Whistling Past the Graveyard (41 page)

“Are you looking for a kaishakunin?”

“No, Kangyu will be my second when it comes to that.”

Ōtoro almost smiled. The boy looked absolutely terrified at the thought, and Ōtoro guessed that for all his posturing and strutting, this boy’s sword had never yet coaxed blood from the flesh of another person. He looked positively green at the thought.

“Then how may I be of service? I’m no doctor.”

“I know exactly what you are, Ōtoro-san. You come very highly recommended. My good friend daimyo Chiyojo has spoken so highly of your services for ten years now. No, don’t be alarmed—he is my cousin and we have no secrets between us, though none pass through me to anyone else.”

Ōtoro cut a small glance at Kangyu, but Ito shook his head.

“I say now only as much as I need in order to impress upon you the fullness of my confidence in your abilities,” assured Ito.

After a pause, Ōtoro shrugged. “Many people can kill and I am not an assassin.”

“If I wanted an assassin, sensei, there are many schools of ninja I could hire. And the countryside teems with ronin if all I wanted was someone competent with a sword. No,” said Ito slowly. “If artless slaughter was what I wanted I could have hired a gang and it would be done. I came looking for a warrior. A true samurai.”

Ōtoro sipped his tea, nodded. “What is it that you want done?”

Ito picked up his own cup and gazed into its depths as if it was a window into his own thoughts. “There is a rumor in the city…”

“A rumor?”

“About you,” said Ito, raising his eyes. “About your future.”

Ōtoro waited.

“I have heard idle gossip that you have been putting your affairs in order, that you have sold your estate and your holdings, that you have given much of the proceeds to the monks. They say that you are nearing your death. Some think that you have become disgusted with this world, or with the politics of our nation, or with the influence of Europe, or with some point of honor. There are many bets on when you will commit seppuku.”

“Is that what the gossipers say? And does a man of your position listen to wagging tongues?”

“Occasionally. Not all gossip is mere chatter and noise.”

Ōtoro said nothing.

“There are many opinions on this,” continued Ito. “It seems that you are a very popular man, sensei. One might go as far as to describe you as a folk hero.”

“Nonsense.”

Ito raised an eyebrow. “False modesty?”

“Self-knowledge,” countered Ōtoro. “I have met heroes. They lay down their lives for causes, they throw away their lives for their clans.”

“You wear two swords…”

“And I would commit seppuku without hesitation for the right reason. I have found, Ito-sama, that most ‘causes’ are transient things. To die for a whim or to soothe the feelings of a nobleman who feels slighted—these things are not worthy of a good death.”

“What is a good death?” asked Ito. “To you, I mean. To your mind.”

“The aesthetic of the samurai is to find beauty in a violent death, the death of one in his prime, a death in harmony with life.”

The boy, Kangyu, interrupted and blurted, “The Way of the Samurai is found in death. When it comes to death, there is only the quick choice of death.”

Ōtoro and Ito looked at him.

“You quote the
Hagakure
well,” said Ōtoro, “but do you understand it?”

Kangyu puffed up his chest. “It is the desire of every samurai to die gloriously in battle amid a heap of his enemies.”

Ito heaved out a great sigh of disappointment. Ōtoro affected to watch the dragonflies flit among the flowers.

“What?” demanded Kangyu, perplexed by the reaction. “Uncle, you know that I can recite every passage in the—”

“You can recite the passages,” said Ito, “but how many times have I told you that you do not interpret them correctly?”

“What other interpretation is there but that a samurai yearns to die in glorious battle? And I am not afraid to die, uncle,” the boy insisted. “I will swim into eternity on a river of my enemy’s blood.”

Ito turned to Ōtoro. “Do you see? This is what the younger generation has come to. When I hear such things I do not despair of my own death, even one as ignoble as that which approaches. It will spare me from witnessing such a world through the eyes of a helpless dotard.”

Kangyu began to protest but Ito held up a hand and the boy snapped his jaws shut as if biting off his words. It was clear to Ōtoro that Ito’s heart was breaking at the thought of his clan’s lineage being handed over to so misguided a child as Kangyu. It was a sad end for a house whose bloodlines had produced some of the nation’s greatest heroes. Like the nation itself, Ōtoro thought, becoming soft and losing a true connection to the old ways. Entropy was a great evil that no sword could slay.

“We were speaking of idle gossip,” said Ōtoro, steering the conversation back onto its road.

“We were speaking about heroes,” Ito corrected.

Ōtoro smiled and shook his head. “And as I said, I’m not one of those. Heroes will march unflinching into a storm of arrows to defend a point of philosophy. And why? Because they believe that to die in such a way guarantees the favor of heaven and the enduring praise of those who live on to record his passing in song and story. They die well, to be sure, and those songs and plays are written, but their deaths are, in the end, without meaning, without effect, and without true beauty.”

“How can they lack beauty if their deaths live on in songs?” snapped Kangyu.

“Singers exaggerate to make the mundane seem extraordinary,” said Ōtoro. “However a truly beautiful death does not require a single word of embellishment. It is a sacred thing, shared between the samurai, his enemy, and with heaven. No other witnesses, no further praise is required.”

“But how would anyone know if the death was beautiful?” insisted Kangyu.

“A perfect death only matters to he who passes through it.”

“No,” said Kangyu and he gave a fierce shake of his head. “Beauty does not exist unless it is witnessed.”

“When a samurai knows he is going to die,” said Ito thoughtfully, “he often writes a poem. A bit of haiku to try and convey his understanding of life and death, of honor and beauty. The simplicity and elegance of the verse is all that eloquence requires.”

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but this time he lapsed into silence without a command or rebuke. His eyes became thoughtful as he considered his uncle’s words.

“Ôuchi Yoshitaka wrote one two hundred years ago,” said Ōtoro. He closed his eyes and recited. “Both the victor and the vanquished are but drops of dew, but bolts of lightning—thus should we view the world.”

Ito nodded. “An ancestor of mine, Shiaku Nyûdo, who died hundreds of years ago, wrote this poem. ‘Holding forth this sword I cut vacuity in twain; In the midst of the great fire, a stream of refreshing breeze!’ Now that is the poetry of death.”

Ōtoro met Ito’s eyes and much was said between them that was not spoken aloud. They were both true samurai, and they both understood what Kangyu did not or, perhaps, could not.

“So,” said Ōtoro at length and changing the subject, “is it only gossip that brings you all the way here?”

Ito smiled faintly. “Hardly that. I have come for two reasons, sensei.”

Ōtoro inclined his head to indicate that the old man should continue.

“First I came to satisfy my curiosity, for I, too, have wondered about these rumors, just as I, too, have a theory for why you have been divesting yourself of all of your worldly possessions. I believe that you, like me, are sick, Ōtoro-san. I believe that you, like me, are dying.”

Ōtoro said nothing, but the moment when he should have denied such a claim came and went. Ito nodded to himself. They watched as a breeze stirred the branches and caused more of the lovely blossoms to fall like slow, pink rain.

“And the second reason for your visit?” asked Ōtoro.

“I want you to kill my family, Ōtoro-san.”

-San-

Ōtoro stared at him.

“Which family members do you want killed?” His eyes darted briefly toward Kangyu, but Ito shook his head.

“My nephew and his two sisters will inherit my estate,” said Ito. “My sons are…” He let the rest hang.

“Are they dead?”

Ito’s eye shifted away. “Who can define ‘death’ in these times?”

“Ah,” said Ōtoro, grasping the implications. “The Spanich Disease?”

Ito nodded.

Ōtoro frowned. “But you say that you do not have the disease.”

“No, I do not. I was not with my sons when they…
contracted
… it. It consumed them and swept through their households. My wife, too.”

Tears glistened in Ito’s eyes, but they did not fall.

“I am sorry to hear this,” said Ōtoro gently. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Ito turned to look out at the cherry blossoms as they fell. Already the path he and Kangyu had walked had been covered.

“How much do you know of this disease?”

Ōtoro considered. “Not much. I have been in retirement here for some time.” He paused. “Putting my affairs in order, as you guessed. I know what people in the countryside are saying.”

“Gossip?” asked Ito with a small smile.

“Not all gossip is mere chatter and noise,” said Ōtoro. “As a wise man once put it.”

Ito nodded, still smiling, though his smile was filled with sadness.

“The stories say,” continued Ōtoro, “that the disease came to our shores aboard a Spanish trader, and that much I believe. They say that it strikes and spreads very quickly. There are stories that whole towns have been overrun, and that government troops have razed those towns to the ground to keep the infection from spreading.”

“All of that is true,” agreed Ito. “But what the gossips do not know is that the government is worried. The Emperor is worried. Each time they think the disease has been contained and all carriers killed, it crops up again in another place.”

“Then it is carried on the wind itself. There are diseases like that.”

Ito shook his head.

“What then?” probed Ōtoro. “Is it a plague that hides among the fleas on vermin? Do you remember what those Jesuits said about the plague that slaughtered nearly a third of the people in Europe? You can burn a village and kill all infected people, but how do you build a wall that will keep out rats and mice?”

“No,” said Ito. “That is not how the disease is spread.”

“Then how?”

Instead of answering, Ito asked, “What have you heard about the disease itself?”

Ōtoro poured more tea and considered. “They say that the disease comes on very quickly, that it brings with it lethargy and a spiritual malaise. The inflicted become strange and solemn, seldom speaking again once the disease has overcome them. Often they are violent, perhaps hysterical in their suffering. Death follows soon after.”

Ito glanced at him. “Is that all you heard?”

“No, but the other rumors are nonsensical. The villagers say that the disease does not die with the victim, nor does it let the victim lie quietly in the grave. There are wild tales that say the victims become possessed by
jikininki
, the hungry ghosts the Buddhists believe in. People believe that the
jikininki
have come to punish our people for allowing the Europeans to corrupt us. From there the gossip descended into fantasy and I stopped listening. But then…people are always ascribing spiritual interference with everything. A dog barks at night and it is ghosts. A child is born with a birthmark and it is a sure sign of demonic possession.” Ōtoro waved his hand in disgust.

“Not all gossip is a lie,” Ito reminded him.

“Do you say so?” asked Ōtoro. “Then tell me where the truth is in these fanciful stories? We Buddhists believe in many things, but on a hundred battlefields I have never yet seen a ghost or demon. They may exist, but what proof is there that they interfere in the ways of steel and flesh?”

“Let us be frank, Ōtoro-san,” said Ito. “We are both dying.”

Ōtoro raised an eyebrow. “You know, then?”

“Yes. As I said, the gossip about you is nonstop. You have no family…?”

“No. They were killed in the war with the Yuraki clan. While I was crushing their army on the field, their assassins came over the walls of my estate and murdered my wife, my children, my parents.”

“I read about that!” said Kangyu excitedly. “You rode into the Yuraki camp and strangled the daimyo in front of his remaining generals, and then cut them all to pieces. It was magnificent!”

Ōtoro wanted to slap the young man, and clearly the twitch of his uncle’s arm suggested that he was using a great deal of personal control to keep his hand from loosening Kangyu’s teeth. The boy saw their expressions and lapsed into a confused silence.

The serving girl came with a fresh pot of fragrant tea.

“So, Ōtoro-san,” said Ito, “is it true? Are you dying? I know it is rude and impertinent to ask this in such a bold way, but since I discovered I was dying I find myself taking many liberties.”

Ōtoro smiled. “I am dying. Like you, I have a cancer. It gnaws at my bones.”

They sat in the silence of their shared understanding. Two dead men. Two samurai who drank tea in companionable silence there on the brink of the abyss. Kangyu, young and vital and with all of his years before him, might as well have been a shadow on the moon.

“We are both old,” said Ito, “but you are younger than me. You are still strong. Under…other circumstances…you might have lived to become a general of a great army, or a lord with charge over many hundreds of samurai.”

Ōtoro shrugged.

“And in some distant battle you would have found that beautiful death. A moment of balance between life and unlife. You would have danced there on the edge of a sword blade and found peace.” Ito paused. “But there are no wars left to fight. Peace—damn it for all eternity—is a wasteland for warriors. That is, I believe, why you sometimes accept small missions. You are not a ronin, you are a warrior in search of a meaningful war.”

“Yes…you do understand. But, Ito-sama, how does this involve my killing your family?”