With he who has slain his father, a man can not live under the same sky. With he who has slain his brother, a man waits not to return home to retrieve his weapons before seeking vengeance. With he who has slain his friend, a man will not abide in the same country without pursuing justice.
—Confucius, Qu Li I.70
Paulo
“Ah, Maeda-san.” The innkeeper greeted me enthusiastically as I entered the saké house where I rented an upstairs room. The saké house was nearly empty, the tables and benches clean and awaiting the evening crowd. He glanced back toward the kitchen and lowered his voice. “My wife asked were you … perhaps … your bill? You have not paid rent in two months.”
I pulled out two koban and handed them to him. “Yes, yes. I finally got some money.”
Beaming, he took the gold coins. Glancing at the kitchen again he whispered, “And the food bill? That was another two koban and four monme.”
“Two koban?”
“The tea alone was one koban and six monme.”
I sighed.
Koban in my wallet vanish like dew on a summer morning.
I handed him my last three koban. He hurried over to his cash box to get change. I saw his wife peek through the curtain from the kitchen, and they spoke together, softly. The sour look on her face disappeared, replaced by a big smile.
“Maeda-san, can I get you something? Some soba perhaps? Or tea?” she said.
The innkeeper gave me my change, a half-handful of silver monme. I slipped them into my now much leaner purse and replaced it in my obi.
“Soba and tea would be fine,” I replied.
The innkeeper grinned. “I knew you had been paid when the swords came. It must have been a well-paying job for you to afford such weapons.”
My head snapped up. “Weapons? What weapons? I didn’t buy any swords.”
“They were delivered this morning," he insisted. "A very nice daisho set. We put them in your room.”
I blinked at him in confusion. Why would someone have sent me weapons?
I shook my head and went upstairs to my room. Lying on a low table in the middle of the floor was a daisho pair, a matched katana and wakizashi. I started to reach for them then stopped and sat back on my heels, staring at them in horror.
No, it can’t be. I must be mistaken.
Finally, I picked up the katana and examined it. It was excellent quality. The hilt was rosewood with a small gold tiger peeking from under the eelskin wrapping.
My heart racing, I lifted the sword and examined the tsuba. The guard was solid metal with black lacquer and a golden phoenix. Except for the tsuba, the swords were identical to my own. They should have been. They belonged to my younger brother. Our father had given them to us when we reached manhood.
Frantic, I tore through the wrapping paper lying under the table, looking for some note, some indication of who had sent them and why. There was nothing.
What could have happened? Why would my brother be without his swords? Had he been arrested?
I had a panicked image of my mother, brother, and Gracia being crucified underneath a giant banner reading, “Christian Traitors.”
The bakufu had brutally repressed Christianity following the Shimabara Rebellion forty-two years previously. Anyone suspected of being a practicing Christian was subject to torture and execution. That hadn’t stopped my mother. She claimed Saint Xavier himself baptized her forebears. Even after the deaths of her family at Shimabara, she never turned away from God. Firm in her commitment to the church, she had raised us to believe, despite the ever-present danger. I had turned from my faith years before, but Estêvão and Gracia had always remained steadfast.
What had happened to them? I had to go home and find out. But I couldn’t. It was no longer my home.
I stood there, trembling, frozen with indecision.
For the last fifteen years, I had lived as a ronin, a “wave man,” adrift on the currents of life. At first, the freedom from family obligations had been heady, but, like saké, the hangover was painful. I discovered I was not nearly as formidable with a blade as I had believed. My pride was humbled when I was forced to work at any task that might lead to a bit of money or some leftover food to keep from starving.
All that time I believed my family to be safe. That someday, I could see them again. I just had to become successful so I could show them I was not the ruffian they thought me.
As I paced the floor of my tiny room, the weapons on the table silently reproved me. Something must have happened to Estêvão. No samurai would surrender his blades. They were the visible mark of his privileges and responsibilities.
Squatting before the table, I searched once more through the wrapping paper. Again, I found nothing.
I have waited too long. I am an impoverished ronin and probably always will be, but I must return home. My father can throw me out after I get there, but at least I will discover what has happened.
I snatched up the blades and hurried outside. My family lived in the elegant Asakusa district on the other side of Edo. I hadn’t even approached the region since my return to the capital, preferring to remain in the crowded lower-class areas of the city. I considered walking, but a palanquin would get me there faster. I hailed one and gave the bearers the address. I held out three of my precious monme and told them to hurry.
They took off at a quick jog. It was a bone-jarring trip, but I barely noticed the discomfort in my impatience to finish the ride. I paid the bearers and turned to gaze at the estate.
My first sight of it hit me like a punch in the stomach.
The property was surrounded by a high, white stucco wall topped with red tiles. The gate at the front was high enough for a rider to enter without dismounting. The two massive cypress doors were closed. A large wooden plaque leaned against the gatepost. It had the Sanskrit letter for “Buddha” at the top center and the Chinese characters for “monoimi” written below. A death talisman, a warning to those entering the gate of the ritual pollution they would encounter from a body that lay inside. Above the death talisman, a white paper fluttered on the heavy wooden post. With my heart in my throat, I approached.
The name “Maeda Eiji” was written in stark characters. My legs felt weak, and I leaned against the gate.
Estêvão dead?
My mind refused to accept it.
The notice only held Estêvão’s name. Perhaps Mother and Gracia were still fine, but what could have happened to him? He was no warrior. I was certain the family had found him a nice, safe job.
I almost walked away, but I remembered the daisho. The katana was the soul of the samurai—the swords had to be returned. They should be lying beside him at the funeral and presented to his oldest son once he was cremated.
Had Gracia and Estêvão married as planned? Did he have a son? Daughters?
I don’t even know that.
I hesitated, feeling lost. So many years. Much must have occurred, and I knew none of it. All I was sure of was that Estêvão was dead. I was afraid to enter and find out if I had lost others as well.
I stared at the weapons. Hope flickered in my chest. Someone had sent them to me. There was no note with the weapons, but clearly, the sender intended me to return them. Otherwise, they would have just sent me a note to inform me of Estêvão’s death. Who could have done it? There had been no contact with my family since my exile from Edo. It was the sort of thing my grandfather would have delighted in doing, but surely he was long dead.
My hair was disheveled, not properly smoothed down. I hadn’t shaved the top of my head in years. I had an eight-day growth of beard. My kimono was worn ragged. My family would be embarrassed to see me like this. But none of that mattered. I was here, and I had to do this. I had already missed any chance to see my brother again, and I wasn’t going to forego the opportunity to see the others. I gritted my teeth and pushed the gate open. Two unfamiliar guards stood in the entrance. They drew their katanas and held them out to block my way. The one on the right said, “Family and close friends only.”
Angry at their interruption after I had screwed up my resolve, I stepped forward until the tips of the blades touched my chest. “I am Maeda Yujirō, the eldest son of this house. Now, let me through or kill me.”
The guards looked at each other, then sheathed their weapons and stepped back. “You may enter,” the first guard said.
I followed a walkway that passed through a few pine trees to the main house. Estêvão and I used to play at battles under those trees. I took a deep breath as I looked at the double doors at the front of the main house.
“Leave us!” my father yelled. “Your drunken, irresponsible behavior has brought shame to this family for the last time. You are no longer a son of this house.”
“You won't see me again,” I retorted. “I hate this place and all the crazy people in it. I will die before I come back here.”
Turning my back on my father, I strode out into the yard, slamming the door behind me.
I started shaking and sweating, then I took a deep, shuddering breath. Despite the many years that had passed since the family expelled me, the anger and shame were almost as raw as the day it happened. At the time, I meant what I said, but I had long ago realized I was a fool.
I focussed on my breathing to calm myself. I had yet to see a member of my family and I already wanted to flee. Sliding the doors open, I called out, “Ojama-shimasu.” There was no answer. I slipped off my sandals and stepped up to the entryway.
Was anyone here? What would my father do when he saw me? It was all very well to say I must see my family, but would he permit it?
The floor shone in the sun. A stairway went up the wall to the second floor. The sliding screens that formed the walls were painted with garden scenes. Most of them were new. It was strange, after living in the noise and squalor of the chonin parts of town, to see such serene beauty and hear the singing of birds. It was hard to believe that I had ever lived in such a place. Yet, it was here that Osamo, Mitsuru, and I got drunk for our first time when I was twelve. Estêvão told mother, the bastard, but at least he didn't tell Grandfather.
I walked across the room. The screen to the family room was open and I could see the butsudan has been closed up and covered in white paper to protect it from spirits, another sign of a death in the house. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The room I was in was empty, but the sliding doors to the garden stood open. I opened my eyes and strode out onto the veranda.
Voices came from the building across the garden.
The veranda overlooked the koi pond that was the central feature of the garden. Four separate buildings enclosed the garden. The one I had entered through had been my grandfather's. The building to the right, my parent's and the one to my left was where Estêvão and I had once lived.The building across the garden was the kitchen, storage and common rooms.
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My father sat on a bench by the pond, smoking his pipe while staring at the fish swimming in the water. His black hair was now streaked with gray, and I could see crows feet around his eyes. His cane rested against the bench next to him.
He saw me and stood. At first, surprise registered on his face, but his expression hardened as he looked me over.
I stiffened in embarrassment. Still, he stood silently, staring at me.
Clearing my throat, I said, “I am here to see Estêvão.”
His expression grew sad. With a deep sigh, he sat back down and turned back to the pond. “My wife is with the body in the meditation room. You may see him there.”
I bowed deeply to show my thanks and let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding.
Not the greeting of a father, but probably better than I deserved.
I walked across the small arched bridge over the pond to the building on the other side of the garden. Angry whispers sounded as I approached the large room in the back my mother had converted to a chapel.
I slid open the door. My brother’s body, dressed in a pure white kimono, was laid out on a knee-high, portable bier placed in front of a large white statue of the Virgin Mary. The statue was actually a Byakue-Kannon, the bodhisattva of healing and childbirth, but a tiny wooden cross hung from a silk thread around its neck. From the grayish-green hue of Estêvão’s skin, he had had been dead for about two days. His face was bloated and blotchy with after-death swelling and decay. But I still recognized the arch of his eyebrows and the small scar on his forehead I gave him while sparring as children. I could doubt no longer—my younger brother was dead.
“No,” I whispered. My stomach clenched, and my fingernails bit into the palms of my hands as they balled into fists.
Dozens of candles placed around the body brightly illuminated the room. Incense sticks burned in an unsuccessful attempt to mask the stench of death. Gracia knelt at the foot of the body, rosary in hand, her head bowed in prayer. Her presence there showed that she and Estêvão have married.
My mother stood as straight and tall as ever, but she had gotten a bit broader over the years. Her hair was still black, but I thought I saw some gray at the roots. She was arguing with a man standing with his back to me.
Her eyes widened when she saw me. “Paulo! Thank the Lord you are here.” She threw herself at me, wrapped her arms around me, and buried her face in my shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Mother?”
She said, through her tears, “Tell him! Tell him he can’t be right!”
“What?”
“Go on, tell him he didn’t kill himself. He wouldn’t!”
I stared at her, completely confused.
“He was found with his stomach sliced open and his tantō driven into his heart.” The man turned and spoke. “He committed harakiri.”
I gaped at him for a moment, then gave him a small bow. “Padre Hachirō … what?” It was incredible he was still alive. He must have gotten quite skilled at avoiding the agents of the bakufu through the years.
Gracia raised her head, her cheeks wet with tears. Fifteen years older than the last time I glimpsed her and crying, she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. “The police said he was found in a brothel during a raid. They said he committed suicide to avoid the disgrace of being arrested. He wouldn’t do that. It is a mortal sin, and he was a good man. A good Christian.”
She burst into tears again.
“Estêvão? In a brothel?” I tried to imagine my pious brother visiting a brothel. I didn’t believe it.
“The padre won’t consecrate the grave, but he must. Estêvão didn’t kill himself!” my mother wailed.
“Shhh.” The padre hushed her. I looked around uneasily. While all the servants were recruited from the congregation, the guards were from the bakufu. The reward for turning in a Christian was one thousand gold koban. It was foolish to assume they would not hear.
I sighed. It was easier being a ronin.
“Mother, let me look at the body. Maybe I will find something.” I gave a rueful chuckle. “I have seen a lot of dead bodies in the last fifteen years. Pray for the Lord to give me wisdom.”
If there was one thing that was certain it was that the only way I was likely to gain wisdom was through a miracle from God.
I coaxed my mother and sister-in-law away from the corpse. They went over to a corner to continue their vigil and prayers. Bracing myself for the unpleasant task, I pulled the coverlets back from Estêvão’s chest and then opened his kimono to study his wounds. The stench was awful. If there had been anything in my stomach, I would have lost it.
I did my best to keep between the two women and the sight of my mutilated brother. At first, I had a feeling of horror at what I saw. I had indeed seen many dead men through the years, but this was my younger brother, who I grew up with, played with, and fought with. Now he was dead. Despite my turning away from my childhood faith years before, I found myself falling back on old beliefs and teachings. This wasn’t Estêvão—this was just what was left after his spirit, everything that made him Estêvão—had returned to God.
Soon, however, I was so engrossed in my task I forgot I was looking at the corpse of my younger brother. It became merely a mental exercise to try and pry information from the wounds on the body.
After some time studying the corpse, I called the padre over.
“Did you find something?”
“Estêvão didn’t commit harakiri,” I told him softly.
He stared at me. “I would like nothing more than to believe you, but I must ask. How can we be sure?”
I pointed to the wounds on the corpse’s chest and stomach. “As you can see, there is a horizontal cut to the belly, and the knife was stabbed through the heart, but whoever did this was no samurai. Note the cut is clean on the right side of the belly and ragged on the left. The cut was made from right to left. We are taught to cut from left to right. Also, it is customary to pull the blade up at the end. This cut is straight.”
Turning my head to one side and laying my ear on Estêvão’s stomach so I could examine the wound up close, I said to the priest, “Please look at this. Can you see the angle of the cut?”
I moved out of the way. He grimaced as he approached the body. “What do you mean by the angle of the cut?” he asked with his head on the corpse’s belly.
“Do you see how the incision angles up towards the breast? The blade was held with the hilt lower than the tip. It is a significant angle—an angle almost impossible to maintain while cutting oneself.” I twisted my hand in front of me to demonstrate.
I directed his attention to the wound itself. “You can see this cut is shallow and superficial. I believe it was made by someone who was standing over the body while it was lying on the floor. A proper harakiri stroke would pierce deeply into the intestines, but this barely penetrated the stomach wall.”
Finally, I knelt down and pointed at the stab wound to the heart. “This is a strange way to end things. When performing harakiri without a second, the usual procedure is to slice one’s throat. Death is very quick after that. Stabbing the heart is clumsy and prone to error.”
Standing up, I shook my head. “Estêvão didn’t kill himself. He was murdered and then someone tried to make it look like harakiri.”
The door slid open, and an old man stepped in. “Of course my grandson didn’t kill himself. The idiot who slew him botched the job. Any fool could see he was murdered, and the killer tried to make it look like seppuku.”
I turned around, stepping in front of the statue of the Virgin to keep the cross out of sight. Before me stood my grandfather. His posture was more stooped than I recalled, his hair pure white and a little more sparse than before. His voice was thin, but still retained most of the power I had dreaded when I was a boy. At the sight of him, I reflexively hunched my shoulders together as if to lessen the pain of a blow from a willow switch. The padre eased himself back into the shadows. I couldn’t believe that the old oni was still alive. He had been over sixty when I left home.
Forcing my shoulders to relax, I bowed. “Grandfather.”
He coughed, then continued. “Maybe you aren’t a complete idiot, after all. You pinpointed a number of the signs, but you did miss one.”
I stepped aside as he moved to the corpse. I noticed Gracia slipping the cross off the statue of the Virgin Mary as he walked by.
He raised Estêvão’s head, exposing the back of the neck. “See this puncture mark here? And the bit of blood under the skin? This is the sign of someone killed by having a needle driven through the base of the skull into the brain. A favorite technique of shinobi assassins. Unless you know what to look for, you would never guess. You missed that, but discovered most everything else.”
Grandfather looked at my mother and sister-in-law, who were watching the conversation with mouths open in astonishment. Speaking more loudly for their benefit, he said, “My grandson certainly didn’t kill himself.”
Then, he grumbled to himself, “Not that there is anything wrong with seppuku. It is an honorable death.”
While we were speaking, the priest had remained in the background. Grandfather had studiously ignored his presence, neither looking in his direction nor directing any remarks his way.
He raised his voice again, “But it offends me someone would have the gall to kill my grandson.”
I stared at him. “If you know someone murdered him, why haven’t you found out who did it? I would think the former head of the shogun’s secret police in Edo could easily discover who murdered his grandson.”
He shook his head. “What do you think I have been doing for the last two days? I have been asking around, but no one seems to know anything. One thing I am sure of, it wasn’t an officially sanctioned killing.”
I couldn’t believe it. “But, if I could discover it wasn’t a suicide, I am certain the police examiners could have determined that, too.”
“Only if they were allowed to investigate,” Grandfather said, drily.
“What?” I felt a slow burn of anger rising in me. “If no one else can find out who killed him, I will.”
“Oh yes, that is an excellent plan. Investigate, and maybe you can catch the eye of whoever murdered your brother. If you can get yourself killed quickly enough, then maybe your parents can get a discount on the second funeral. Don’t be more of an idiot than you have to be.”
“Are you saying you don’t want me to look into this?” I studied him for a moment. “It was you who sent me the weapons. No one knew where I was, but you would have had no trouble finding me.” Little happened in Edo my grandfather didn’t know about. He had retired years before, but his name was still whispered in terror throughout the city. The Tiger in the Shadows. That was a fearsome nickname. Why couldn’t I have one like that instead of Sleeping Tiger?
He raised his eyebrows. “Why would I want you to look into your brother’s death? Maybe I sent the weapons because I thought it would raise the spirits of your grieving mother for her to know she still has a living son.” With a virtuous expression on his face, he continued, “After all, I am known far and wide for my soft heart.”
I coughed to keep from snorting.
Grandfather gave me a nasty look. “What took you so long to get here? I sent the weapons out early this morning. I’ve been expecting you all day.”
I shook my head, not trusting myself to answer him. With a hmmmph, he left the room.
The padre stepped forward, looking a little shaken. Neither my grandfather nor my father was Christian. My grandfather, in particular, was a zealous enforcer of the law, but he pretended blindness to anything to do with Christianity within the family. Still, it was never a good idea to take the old man for granted. You could never tell what he would take it in mind to do.
My mother gazed at the door where Grandfather had exited. “Your grandfather is a good man,” she said.
Gracia and I stared at her in shock.
“He protects us and tries to help us, even when he doesn’t understand us,” she continued.
“I had better leave,” the padre said. “I don’t want to be here if your grandfather comes back.”
I moved to stop him. “Wait. I want to know about anything Estêvão might have been doing that could have led to someone hiring an assassin.”
The priest looked back over his shoulder in the direction my grandfather had left, then turned back. “I can think of only one possibility. If you come to the memorial service tonight, I will introduce you to someone who can tell you more.” He shook his head sadly. “But consider, Paulo, do you truly want to follow this path? I fear where it might lead.”
I looked away and didn’t answer.
He left the room.
My mother said reproachfully, “What are you doing, Paulo? You heard your grandfather. It could be dangerous for you to ask around about Estêvão’s death.”
“Mother, we are told not to let the right hand know what the left is doing. That old man is so twisted the middle finger of his right hand has no idea what the ring finger is up to. I gave up trying to understand his thinking years ago.”
I turned and knelt by the corpse of my brother. “Estêvão, I will discover who killed you. I swear this before God. And God help him when I find him.”
My mother looked at me disapprovingly, “ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ ” she quoted. “Don’t take it onto yourself, Paulo.”
I stood. “I stopped being a Christian years ago, and I intend to find and kill whoever murdered my brother.”
“We should not be arguing in here, Paulo. Come, I will prepare some food, and you can meet your niece and nephews.” She left the room.
Niece and nephews?
Alone with my sister-in-law, the silence stretched out uncomfortably. I knelt down and refastened Estêvão’s clothing, hiding the terrible wounds. I placed the swords beside him. When I finished, I sat back on my heels.
Gracia finally spoke. “Thank you for coming back for Estêvão, and thank you for explaining the truth of his death.”
I gave a barking laugh. “My explanation was hardly needed. I am sure Grandfather would have gotten around to telling everyone—eventually.” After a short pause, I continued, “I didn’t come back just for Estêvão. I was worried about Mother … and you.”
Finally daring to look her in the face, I said, “I want to apologize to you for my last words to you and Estêvão.”
Her lips tightened and she looked down.
“I was angry, but marrying Estêvão was the right decision. He was the best match for you. I stumble from one disaster to another. I would have made a terrible husband. He always had much better judgement.”
Gracia nodded. “That is what your mother said.” She raised her head and looked me in the eyes. “I truly did care for you, but, the things you were doing … you left me no choice.”
The sun coming in from the window illuminated her flawless complexion. She looked like an angel.
I forced my eyes away, then said more softly, “What was he doing that could have ended like this, Gracia?”
She shook her head, eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know—I really don’t.”
Still crying, she left the room, as I sat and stared at my brother with blind eyes. Finally, I stood and left the room to join Mother.