Bundori: A Novel of Japan (13 page)

Noguchi read aloud the account of the aftermath of Oda Nobunaga’s death.

“Yamazaki. General Toyotomi Hideyoshi, having received the news of Lord Oda’s death, immediately embarked on a seven-day march through wind and rain to seek vengeance upon the traitorous Akechi Mitsuhide.”

“Oh, my,” Noguchi interrupted himself. “Here is one of the names you seek.”

“Let me see!” Impatient with the archivist’s slow, ritualistic reading, Sano took the scroll from Noguchi.

“Among the force accompanying Hideyoshi were his commander, Endō Munetsugu, and General Fujiwara, one of Lord Oda’s most loyal retainers. The retribution they dealt Akechi was swift. After destroying Akechi’s small army, they killed Akechi as he fled, pleading in vain for mercy, through the fields.

“Then, on the crest of their glorious victory, General Fujiwara suddenly turned his troops upon Endō Munetsugu. Wielding his two swords, which had guards wrought in the image of death’s-heads, the great General Fujiwara cut down Endō’s soldiers, leaving carnage in his wake, and suffered grievous losses in turn. These two allies had become bitter enemies because-”

Here, to Sano’s distress, the scroll had deteriorated. Bits of moldy paper, covered with faded, fragmented characters, flaked away in his hands. He unrolled the scroll’s intact lower portion, only to find that subsequent passages contained no mention of General Fujiwara, Endō Munetsugu, or Araki Yojiemon. He and Noguchi checked the other scrolls in the chest and found references to the three men-all mere short entries that listed them as participants in various battles.

“I believe I remember seeing something in here… ” Noguchi opened a “To Be Sorted” chest, handling each scroll as if it were a fragile living thing. Sano opened the other. A thorough search yielded a single but intriguing find, dated a year and a half after the last.

Kyōto. The twentieth day of the twelfth month was one of heavy snow and bitter wind. As midnight approached, General Fujiwara and thirty of his men advanced on Araki Yojiemon’s mansion. They smashed the gate’s heavy timbers with a huge. mallet. Then, as half his men scaled the estate’s back and side walls, General Fujiwara led the rest on a frontal assault, storming through the gate like a legion of avenging gods.

Araki’s retainers awoke from their slumbers and engaged General Fujiwara’s force in a violent battle. Walls splintered, windows tore, and beams toppled. Blood flowed and cries pierced the night as fighters on both sides fell dead.

But although the Fujiwara contingent fought bravely, alas, they were sadly outnumbered. They never penetrated Araki’s private chamber. Forced to retreat, General Fujiwara fled the house into the snowy night to his waiting horse, barely escaping with his life. General Fujiwara vowed to slay Araki, but; never did. He took ill the following month, and died.

“General Fujiwara evidently bore a grudge against both Endō and Araki,” Sano said thoughtfully. “Could the Bundori Killer be one of his descendants, who has resumed the feud by killing Araki and Endō?”

“But why now, after so many years?” Noguchi’s forehead wrinkles climbed his scalp.

Sano pondered the question. “Maybe none of Fujiwara’s sons cared enough about the feud to jeopardize their own positions or risk their own lives by committing murder. Maybe the present-day Fujiwara is braver than his forebears, or has a stronger sense of filial duty. Or perhaps he’s mad.”

“Perhaps. But if he’s not mad, then what grievance could be so important? What could Araki and Endō have done to earn the Fujiwara clan’s permanent animosity?”

Sano ran a hand over the scroll, as if by doing so he could divine the answers. Without them, his theory lacked substance. It linked Araki Yojiemon and Endō Munetsugu to a man who had wanted them both dead. It offered an explanation for why someone might have wanted to kill Kaibara and Tōzawa. But the records. gave no motive sufficient to justify the gruesome murders-or the assassination attempt on himself-committed more than a hundred years after General Fujiwara’s death. Still, the theory was the best Sano had.

“I must locate General Fujiwara’s descendants who now live in or near Edo,” he said. “Until proven otherwise, they’re all murder suspects. Will you help me find them?”

Noguchi cringed, obviously wanting no further involvement with the murder investigation. Sano waited. Then, as he’d hoped, the archivist’s eyes began to shine.

“That would be a formidable task,” Noguchi said with cautious relish. “Examining the old family lineages, then searching the census records at the Ministry of Temples and Shrines… Oh, my.” Eagerly he rubbed his hands together.

Sano smiled in relief and affection. The thrill of the hunt had overcome Noguchi’s fear of Chamberlain Yanagisawa. “I know it’s asking a lot, but can you get the names for me by tomorrow?” Sano asked, rising to go. “Lives are at stake.” His own included, he thought.

Face alight with zeal, Noguchi rose and drew his pudgy body up to its full, insignificant height. “Tomorrow, if it is humanly possible, I will have them for you.” For once he exhibited a hint of samurai steel as he girded himself for battle in his chosen arena.

As Noguchi saw him out the door, Sano felt, for the first time since he’d begun the investigation, the fire of certainty. He was finally making progress that he could report to the shogun, the elders, and Chamberlain Yanagisawa at the council meeting tomorrow. He only regretted that the evening’s unexpected, time-consuming events had prevented his meeting with Aoi.

Then, before he’d reached the gate, Noguchi called his name. Sano turned.

“
Gambatte kudasai
,” Noguchi said solemnly. Do your best, and good luck. “But know this: Yanagisawa will almost certainly make sure that you do not succeed. And the shogun, who does not tolerate failure, will distance himself from you. If you persist, you may find yourself a
rōnin
again-or worse-in no time at all.”

When Sano didn’t answer, Noguchi continued, “Sometimes the truth is dangerous to seek, and even more dangerous to know. Unfortunately that is a lesson some men must learn over and over again. But I fear that this time you will suffer enough to fix it in your mind permanently. Good night, Sano-
san
.”

At Sano’s mansion, the guards bowed and opened the gate for him. A yawning stableboy led his horse away. Inside, a lantern burned in the entryway, but the rest of the house was dark, silent. As Sano walked toward his bedchamber, carrying Tōzawa’s swords to put away for safekeeping, the creak of the floor under his feet echoed in the chill, deserted corridor. Where were the servants? Not that he required their attentions; he wasn’t hungry, and he could prepare his own bath and bed. But he always dreaded this solitary homecoming. And tonight his melancholy went deeper because of his disappointment over not seeing Aoi, which he tried to dismiss as purely professional. He didn’t want to admit he’d been looking forward to her company all day.

Then he stopped when he reached the main reception room and saw its paper walls aglow with light. Curious, he slid open the door.

Inside, Aoi knelt before her altar, where candles burned and the smoking incense saturated the air with its musky sweetness. Sunken charcoal braziers sent up warm fumes. As Aoi returned his gaze with one solemn and serene, her odd beauty caught at Sano’s heart. His depression disappeared; suddenly, he felt extraordinarily alive. A dark thrill of excitement prickled his skin. His house had been transformed into a temple, with Aoi enthroned as a living goddess ready to receive his prayers or offerings. His rational, intellectual self withdrew into slumber. He didn’t question how Aoi had known to come to him, or how she’d gotten into his house. He simply responded to her implicit invitation.

He moved forward and knelt before the altar, placing Tōzawa’s swords upon it. The world shrank to a hazy, glowing space that contained only this room, himself, and Aoi. Breathlessly he awaited her response.

She picked up the long killing-sword first, stroking its worn hilt and scabbard with gentle, probing fingers. Sano involuntarily imagined her hands caressing him. When she slowly unsheathed the blade, his manhood grew erect inside his loincloth. A pulse of desire drove hot blood through his veins as she brought the sword to her mouth and licked the gleaming steel. She repeated the process with the short sword, and Sano stared. Eyes half-closed in concentration, throat arched, she looked as though she shared his pleasure.

Now Aoi returned the swords to their scabbards and balanced them both on her palms. Her inarticulate moans intensified Sano’s excitement. Then came laughter-hearty, male, and startling.

“By the gods!” She stared from side to side. “Yoshiwara is all they say it is. Look at those beauties in the windows!”

Everything about her was completely samurai. Her brash voice; the swagger of her shoulders as she pantomimed walking; the insolent leer she aimed at the imaginary courtesans. Tōzawa’s spirit inhabited her body. Sano could almost see the
rōnin
walking toward him. Like an expert actor, Aoi somehow even managed to evoke the pleasure quarter’s bustling gaiety.

Aoi laughed Tōzawa’s laugh again. Her body jiggled like the stout
rōnin
’s must have. “Oh, yes, this is the right place for a man to end a long journey!”

Long journey: Tōzawa’s trip from his native province to Edo. Aoi’s evocation of the murdered man reaffirmed Sano’s belief in her powers.

“And the woman I had in Yoshiwara was the right one to be my last.” Aoi’s face lost its masculine cast to take on a new and disturbingly familiar aspect. She smiled in a maternal, yet flirtatious fashion. Her body seemed to gain a heavy ripeness of flesh. With a jolt, Sano recognized Sparrow, the prostitute he’d interviewed.

“You’re troubled, aren’t you? Would you like to tell me about it?”

Given his past experience with Aoi’s powers, hearing the words Sparrow had spoken to him shouldn’t have surprised Sano. But the rational part of his mind rebelled against this new assault by the supernatural. The incense choked his lungs.
Enough
! he wanted to cry.

Aoi replaced the swords on the altar. Cupping her bosom in both hands, she kneaded the full breasts; her fingers teased the nipples.

“Come,” she murmured, smiling in fond encouragement. “Suckle at my breasts, master. Take your pleasure and your comfort from me.” Her kimono rustled as she parted her knees. “Enter my heavenly chamber.” Her voice dropped to a soothing, yet seductive whisper. “Forget your cares for one night. Come to me now.”

A fresh onslaught of desire overrode Sano’s urge to stop the ritual. As his carnal self goaded him to sweep aside the altar and take Aoi, he fought physical need and addressed the spirit.

“Tōzawa-
san
. After you left Yoshiwara, what happened?”

Sparrow’s look left Aoi’s face. Her hands dropped from her breasts and took up the swords again. Tōzawa’s visage returned, distorted with anger and outrage.

“I started walking toward Edo,” Tōzawa’s voice said. “I was tired. Drunk. He caught me while I was undoing my loincloth to make dung. I went for my swords, but that miserable thief at the Great Joy had stolen them from me. And then I-a poor, defenseless
rōnin
-lost my life, all that I had left in the world after my lord dismissed me.”

Aoi’s face crumpled, and her chest heaved with a man’s wrenching, tortured sobs.

How could she speak of Tōzawa’s loosened loincloth, confiscated swords, and master less status except through a mystical bond with the spirit world? Awe and fear sharpened Sano’s desire even as he recoiled from her. His groin pounded with his need for her. What must it be like to possess a woman of such powers?

“Did you see your killer?” he asked.

A shake of the head; more sobs. “No. Too dark.”

“Wait. Don’t go yet!”

For Aoi’s sobs were diminishing, her face becoming once again calm, serene, and female as Tōzawa’s spirit left her body.

Sano watched, disappointed but nevertheless relieved, as she laid down the swords. How undisciplined he was to experience sexual arousal when he should have been concentrating on the investigation! Now, remembering last night’s debacle, he took the label from his sash and cautiously handed it to Aoi.

When the paper touched her palm, she closed her eyes; her body swayed. But she had herself under control.

“I see a five-petaled flower,” she whispered. “Painted on banners on the walls of a castle on a riverbank.”

Filled with awe, her eyes gazed into the distance. “The castle is under siege. Bombs explode beneath the walls. The enemy troops fire guns from rafts on the river, from tall wooden towers on the banks. From inside the castle walls, the defenders shoot back, killing many.”

Reflected in her eyes, the flickering candle flames mimicked the explosions and gunfires. “But the enemy has blockaded the castle; they will starve the defenders into defeat. That night, a brave scout leaves the castle and swims the river to seek help. Will he succeed?”

Enlightenment burst upon Sano as he recognized the scenario as the Battle of Nagashino, and the five-petaled flower as Oda Nobunaga’s crest. As one of Oda’s trusted men, General Fujiwara had surely fought at Nagashino. Aoi’s vision linked the murderer with him and that violent past, lending credence to Sano’s theory.

“But that was long ago.” Aoi’s hand trembled beneath the label as if under a great weight. “Now I see a man crossing a high bridge over a wide river. He passes great piles of wood, and canals with logs floating in them. He continues through fields and marshes. He carries a basket with a head in it. He reaches his house and goes inside. He washes the head, drives a spike through it, paints its face.”

Sano realized with a flare of jubilation that she was seeing the Bundori Killer. “Where is this house?” he demanded.

Her eyes scanned the distance. “In the marshes. Where two canals meet. It looks… like a samurai’s helmet.”

Sano saw her vision clearing, her trance dissolving. “Wait!” he pleaded. “Is the killer there now? Can you see his face? Whose head is it?” In his urgency, he leaned across the altar toward Aoi.

“Tomorrow… ” She spoke the barely audible word on a sigh. “He will go to the house tomorrow night. At the hour of the dog… ”

She laid the label on the altar, and her own persona gazed calmly out from her luminous eyes. Sano sat back as his galloping heartbeat subsided. The hand he passed over his face came away damp with sweat. His loins ached dully with unsatisfied desire; his mind clamored with unanswered questions. Still, he’d gained more facts to report to the Council of Elders tomorrow, and another lead to pursue.

“Hirata and I will search for the house and try to capture the killer there tomorrow night,” he said, striving for nonchalance in the face of Aoi’s aloof poise.

“Do you wish to discuss what you’ve learned about the murders today?”

Aoi’s husky murmur posed an irresistible invitation. Gladly Sano described his discoveries-as much to extend his time with her as to seek new insights. Her unwavering attention and apparently genuine interest drew every detail from him. And while his desire lost its edge as he warmed to his recital, he felt the current of attraction flowing between them.

“I think General Fujiwara’s feud is the key to the murders,” he finished. “But I couldn’t find a reason for his attacks on Araki and Endō, or any explanation why the killer should choose to satisfy a blood score after all this time.”

Aoi interrupted eagerly on his last phrase. “Kaibara was an old man, and the last of his family.”

“So if the killer hadn’t acted soon enough, Kaibara would have died a natural death, and the Fujiwara clan would have lost forever the chance to take revenge on the Araki. Then, having tasted victory, the killer took the next logical step by attacking the Endō clan.” Sano followed Aoi’s line of thought to its conclusion, once again impressed by her deductive ability. But for her, would he have ever seen the significance of Kaibara’s age and status? Spontaneously he said,”Thank you, Aoi. You’re the best partner a man could ask for.”

To his astonishment, she looked as though he’d hit her: hurt, and somehow ashamed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She bowed her head, and he felt her withdraw from him as before. What caused her strange mood shifts? Fearing that she would retreat farther into herself, he didn’t press for an explanation. “I think you were right when you said that the killer wanted to destroy both Kaibara and his ancestor,” he said, eager to reestablish their rapport. “If you have more ideas, I want to hear them.”

“I’m sorry, I have none.” Aoi’s low voice was strained. She removed the swords and label from the altar, placing them on the floor. “May I go now?”

“Wait.” Sano sensed she was withholding something-and he didn’t want her to leave him alone.

She stayed, but only out of obedience, he could tell, her reserve impenetrable in its polite blankness. He decided he’d wrongly perceived a mutual attraction between them. Out of pride-and respect for her wishes-he wouldn’t force her to stay. But the late hour, the quiet house, and his own loneliness fostered in him an overpowering urge to confide in someone.

“Aoi. I need whatever help you can give. This investigation is important to me, and not just because the Bundori Killer must be captured and brought to justice.”

He detected a glimmer of response in her eyes: She was not indifferent to his plight. Encouraged, he continued.

“Before my father died, I-” His voice broke on the grief that always overwhelmed him when he spoke of his father. He paused while his tears blurred the flickering candles and he struggled to contain his emotions. “I promised him that I would perform a heroic act that would secure our family a place of honor in history. But now I’m afraid of bringing disgrace upon our name, instead of glory.”

Then his face went hot with shame. A proper samurai stoically hid private thoughts. Somehow Aoi had inspired him to voice his, and how wonderful the release of it! But wouldn’t she despise him for his cowardice? Yet the deep empathy he saw in her eyes surprised and warmed him.

“We make commitments that are hard to keep,” she said quietly. “And sometimes the biggest obstacles are within ourselves. Can we ever be strong enough to overcome them?”

Behind her enigmatic facade, Sano glimpsed a woman capable of understanding the conflict between duty and self that warred in him. She’d experienced it, too. And the cautious wonder in her eyes mirrored his dawning recognition of a kindred soul. For a timeless interval, they contemplated one another in
ishin-denshin
: the wordless, heart-to-heart communication so prized in a society that left deep feelings unspoken. A wild mixture of elation and dread swelled Sano’s heart. What he felt for Aoi, he’d never felt for any woman before. It went beyond sexual desire and inflamed his spirit with a fierce joy; it obliterated all considerations of rank and class.

And terrified him. Because although love affairs were common for members of his class, he knew that many a samurai had let an unwise romantic infatuation wreak havoc with his finances, distract him from duty, and weaken his character, thereby ruining his future prospects. Sano thought of all the financial and political advantages of marrying into the Ueda family. That these seemed less attractive than the thought of taking Aoi to his bed, of knowing her in every way, signaled the danger of giving his emotions free rein.

Then Aoi stood. Before she bolted for the door, Sano saw her eyes turn glassy with horror. That she seemed to welcome their changed relationship even less than he both hurt and reassured him. For the sake of the investigation, he must see her again; but for his own good, they must never cross the boundary between work and love.