Chapter 6
The sun beat down on the still-damp fields to either side of the raised road that split them. Peasants busied themselves with the harvest of the first round of rice, their bare feet collecting mud so that they looked like swallow nests below their calves as they stepped up and down. Their hats, large and conical much like the basket hat that Yoshio wore as he walked, bobbed up and down as they picked new stalks and threshed them. Amaya walked beside him, letting the horse follow by his lead a short distance behind them. A grove of trees interrupted their steady march as much by the sound of cicadas that nestled in them as the relief of shade they offered.
Amaya pulled the horse over to a shallow but clear pool in a rocky basin beside the grove, a left-over from the draining of the rice fields, and let the beast drink. He obliged contentedly, though the tense swishing of his tail at the pestering insects continued. Yoshio knelt down and dipped his hands into the water, then splashed his face.
“You’ve been quiet today, Yoshi,” Amaya said.
Yoshio turned to see Amaya sitting on a low-hanging branch of a maple. Her head was slightly tilted. “I apologize,” he said. “I’ve had a great deal to think about.”
“Like what?”
“Osaka.”
“It’s a city, Yoshi. You’ve been in those before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but it makes it so much harder to predict him. I missed what might be my only chance to catch Ryunosuke because of short-sightedness. More may be killed.”
Amaya nodded. “So you have given me the first answer.”
Yoshio sighed and stood up, letting the cool water drip off of his face. “Some of the things you said to me last night. They were not like you.”
“That is where you are wrong,” Amaya said. “They are precisely like me.”
“Then you have many sides, Amaya,” Yoshio said.
“And you will know them all, my dear…” she smiled sweetly and looked away for a moment. “Friend.”
“I’m not sure if I liked it,” Yoshio said. “In fact, it disturbed me.”
“Thank you for your honesty. I would not usually show that side off, but if you wish to know someone, you must offer up a piece of yourself in exchange.”
“Know who?” Yoshio said.
“You, silly.” Amaya hopped off the tree limp and walked to the horse. “People get to know each other by self-revelation. First you reveal something about yourself, then your companion feels obligated to offer up the same. You told me a great deal about yourself last night.”
“Like what?” Yoshio said.
Amaya handed him a painting from her bag. Yoshio unrolled it and looked at it. It was a picture of a samurai. His eyes were narrowed as he looked away and his drawn sword was held so the edge rested lightly on his shoulder. Behind him were trees in bloom.
“Who is this?” Yoshio asked, knowing it to be himself. “Were you able to paint again?”
“Yes. It’s you from last night,” Amaya said. She traced her finger along the samurai’s jawline.
“I don’t recall any trees or open fields or sunshine in the alley. I remember a prostitute, a fool, and two eta who likely thought themselves yakuza.”
“It is you. You walk in peace, though your eyes are narrowed thinking of the danger ahead. Your sword is light; a tool of an artist. You look away, not caring to gaze at the shame of others.”
Yoshio felt something move in himself as he looked at his own visage, pulled from the eyes of a caring artist. He so rarely looked in the mirror, but the painting gave him a feeling of satisfaction. It was a picture of how he wished himself to look: strong, young, and happy with his solitude. He realized he had not been flattering her before; he really did love Amaya’s paintings. It was a strange revelation to a mind that was usually content turning with its own self-knowledge.
“Do you like it?” Amaya said.
“It is wonderful. I do not deserve such a work, but thank you.”
“Just one of many more, I’m sure,” Amaya said. “Do you see how much you gave of yourself to me?”
“I suppose,” Yoshio said. “Just what did you give to me? Other than seeing an unfamiliar dark mood, you created more questions in my own mind than answers.”
“I thought you loved mysteries,” Amaya said with a smile.
“I love solving them, it is true.”
“Same thing, yes?”
“Not at all. Solving a mystery is like killing it. Truly, I hate mysteries.” He smiled to himself as he looked at the painting again.
“Then conduct your investigation. Ask me your questions. Unravel your mystery.”
“Very well,” Yoshio said. “What do you intend to do with me in Osaka?”
“Now, Yoshi,” Amaya said. “Predicting actions is not the same as knowing someone. Not the same thing at all.”
“Hmn,” Yoshi said, looking back out at the road. He swallowed and chewed his cheek.
“Mmm,” Amaya said and walked between Yoshio and the road. “You must have something good in mind.”
“It is not right for a retainer to know his master so.”
“You are my friend, Yoshi.”
“Very well.” Yoshio sighed. “Why haven’t you ever been married?”
“That is a good one,” Amaya said. “If you spent any time at all at my father’s house I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories. That my father wished to sell me and nobody would buy, that I’m frigid or cruel and no man would want me, or I prefer women and my father does not have the heart to force my marriage to a man, or that I’m… missing parts.” Amaya covered her mouth to stop her laughter.
“Is any of that the truth?” Yoshio said, half-smiling
“Only that my father does not have the heart force me to marry,” Amaya said. “But, before I reveal more, I believe that you must give me some of yourself.”
“Somehow, I thought there would be more to it than just asking. Maybe I do not wish to participate in this game.” Yoshio took the horse’s bridle and made to lead him back to the road.
“I do not wish to be harsh, or rude, but there is something has frustrated me for some weeks. Something I must know before we get to Osaka,” Amaya said following him.
Yoshio froze and looked back at her, then nodded toward the road. “Do not worry about manners between friends,” Yoshio said.
“I am your friend, then,” Amaya said. “How are you not married?” Amaya asked, her face suddenly serious.
“My wife…” Yoshio trailed off and looked off to a vacant edge of a field.
She put her arm lightly on his, a gentle touch that made him stop short. “I’m sorry, Yoshi. Please forgive my rudeness.”
“It is fine,” he said, taking a breath. “You of all people should know what has befallen me.”
“But I also understand not wanting to talk about your wife. Truly, I am sorry for prying.” She looked up at him with a forced smile. “I remain unmarried for a simple reason. It is not because I do not fancy men. It is because I have extremely high standards, and will accept nobody below them.”
“Indeed,” Yoshio said, lightening his eyes. “It would take a very rich and very handsome man to keep Asano Amaya content.” He glanced sideways at her.
“Riches give comfort, and handsomeness brings excitement, but such things have little meaning,” she said. “Honesty, and not just honor or bushido, is what I crave. I will never accept a man in marriage who is dishonest, and I can tell you, my dear Yoshi, that finding an honest samurai is like finding a blue sunflower.”
“A blue sunflower?” Yoshio said.
“Yes, a blue sunflower. Have you ever seen one?”
Yoshio laughed. “No, I haven’t, but I am a samurai.”
“Yes you are,” Amaya said. “Are you honest?”
“I try to be,” Yoshio said, surprising himself with the statement. “At least for you.”
After a silence in which Yoshio stared ahead yet willed the edge of vision to pick out a smile on his companion, Amaya said, “It is certainly a start.”
Yoshio tried to suppress a smile as they walked onward, the road going around a long bend into a thicket of pines nestled between a few steep hills. Amaya passed the time describing the manners of some her suitors when she was younger.
“Most of them were either allies of our clan, or part of my father’s Ashikaga relatives with whom he wished to further relations,” Amaya said. “A few of them were from outside the web of the Shogun’s family – Rich members of the Tokogawa or those of the Minamoto that wished to retain some influence with the shogun and keep their own relatives safe at the court in Kyoto. There was always some interplay of wealth or power at stake. You can imagine how a spoiled seventeen year-old girl would feel about that.”
“I imagine that girl was ill-pleased,” Yoshio said.
“What ill-pleased me more were the quality of some of the men that came to bargain for me. Many of them were very old. These were usually either older members of the Minamoto or otherwise very rich, and none of them would speak about what happened to their previous wives.”
“Probably beheaded for infidelity,” Yoshio said.
“It would be funny if it were not so true,” Amaya said. “Some of them were young inheritors with very bad manners. I even had a young son of the shogun – he has so many sons I can scarcely remember names – pull his penis out when a servant left us alone in the dining room to deal with a fire in the kitchen.”
“A suitor dared to reveal his manhood to an unwed woman of your stature?” Yoshio said. “He’d have lost it had I been there.”
“You alone would have the skill to make the cut, dear Yoshi.” Amaya giggled. “ And ‘Manhood’ is entirely the wrong word for it.”
“What did he expect you to do?”
“How shall I put this politely?” Amaya said, smiling and showing a slight blush. “He asked me in no uncertain terms to imbibe it with my mouth.”
“No!”
“Yes! Instead, I threw my rice at his hairy crotch and ran out of the room.”
“An excellent defense,” Yoshio said. “I don’t recall learning that secret technique from Tadashi. Perhaps he was holding out on me.” They both laughed.
As they entered the sparse woods, Yoshio removed his hat and let the breeze blow over his head, drying off his sweat and cooling him. The shade was a shocking relief from the sweltering and humid day, and for a moment, Yoshio felt a chill.
He tensed, his right hand moving instinctively to his katana.
“What is it?” said aloud.
“I felt a chill,” he said softly.
“Just a breeze?” Amaya said. She shook her head. “No, I know you better than that. I will pull the horse into that thicket over there.”
“Thank you. I will return shortly. Perhaps with a head. If I am not back within a few minutes, ride the horse back toward the fields, pay the peasants for lodging and hide among them.”
“I will,” Amaya said. “Be careful, Yoshi.”
Yoshio nodded and jogged through the woods. After a few steps, he kicked off his sandals and continued, his feet losing their sound, and he drew his sword. Amaya watched him for a moment and then pulled the horse through some bushes to a sparsely-covered opening between the pines.
Yoshio leaned his sword on his shoulder as he ran, though not with the delicate grace Amaya had drawn for him in her painting. He held his tool with a constant tension in preparation of swift action. His ears attuned themselves to the woods, taking in the sound of the needles and leaves rustling against one another in the warm breeze and picking out the sound of birds among the noise.
He began to feel his wind running short on him and slowed to control his breathing. Amid the sounds, footsteps became audible, though he could not see the feet among the twisting path and great trees. As the sound grew more present, Yoshio deviated for the path, moving quietly among the undergrowth with an intention to strike first and silently. Honorable fights are for honorable warriors, he thought to himself.
At last he approached the sound. He looked between the branches to a familiar sight: a tattered and faded travelling robe, capped with a worn leather-bound hat, like that used by a soldier in battle, only dipping low enough to obscure the face. Wooden sandals clacked along the ground. Yoshio tensed, preparing himself to leap out and slash at the man’s back, ending him.
Yoshio crouched and then leaped out of the brush. His sword was moving fast – too fast for someone standing near to see – but at the last second he changed his trajectory at the calling of a feeling in his chest. No swords!The downward slash missed the man narrowly to his left, cutting free a piece of cloth from the old traveling robe.
The figure, lacking any armament, stumbled and then fell forward, his hat rolling away in the dirt. He turned on his back and shrieked, revealing to Yoshio a young but scarred and weathered face. He reached inside his robe and drew out a rusty tanto. He unsheathed it and held it in front of himself, pointing it at Yoshio.
Calmly, Yoshio replaced his katana. “Tell me, stranger. Where did you get those clothes?”
“C-clothes?” the stranger said. He shook his dagger at Yoshio as if he were trying to ward away an evil spirit. “These are my clothes!”
“They were not always yours,” Yoshio said. “How did you come by them?”
“I did not steal them, they are mine! Leave me alone”
“But somebody gave them to you, didn’t he?” Yoshio’s thoughts traveled back to Amaya. He looked at the groveling man once more. “Do not move from this spot!”
He turned and ran back toward where he let Amaya, no longer caring to let his breath escape heavily and for his footfalls to give away his position. When he arrived at the place where he had left Amaya, he heard her voice.
“Yoshio, what happened?” she said from the bushes.
“You can come out now,” Yoshio said, breathing heavily. Amaya pulled the horse out of the bushes. “Ryunosuke gave his clothes to an eta. I thought it might be a play to draw me away from you, but now I think was just an opportunity to switch clothes. He could look like anyone in Osaka now.”
“Problematic,” Amaya said. “This is now three times you have sought me out in fear for my safety. Perhaps you should keep me near in the future. I am safest with you, after all.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Yoshio said.
Thanks for reading. More to come on Thursday!
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