Blossom of the Samurai Read online

  Aoki smiled. “Of course.”

  “I would love to!”

  Aoki’s heart fluttered again. To have Toho’s company again for the entire day. To know he was nearby, watching. Toho’s praise-filled presence had always inspired his work, had always touched off a creative flow from deep inside his soul. Toho had left with his fathers before Aoki had had a chance to tell him about this special connection, and he’d always hesitated to mention it in his letters for fear Toho would feel guilty for having left and would get distracted from his crucial training. “Oh how wonderful! Which means we should go to sleep now.” He’d had Peony prepare the other room with a futon for Toho.

  That awkwardness settled between them again.

  TOHO BOWED his head. “Yes. You need to rest.” How well he remembered that rehearsals began barely after sunrise. The strange silence continued while memories surfaced, of all those nights he’d spent here, curled up on his futon next to Aoki’s. They’d get up before first light, take their breakfast, and head to the theater where Toho could play among the costumes and marvel at the singing and dancing the entire day before Sho and Hirata came to fetch him home again.

  He cleared his throat against the disappointment of not staying here in the room with Aoki. But how could he? When he was a child, it was appropriate, but not now, especially when Aoki had a samurai of his own. What would that samurai think if he returned here and happened upon Aoki snuggled up with another? Whoever he was, he could never understand the special relationship Aoki had with him, and would probably be jealous and challenge Toho to a duel. Toho could never put Aoki through an ordeal like that! And so he worked a smile onto his lips and rose. “Thank you, Aoki-san.”

  Aoki rose and stood, facing him. Aoki’s small stature made Toho aware again of the reversal of their sizes, of how delicate and willowy Aoki really was. And how large he’d grown in comparison. Next to his fathers, he was narrower and shorter, so the contrast between him and Aoki was quite a revelation. “There is nothing to thank me for, To-chan. The gratitude is all mine. The way you made this journey by yourself, just to see me.” He glanced down.

  Toho nearly surged forward and wrapped Aoki in another embrace, but something, he couldn’t tell what, held him back. The knowledge of the samurai, perhaps. He cleared his throat again. “You’re my best friend, Aoki-san. That’s what friends do.”

  Aoki’s cheeks colored a bit. It seemed they did so often when Toho spoke to him. Toho realized how very much his words and actions meant to Aoki. Aoki had always made him feel so important. Aoki led him to the door of his room, opened it for him, and paused. “Sleep well, To-chan. I couldn’t be more overjoyed that you’re here.”

  Toho felt a flush in his cheeks, as well as an odd warmth that spread through his chest. The lantern light from Aoki’s doorway made a soft glint off Aoki’s shiny hair and pale skin. The silhouette of his form showed his soft elegance. “You too, Aoki-san.” After another moment seemingly full of mutual self-consciousness, Aoki turned and retreated to his room, quietly sliding the door shut.

  There was nothing for Toho to do but go into the room prepared for him and to lie down on his futon without extinguishing the lantern. Since his fathers had brought him to Edo, even though he was in the same room with his fathers, he had developed a habit of leaving the lantern to burn as he fell asleep. Only watching the shadows dancing on the walls had enabled him to close his eyes. The darkness had come to terrify him. His fear made him feel foolish now, as a grown man, but so be it. If anyone would understand, Aoki would. He could never feel judged or foolish about such things with Aoki. Nor would Aoki ever embarrass him by asking him about it, or urging him to try to grow up, to leave behind the residual habit of his childhood. Aoki was nothing but patient and kind. Ever.

  Which was why he would have preferred to stay in the room with Aoki, even though it wasn’t proper. If he were in there now, he could watch Aoki’s preparations for sleep. He used to love to kneel by Aoki’s stool at his dressing table and watch Aoki wipe the rice powder from his face and comb out his long hair. Then Aoki would turn to him, pull the tie out of his hair, and comb his hair before pulling it up into its tiny topknot again. Lying next to Aoki, curled into the curve of Aoki’s form, the darkness didn’t bother Toho once the lantern was lowered. Toho could listen to Aoki’s soft breathing, feel Aoki’s caress on his brow, and feel the warmth of Aoki’s closeness protecting him, and he’d always been able to fall asleep. Even when the nightmares awakened him, Aoki had soothed him back to sleep with his loving presence.

  Toho sighed and clasped his hands behind his head. Staring up into the shadowy, lantern-lit heavens, he was able to smile. Even if Aoki wasn’t in the room with him, for the first time in so many years, Aoki was right nearby. Close enough to touch.

  That would have to be good enough. And it was for him. Because no matter what, Toho decided, he wasn’t going back to Edo. He was staying right here in Kai. With Aoki.

  Samurai or no samurai.

  AOKI-SAN WAS the most beautiful maiden that could ever be. Toho was sure of it. He watched Aoki, transfixed, as his graceful friend, arrayed in a sweeping kimono of reds and purples, his hair done up in colorful butterfly ornaments and tiny flowers that fluttered with his movements, swayed and stepped like the dipping branches of a willow tree in a breeze. From an invisible place in the rafters above, stagehands dropped basketfuls of flower petals, giving the appearance of the cherry blossoms falling in spring. Flanking the stage on one side, a line of kneeling shamisen players plucked the wistful tune while the chorus knelt in a line flanking the other side, narrating the tale of love unfolding on the stage.

  Aoki was a lonely maiden, lamenting the long absence of the samurai she loved, a man off fighting greedy lords in distant lands. She prayed for his safe return while fending off the advances of lords who wished to steal her away from the samurai of her heart. For years, the maiden waited, disbelieving tales of her lover’s death brought by messengers. Nothing would sway her from her quest.

  Toward the end of the play, hours later, Genji appeared on stage dressed as a samurai. Genji’s costume had been bolstered with cushions to make him appear larger and broader since Genji was as slim and lithe as Aoki. The long-lost samurai peeked from behind a tree, watching his maiden weep by a small pool, her own reflection and the moon’s on the water for company. The chorus continued the tale of the loyal samurai, slowly approaching his love, now much older, her heart and soul broken, yet still steadfastly devoted to her beloved warrior.

  Toho found himself holding his breath at the scene before him. Once again, the season of spring was marked by the constant dropping of flower petals, many of which landed on the surface of the stage-created pond.

  Genji moved slowly, step-by-step, as if afraid to alert his maiden to his presence. The chorus explained to the audience that he feared her ultimate rejection after his long absence, that perhaps her heart had been stolen by another in the long years that had separated them.

  However, he could not avoid the specter of his reflection in the moonlit pool. The maiden paused. Her hands flew to her heart. Now she believed herself mad, seeing her long-lost lover’s ghost.

  The samurai stepped closer and in graceful dancing movements brushed a hand over her shoulder. She rose and turned, staring as Genji’s dance before her told her he had returned. Like two birds in flight around each other, they portrayed their achingly awaited reunion, both lovers’ loyalty and devotion rewarded.

  When the music died down, indicating the end of the play, Toho bounded from his seat, clapping, his eyes full of tears for the story that had reflected his own longing for his friend.

  Genji and Aoki broke apart and turned, smiling under their white makeup and ornate, brilliant costumes.

  Toho ran up to the edge of the raised platform stage. “That was magical!” he breathed.

  “Toho-kun, did you really love it?” Genji came forward, a wildly pleased smile on his lips at the praise for the play he had writt
en with his own hand for his beloved ronin, Daisuke Minamoto.

  “Oh yes, Genji-san! The Tale of the Loyal Samurai will be a great success.”

  Genji bowed deeply. “Thank you, Toho-kun. Your praise is most welcome. Certainly my friend Aoki here is the best possible choice to play the devoted maiden, isn’t he?”

  Toho stole another glance at Aoki. Under his white makeup and swept up, ornamented hair, his large eyes outlined perfectly in thick black strokes, he was the very maiden incarnate that he portrayed. Toho nodded, a sudden tightness in his belly. “He is the… perfect maiden.”

  Aoki bowed his head. “Thank you, To-chan.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Genji’s smile widened. “If you say it, Toho-kun, then we know it’s so. Aoki’s biggest fan.” He winked and then turned. “All right,” he called, “the show is ready for tomorrow. Prepare the stage and then get some rest.” He turned again to Toho. “Come and help us hang up these costumes?”

  Toho smiled. “Yes!”

  “Wonderful, Toho-kun. Your help has been much missed these years. We are overjoyed at your return.”

  Happily, Toho levered himself onto the platform and followed Genji and Aoki out through the backstage. Of course, no other samurai would be asked to help with such a task, but Toho’s delight in the costumes and his youthful insistence with helping with them years ago had made him a beloved feature of the theater.

  Once in the dressing room, both Genji and Aoki disappeared behind a large screen to remove their costumes. Toho stood next to an attendant, an aspiring young actor who smiled shyly up at him as they received the discarded costumes.

  “We need to celebrate your homecoming,” Genji said from behind the screen. “I’ve already sent word home to the cook to prepare a meal for four tonight.”

  “That’s so kind of you, Genji,” Aoki said.

  “You’re welcome, of course,” Genji said. “I know you, Aoki. I hear a ‘but’ coming. Please tell me you and Toho will come and have supper with me and Daisuke tonight. Please?”

  Aoki appeared from behind the screen, wrapping his sash around a soft white kimono. “To-chan?” Aoki’s plain kimono made an odd contrast with his face and hair, still made up for his role as the maiden.

  “I would love to accept,” Toho said, his arms full of Aoki’s costume. The attendant had already begun to carefully hang up Genji’s samurai costume.

  Genji appeared, smiling under his white makeup. “Now I can be truly happy. My two dearest friends in the world will be at my table tonight.”

  “Thank you, Genji-san.” Toho glanced at Aoki, who smiled at him as he stepped over to the dressing table to remove his makeup.

  “You’re welcome, dear Toho.”

  The attendant relieved Toho of Aoki’s costume, leaving Toho free to approach the dressing table and watch his two friends wipe off the white makeup.

  “How nice to have Toho sitting here, watching us again,” Genji went on after a few moments. Bit by bit his exquisitely delicate face reappeared as the white makeup receded. “The light is back in Aoki’s eyes.”

  “Genji,” Aoki scolded gently. “Toho will feel guilty if you say that.”

  Genji frowned. “Dear me, I meant nothing bad by that. Forgive me. It’s just so noticeable, the difference your presence makes in this very room, Toho-kun.”

  Toho met Aoki’s gaze in the reflection of the looking glass. They exchanged one of those shy smiles that seemed to be a new part of their friendship since he’d returned.

  “There was no avoiding your return to Edo with your fathers,” Genji said. “They needed to train you so that you could be the noble samurai we have in our midst now.”

  Toho’s cheeks burned. “I don’t think I’m… noble,” he murmured.

  “To us you are,” Aoki said. He had finished removing the makeup and had begun disengaging the tinkling ornaments from his hair before untying the long tresses from the complicated series of wraps around a board that had helped his glossy ebony hair to crown his head in such a magical way.

  Toho worked not to stare at Aoki even though Aoki’s statement had made him flush with warmth, right to his toes. “Thank you, Aoki-san.”

  When Genji and Aoki were ready, Toho accompanied them back to Genji’s home, where they had a nice meal. It was wonderful to see Daisuke again, as back in Toho’s childhood, the ronin samurai, who’d not only built the theater for Genji but who previously had mastered many forms of swordsmanship, had quickly become one of Toho’s idols. Even better, Daisuke offered to practice with him each morning for as long as he wished, claiming it an honor to be able to spar with the grandson of such a distinguished ronin as Morimasa Yoken.

  Genji did not keep them late, as he and Aoki both needed to rest before the premiere the next day. So Aoki and Toho took their leave and walked side by side through the town in the direction of Aoki’s villa.

  As was inevitable, they passed the theater and soon reached the old teahouse where Aoki had once worked as a kagema. Lights and laughter emanated from the windows, sparking off the memory of the first time Sho had brought him there to meet Aoki. He looked over just as a samurai, seeking a night of pleasure with a beautiful young man, stepped up onto the porch and disappeared behind the flaps of the noren curtains hanging from the eaves.

  Toho had figured out Aoki’s previous occupation based on conversations he’d overheard between his fathers over the years. But he didn’t care. “That place will always have a special meaning to me,” he murmured as they passed by.

  Aoki sighed. “Yes, for me too. After I met your father and then you.” A wistful note tinged Aoki’s soft voice.

  Toho frowned. “Were you unhappy there, Aoki-san?” He hated to think of Aoki feeling so sad, which was why Genji’s earlier statement had haunted him throughout the otherwise pleasant evening.

  They’d reached the merchant district, closed up for the night except for a couple of taverns from which more voices and lights emanated. Aoki was thoughtful a few moments as they walked down the street between the rows of dark buildings. “I wouldn’t say I was exactly unhappy, To-chan. Just dreaming of a different life. Your father certainly helped me to achieve it. Then his having entrusted you to my care the way he did has brought me much happiness.”

  Toho’s heart squeezed. Somehow, he never tired of Aoki’s affirmations of their bond. “I’m glad, Aoki-san.”

  To Toho’s surprise, Aoki stopped and faced him. The moonlight shining down silhouetted his delicate features. The look on Aoki’s face made Toho’s heart thump. “Aoki-san, is something wrong?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Aoki cleared his throat delicately. “Now that you’re a grown man, we can talk openly, can we not?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Aoki paused again and glanced briefly away. “To-chan, has your father, Sho, ever spoken to you about why I lived in that place? I mean, of my occupation there?”

  Toho watched Aoki’s face in the moonlight. Aoki’s large eyes looked sheepish, worried, something Toho never wanted his friend to feel, especially because of him. “He never spoke to me directly, Aoki-san,” he answered diplomatically. “But over the years I used to overhear my fathers talking.”

  Aoki’s eyebrows rose a bit. “I see. So they would mention it? And you understood?”

  “I didn’t at first,” Toho said. “But when I grew a little older, I did.” Sho and Hirata had carried on several conversations specifically about Aoki. Hirata occasionally worried that Sho had fallen in love with Aoki when he was Aoki’s sensual customer, but Sho always assured Hirata that Aoki was and had never been anything but a dear friend who had brought him comfort in rough times. But Toho left that part out of his answer. “Why do you ask, Aoki-san? Are you worried I will think less of you?”

  Aoki averted his gaze a moment. “Yes, To-chan. I have worried about that for years.”

  Toho gasped. He stared at Aoki, his best friend in this world, a friend whose love and comfort had helped him out of the dark
est abyss of suffering. “How could I ever think less of you? You? My dearest friend! To me there is no one finer and kinder.”

  A tear rolled onto Aoki’s smooth cheek. He wiped it away with an elegant hand. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for releasing me from that burden.”

  A moment passed in the darkness, broken only by the bubble of male and female laughter coming from the taverns and pleasure houses nearby. The light cadences of a higher voice served as a ghostly echo of Aoki’s past. Years ago, Aoki-san had been one of those people laughing while entertaining a guest. Beautiful, sweet Aoki, full of love and life, his soul darkened by worry. Toho’s throat tightened a bit. “Aoki-san,” he managed to say, “Promise me you will never worry another moment about my regard for you. Please.”

  Aoki was silent for a bit. “Things can happen in life. You are still so young.”

  Aoki’s meaning trickled into his mind, the implication that at some future point, Aoki could do something that would make his fear come true. Impossible. Toho dropped to his knees. “Promise, Aoki-san! If I must stay out here all night on my knees until you promise, I will.”

  Aoki’s delicate lips parted. His eyes widened, tears glistening in them. “I cannot allow that.”

  “Then promise.”

  AOKI HAD often dreamed of time stopping, of an ethereal odd floating in which the entire world barely existed except as a hazy veil. For the first time in his life, the dreamscape of his mind felt a reality. With Toho kneeling before him, begging a promise from him, a promise of a sort he would never have thought asked of him ever, he stood, suspended in time, only him and the young samurai kneeling before him in all of existence. “To-chan, it’s chilly out here. I beg of you.”

  Toho’s eyes pleaded with him. “Why will you not promise me?”

  Aoki’s shoulders sagged. “Because, if I do end up worrying again, then I will have broken a promise to you. I could not bear knowing I broke a promise to you, of all people.”