Blossom of the Samurai Page 2

  His father’s words moved Toho to rise and go over to him. He knelt down by Sho, who immediately took both Toho’s hands in his. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Sho pulled him into an embrace. The bond between them had formed the moment Sho had first come to treat him. In the wake of his parents’ murders, Toho had lain on a mat in his uncle’s tiny hut, staring up at the ceiling, paralyzed by the trauma of what he’d witnessed. Sho had been the first person he’d looked at, spoken to, trusted. He knew that Sho would keep him by his side the rest of their days if he could. When Sho finally ended the embrace, he sighed again. “All right. But I expect you to post a message to me every few days, to let me know what’s happening and that you’re all right. Promise me.”

  “I promise, Father. Thank you.”

  TOHO PREPARED to set out at first light the following morning. His grandmother packed him rice balls enough for the journey, and Hirata gave him enough coins to stay overnight at an inn and to keep for emergencies. The sun shone brightly. The early summer day promised to be quite hot, so Toho wore his cone-shaped straw hat to protect his head and face from the sun. Sho helped him wrap his gaiters, as he’d not worn them for years. Since their journey from Kai to Hirata’s home in Edo, where they’d remained the entire time, there had been no need to wear gaiters for traveling.

  Sho finished the gaiters and then helped Toho with his samurai’s topknot. Toho didn’t wear an elaborately stitched-up topknot as noble samurai did, but his hair, gathered up at the crown and wrapped until the end stuck out like tea whisk, always looked better when someone else did it for him.

  As his father worked, butterflies danced like a chorus of bunraku puppets in Toho’s stomach. When he’d awakened from his nightmare the previous morning, determined to travel alone and prove his bravery and worth to Aoki, he hadn’t anticipated feeling so nervous. Since Sho and Hirata had taken him in as their son, he hadn’t been separated from either of them an entire day. The abruptness of this separation, albeit self-induced, was just sinking in. He was on his own. He almost asked Sho to go with him, but refrained on the heels of cowardice he felt that would demonstrate.

  “Just remember, Toho,” Sho said, while Hirata sat nearby, looking on, “one word from you and we will come. Don’t be too proud to ask for help. You may be venturing out on your own, but you are never alone. Right, Hirata?”

  Hirata cleared his throat. His eager nod showed he’d taken the cue. “Of course. Just because I understand Toho’s need to brave the journey by himself doesn’t mean I’d leave him unprotected.”

  “Just remain cautious, Toho. Don’t speak openly to any stranger about your father’s school, or your connection to Zatoichi. There are spies everywhere, and you never know who is one, right down to the maidservant who cleans the bath at the inn.”

  “I’ll be careful, Father.” Toho closed his eyes from the pleasant tugs on his scalp. He’d learned long ago not to mention the name of Sho’s teacher, Zatoichi. Ichi-san, whom he’d met several times over the years, was by all appearances an anma, a blind masseur, but the cane he used to guide himself contained a deadly sword hidden within its sheath. Ichi-san had passed on his deadly skills to Sho, who was also a human weapon of the first order even though by law he was not allowed to carry a sword. Sho and Hirata, a well-trained samurai, had each passed their special skills on to Toho, which was why he felt confident enough to seek a reunion with Aoki unaccompanied by his parents.

  At the same time, Sho needn’t have warned him about strangers. Even though Sho, Hirata, and Aoki’s love and care had helped him heal from the nightmare he’d endured, the trauma of having witnessed his parents brutally murdered before his very eyes by a gang of criminal ronin had never truly left him. Ever since then, nearly everyone he met, with rare exception, held the potential capacity for violence, and Toho limited his interactions with people he didn’t know to the barest minimum. Even back when he’d first met Hirata, he’d been frightened of the samurai, believing him to hold the same potential for violence as the ronin who’d murdered his parents. It had taken Toho months to know he could trust Hirata, who finally won him over with his devotion.

  Sho finished Toho’s topknot. “You’re all set,” he murmured, his voice heavy.

  Toho’s heart lurched. He didn’t want to cause his father distress, but this journey was one he absolutely had to make. Aoki was in trouble. Toho felt it in the deepest reaches of his being.

  “Do you have Aoki’s hair tie?” Sho asked.

  Toho nodded. “It’s in my pack.” Years ago, Sho had discouraged him from wearing it night and day the way he did, explaining that it would eventually become ruined. To appease Toho’s anxiety about taking Aoki’s tie out of his hair, Sho placed the tie in a beautiful lacquer box and put the box into a chest of drawers for safekeeping.

  “Good.” Sho placed a hand on Toho’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s a good sign that you want to make this journey on your own. It shows that Hirata and I fulfilled our role. If you were clinging to us, then we’d know you’re still frightened of life.”

  Toho turned to his father and embraced him. “Thank you, Father.” Tears rushed to his eyes but he fought them back, feeling like a baby.

  “You’re welcome.” Sho squeezed him back and Toho felt how difficult this separation was for him. Since they’d met, Sho had been fiercely protective of him and devoted a large portion of his own life to Toho’s recovery.

  When Toho pulled back from the embrace, he saw the rims of Sho’s eyes were red and his sightless eyes teary. “I hope you’ll forgive me for leaving.”

  Sho squeezed his hand. “There’s nothing to forgive. Every child must break from home at some point, at least until he knows he doesn’t have to.”

  Hirata had come over and knelt close by. He too embraced Toho. “I’m proud of you. Aoki is a dear friend.”

  Toho nodded. If anyone had put friendship at the center of his life, it was Hirata. Hirata was a strong role model for him, and it was Hirata’s willingness to risk all for those he loved that gave Toho much of his courage.

  After the morning meal, Toho tied his knapsack across his torso, along with his straw cloak for rainy weather, and bid good-bye to the gathering of grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins who’d come to be his family these past seven years. They waited at the side of the road, waving until he could no longer see them. The Tokaido Road was the wide, main thoroughfare that would take him back to Kai. He hadn’t looked on this road, dotted with traveling samurai and peasants, in seven years now, as his life had consisted of long hours training in his father and grandfather’s dojo, as well as daily chores and some training in herbs and acupuncture with Sho.

  Once his family was out of sight, Toho halted and peered down the road ahead of him. Each step would take him farther away from Sho and Hirata, yet closer to Aoki, the other person who had come to represent home to him. Taking a deep breath, he took his next step into the future.

  THE JOURNEY back to the castle town of Kai would take the better part of two days. After walking all day on the Tokaido Road, stopping only once to take shade under a tree where he could eat the rice balls his grandmother had packed for him, Toho stayed the night in the same inn where he’d stayed with his fathers all those years ago on the journey from Kai to Edo.

  He entered the tavern, which fronted the inn, and was greeted by a serving woman who guided him to a table. He ordered tea, rice balls, and fried fish, then sat and waited. The tavern was nearly empty except for a few samurai at tables in various stages of emptying jugs of sake. After his initial perusal, Toho kept his gaze downward.

  “Anyone sitting here?”

  Toho’s gaze whipped up and met that of an older, jowly-faced samurai with thick eyebrows and deep set eyes. A ronin by his dress and the looser tea-whisk style of his topknot. “Uh… no.”

  “Good.” The ronin seated himself at the table and called for sake. “No one should eat or drink alone, I always say.”

  Toho’s stomach clenched.
He wanted to get up and run out, but here, in a public place, there was no immediate danger. As long as he didn’t get too friendly.

  “Not much for conversation, are you?” The ronin chuckled. The serving girl brought his sake, and he poured himself a small cup. He held up the cup. “To your health.”

  Toho watched the ronin throw back his head and take a swig.

  He set the cup down and took a deep breath. He studied Toho’s face. “The name’s Sozaemon,” he said.

  Toho hesitated. Perhaps there was no harm in just being politely friendly. Soon enough he would be in the privacy of his room for the night. “Toho,” he answered. “Morimasa Toho.”

  To his surprise the ronin’s eyebrows rose. “Morimasa, eh? Of the Edo dojo? Are you a relation of Morimasa Yoken?”

  “He is my grandfather.” Toho remembered his father’s warning and decided not to answer any more questions.

  “Ohhhh. It’s an honor, then.” Sozaemon lifted his sake cup and saluted before taking another sip. “Can I offer you some?”

  Toho cleared his throat. Something about this ronin was unsettling, and he couldn’t tell if the feeling was due merely to his own suspicious nature. “No, thank you. Tea is fine for me.”

  “As you wish.” Sozaemon set his cup down. “I learned the Flying Cloud from your grandfather. A fine instructor he is.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Sozaemon sighed. A faraway look came into his eyes for a moment. “That was many years ago. You weren’t even born yet, by the fresh-faced look of you.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Another lifetime.”

  The serving girl brought food, and Toho offered the ronin some of his rice and fish. Sozaemon accepted some but then ordered extra for both of them. “You’ll find that, Morimasa-kun,” Sozaemon said around a mouthful of rice, “the past will become so far away you’ll begin to wonder if certain events actually happened. Even people you’ve met, you’ll wonder if they really existed or if your memory is playing tricks on you.” He swallowed and washed his food down with another sip of sake.

  Toho didn’t answer. His response would have been rude. All these years later and the memory of his parents’ brutal murder in front of his eyes was as fresh and terrifying as when it happened. Had it not been for his fathers’ and for Aoki-san’s love, he would never have survived and grown into manhood. But he wasn’t about to share all this with Sozaemon. A stranger. Instead he took a sip of tea.

  Finally, they’d both finished and Sozaemon set a small pile of coins on the table. “That’s for yours too,” he said.

  “No need, Sozaemon-san.” Toho began to reach into his knapsack. He couldn’t allow a stranger to pay for his food.

  But the ronin held up a hand as he rose from his seat. “Please, it’s the least I can do for the grandson of Morimasa Yoken.” Sozaemon bowed. “Thank you for the company. It was a pleasure. Safe journey to you.”

  Toho cleared his throat. “And you. Thank you.”

  “The honor was all mine.” Sozaemon bowed to him again and strolled out of the tavern.

  Toho breathed a sigh of relief. Though Sozaemon had been perfectly courteous and generous to have paid for his meal, the ronin had definitely also made him uncomfortable. Lest Toho should run into him in the bath, he took a room and retired there for the night, not leaving it except to relieve himself in the privy.

  While the night darkened and the mood of day travel and business shifted to the relaxation and merriment of the night patrons, Toho meditated cross-legged on his futon. When it was time to sleep, he lay down and listened to the sounds of the world outside his room. Occasional male and female laughter carried through the air from the direction of the inn’s tavern room, punctuated by voices passing by in the hallway as other guests entered or left their rooms. He found himself listening for the specific timbre of Sozaemon’s voice, yet did not hear it amidst the others. Perhaps the ronin had already left the inn to continue his travels, wherever he was going. Why it mattered, Toho didn’t know. Perhaps it was the uneasy feeling Sozaemon had inspired in him. Until now, Sho and Hirata had kept him as sheltered and protected as they could, after what he’d suffered. How different now that he was a grown man, here by himself, not flanked by his two fathers who, until recently, had towered over him and taken care of everything, procuring their room, their meals. Toho hadn’t had to speak to anyone except Hirata and Sho.

  This was the first day and night since Sho and Hirata had taken him in that he’d spent all by himself. Until the very moment he’d set off on the Tokaido Road, leaving the assembled family at the roadside, waving, he’d always had someone’s company. Sho, Hirata, his adoptive grandparents, as well as cousins.

  And then there was Aoki.

  Staying with Aoki had always been a treat. Some of the fondest memories he had in his whole life. Aoki had spoiled him with sweets, sung to him, played games, and let Toho rifle through his wardrobe. Aoki wore the most beautiful kimonos, all soft, some of them silk, with patterns of spring colors and flowers, while yet others were of striking warm colors, reds and purples. Toho loved Aoki’s scent, like jasmine or some sort of intoxicating flower. Even Aoki’s hair carried the aroma, and in the middle of the night, if he’d sometimes awoken with nightmares as he often did, Aoki would hold him close, letting Toho grasp the fall of his long hair, while Aoki’s scent enveloped and comforted him.

  Toho had never stopped missing the time he and Aoki spent together. From the moment Sho had brought him to meet Aoki, the beautiful Kabuki actor with the loving heart had practically replaced the sun with its power to bring light to his life, a life that had been darkened by murder and rape, brutalities of the most unimaginable kind. Aoki was softness, love, warmth. Everything good.

  Which was why Toho knew he couldn’t stay away any longer. Though the large world outside his father’s secure dojo loomed around him, full of the potential dangers to which he’d already been nightmarishly exposed, nothing else could have compelled him to brave his own fears and return, even just to see Aoki’s smile again. Well, nothing except the fear that something bad was happening to Aoki, something that could hurt him, or end his life, or at the very least, steal the radiant, warmth-giving smile from his lips and eyes.

  So here he was, closing the distance between himself and Aoki. If the gods willed it, by late afternoon tomorrow he would be at Aoki’s doorstep, seeing his dear friend’s delicately featured face, hearing Aoki’s gentle voice.

  Though his worry of what he might find when he got there kept him from sleeping, he wanted to be in perfect form when he saw Aoki, so he made himself close his eyes and just remember falling back asleep, as a child, in Aoki’s comforting embrace….

  Toho slept straight through till morning. He’d long been on a routine of awakening as dawn lighted the sky. He ordered breakfast and packed up his things, dressed and tied up his hair himself while he waited for the meal to be delivered to his room. When it was served, he ate hastily, paid his bill, and headed off. There was not a moment to waste.

  The only stop he made was the rest station closest to his destination. At a bath house, he washed himself, paid an extra coin for a shave and for his hair to be perfectly combed up into a topknot and oiled, as well as for his outfit to be pressed so he’d look and smell perfect for Aoki. Instead of wrapping his gaiters back on, he changed into the newly pressed wide-leg hakama pants his grandmother had sewn for him recently, topped by a matching short kimono wrapped with a sash into which he wove his weapons belt, followed by the outer jacket. At the door, he tied on his rope sandals and his knapsack diagonally across his torso and set back out. With the greatest fortune, he would be once again in Aoki’s presence within the hour and his fear about Aoki’s well-being would be put to rest.

  Chapter Two

  AS HE’D hoped, by the middle of the hour of the Monkey, the garden gate to Aoki’s little town house loomed ahead. Memories flooded in with each step he took down the narrow dirt side street that held a row of to
wn houses, each with its own front garden. Only now, instead of a traumatized peasant boy, he walked as a man, a dignified samurai, his status marked by the clothing he wore and the glint of sunlight off his wintergreen-oiled hair. He was no longer the peasant boy in rough cloth, hanging on to Sho’s hand for dear life, terrified of killer ronin popping out of every corner to hack him to pieces with their swords as they’d done to his screaming parents. Passing through the gate of Aoki’s residence was no longer an act of refuge for a little boy, but the reunion of two friends, one concerned for the other’s well-being.

  At the gate he stopped, took a deep breath, and pulled the string to the clapper of the bell. A couple of moments passed until he heard the clop clop of wooden geta sandals along the stone pathway from the house. The little peeper window on the gate door slid aside, and a young woman’s face appeared in the rectangular opening. Not the elderly servant Toho remembered, but a fresh-faced girl with porcelain skin.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m—” Toho’s voice caught. His heart pounded. Aoki was moments away now. Toho cleared his throat. “I’m here to see Aoki-san. Is he home?”

  “The master is not expecting anyone.”

  Toho’s heart lurched. The previous servant would have recognized him immediately and thrown the gate open. He now felt like a stranger. “I know. I did not tell him I was coming. I wanted to surprise him.”

  Suspicion infused the girl’s eyes though she retained her servile demeanor. “If you would wait, I will inform the master. Who is calling?”

  An idea hit him. He cleared his throat again. A bit of confidence infused him. “Please tell Aoki-san that Toho is here to see his big sister.”

  The girl’s eyebrows rose. “You are Toho-sama?” Her voice held a breathy note of wonder.