolest in summer and the view the best. Nearby was the village Shinto shrine, a tiny thatched roof on a pedestal for the kami, the spirit, that lived there, or might wish to live there if it pleased him. A gnarled yew that had seeded before the village was born leaned against the wind.
Later Omi walked up the path. With him were Zukimoto and four guards. He stood apart. When he bowed formally to the pyre and to the shroud-covered, almost disjointed body that lay upon it, they all bowed with him, to honor the barbarian who had died that his comrades might live.
At his signal Zukimoto went forward and lit the pyre. Zukimoto had asked Omi for the privilege and the honor had been granted to him. He bowed a last time. And then, when the fire was well alight, they went away.
Blackthorne dipped into the dregs of the barrel and carefully measured a half cup of water and gave it to Sonk. Sonk tried to sip it to make it last, his hand trembling, but he could not. He gulped the tepid liquid, regretting that he had done so the moment it had passed his parched throat, groped exhaustedly to his place by the wall, stepping over those whose turn it was to lie down. The floor was now deep ooze, the stench and the flies hideous. Faint sunlight came into the pit through the slats of the trapdoor.
Vinck was next for water and he took his cup and stared at it, sitting near the barrel, Spillbergen on the other side. “Thanks,” he muttered dully.
“Hurry up!” Jan Roper said, the cut on his cheek already festering. He was the last for water and, being so near, his throat was torturing him. “Hurry up, Vinck, for Christ’s sweet sake.”
“Sorry. Here, you take it,” Vinck muttered, handing him the cup, oblivious of the flies that speckled him.
“Drink it, you fool! It’s the last you’ll get till sunset. Drink it!” Jan Roper shoved the cup back into the man’s hands. Vinck did not look up at him but obeyed miserably, and slipped back once more into his private hell.
Jan Roper took his cup of water from Blackthorne. He closed his eyes and said a silent grace. He was one of those standing, his leg muscles aching. The cup gave barely two swallows.
And now that they had all been given their ration, Blackthorne dipped and sipped gratefully. His mouth and tongue were raw and burning and dusty. Flies and sweat and filth covered him. His chest and back were badly bruised.
He watched the samurai who had been left in the cellar. The man was huddled against the wall, between Sonk and Croocq, taking up as little space as possible, and he had not moved for hours. He was staring bleakly into space, naked but for his loincloth, violent bruises all over him, a thick weal around his neck.