Dragonfly, p.18
Dragonfly, page 18
“She was gloating, but I barely noticed. She was right, of course. And I knew it. I had nothing. Not a shred of evidence. And if I had, I doubted I would have used it against her. My heart and my spirit were broken, Soru. I had betrayed my Father, brought the name of our family into dishonor. I wanted nothing more than to get away from the house that had been my home. Away from her and her brother both. If I had not, I think in my madness I would have killed them both, and probably the twins as well. I had to go, otherwise the blood of innocents would have been on my hands. I knew what I had to do, and I was prepared to do it. I had to walk away from my heritage. Leave Chiaki and her bastards to inherit what was rightfully mine. Better that than hate myself for the rest of my life.”
“So that is why you renounced your past life. And that was how you came to become a wokou.” Finally, everything was clear.
Fuma looked at me in surprise. He said, “Oh, no. My decision to become a wokou was much later. And really, it had very little to do with Chiaki.”
Twenty-Three
Have you ever seen
A rainbow arc the ocean?
It is the gods’ gift!
I do not think of myself as being dull-witted. How could I when my venerable sensei had often remarked that he wished all his pupils were as quick on the uptake as I was? But for once, I was dumbfounded. I had thought we had got to the nub of things. That Fuma’s pitiful tale was told, and that now I knew everything that had troubled him, he—and we—could move on.
And now he was telling me I was wrong. How could this be?
Before I could ask a single one of the questions that crowded my brain, Fuma reached out and stroked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was soft, but his fingers were very cold, and I was sure I felt a slight tremor in his hands. I stared at him so intently, it bordered on rudeness, and as I did so, I understood how very much it had cost him to tell me his story.
He spoke softly. “Thank you for listening to me, Soru. I was truly the most foolish of men. Looking back, I can’t understand my own behavior. Chiaki was pretty enough, to be sure. And a very good actress. But I had slept with women far more beautiful and skilled than she was and felt nothing at all for them. You’re a woman. Can you explain how she came to bewitch me?”
I stared at the rumpled futon. If I didn’t look at Fuma, but just listened to his voice, I still felt that I had traveled back in time and was in the presence of my own lost love, Akira. Anger was a pain in my guts. If Fuma thought he had been stupid for the sake of love, how intensely naïve and foolish was I? I had been willing to forsake my heritage, to give up my hard-earned and rightful place as a warrior woman of the samurai for Akira’s sake.
And when I had done what I knew was right, and followed the code of bushido instead of taking the easy option and staying at his side, what had been my reward? Akira had tried to crush me. To take my spirit and squeeze it until I was nothing but an empty husk, a traitor to myself and all that my heritage represented. And now? If Akira suddenly appeared at my side and told me he was sorry, that he had been wrong. If he begged for my forgiveness and told me it was still not too late for us to begin afresh, what would I say to him? I did not know the answer, and I was bewildered. Partly to cover my own confusion, I smiled at Fuma and spoke gently.
“Love doesn’t care who she touches. According to the great poets, although love can cause a pain more intense than any physical wound, the few who have suffered for her sake know that they have been blessed.”
The words sounded like romantic nonsense to me, but for some reason, Fuma seemed to think I was right. He squared his slumped shoulders and when he lifted his head, I saw a light in his eyes that was new to me.
“I am a fortunate man, Soru. The gods cursed me with a love that was false, but I wonder now if I have been given a second chance?” He paused and smiled, shaking his head as if he no longer knew what he wanted to say. A frown creased his brow as he said, “I am sorry, I’m thinking of nothing but myself. Are you hungry? Would you like to go ashore? The men will have eaten, but there will be plenty left for us, I’m sure.”
I could smell the aromas of fire-seared meat and fish and my stomach rumbled, reminding me sharply that it had been many hours since I had eaten. But Fuma looked spent, on the verge of exhaustion. I did not want to ask him to go ashore, where he would not just eat food he didn’t want but would also be expected to chat with his men and appear cheerful. I could have gone alone, I suppose, but I was reluctant to leave him lonely with his thoughts. Beside, his final words had given me much to think about, and company would have disturbed my thoughts.
So, I lied. “No, I’m not in the least hungry. I couldn’t eat a thing. May I lie with you, Fuma? The night is becoming cold, and it would be good to share each other’s warmth.”
Fuma lay back at once, and I saw his body relax. He threw the kakebuton aside and I snuggled against him. At least I had not lied about that. The day had been hot and humid, and now that night had fallen, it did feel cold. Fuma’s body was icy. Everywhere I pressed against him I chilled my own flesh.
By the time I had made myself comfortable, he was fast asleep. His breathing was light, his body relaxed. I envied him. Sleep would not come to me. My mind was in turmoil, and because of my tormenting thoughts, my muscles were wound as tightly as if I was preparing for battle.
There was so much that remained to be told. More than once, I raised myself on my elbow, staring at Fuma’s face, as if my glance could awaken him and make him talk. But still he slept. Peacefully, like a child. Finally, I laid down and tried to prepare myself for sleep. We would talk again in the morning, before we sailed. He could tell me the rest of it then.
My mind made up, I concentrated on sleeping. I closed my eyes firmly, telling myself that this was the time for no more than sleep. But as soon as my eyelids dropped, all I could think of was Chiaki.
He had said she was delicate. A tiny thing that appeared to be made of the finest porcelain. Pretty and feminine. My stomach clenched sourly. She was completely different from me. When I was a child, my beautiful sister Emiko had persisted in telling me that I was ugly. Because of her, I had grown up believing that I was too tall to be beautiful, and that I was gawky and terribly drab. As a result of her stinging words, I got into the habit of hunching my shoulders to make myself appear smaller and pushing my elbows back to try and reduce the size of my breasts. It was only much later that I learned that there are many types of beauty in this world, and that many men found me incredibly attractive.
But still, I was wildly jealous of the unknown Chiaki. If Fuma had stretched his hand out and touched me, I would have slapped it away. Because he did not, I wanted him to attempt to grab me and hold me tight by his side. I knew it was nonsense, but that did nothing to help. Perhaps because of the storm of emotions that raged inside me, I was aroused. I could have woken Fuma in subtle, loving ways.
But I did not. In my mind I could hear his voice as he came out of sleep, and forgetting it was I who lay next to him, he spoke the name that still haunted his dreams. Chiaki.
I would not be so foolish as to inflict such pain on myself. I turned over and wriggled, instructing my body to be tranquil. Chiaki had mattered to him. Did I matter as much? I did not know, and neither did I intend to risk finding an answer I would hate.
“Soru? What is it? Can’t you sleep?” Fuma’s voice. Blurred with sleep, but still unmistakably his voice. No longer did I think that Akira spoke to me with Fuma’s tongue, and I was glad of it.
“I was tired,” I said. “But when I tried to sleep, I found I was awake. It doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep. I’ll try not to disturb you again.”
I was surprised when Fuma laughed. A rich, strong laugh that was not the sound a defeated man would make. He propped himself up on his elbow so his face hovered over me and stared.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Soru. You will always disturb me. While ever I have breath in my body and flesh on my bones, you will always distract me, no matter what.”
“Now that’s a pretty turn of phrase for a scoundrel. For a wokou. Or is it the daimyo that you used to be that’s speaking?” I was bitter. Had he said the same words to Chiaki? For sure he had. And I had no intention of being a substitute for any woman, especially not one who made it her business to appear fragile and needy.
“Soru.” He whispered my name and I knew he had read my thoughts. Or was it that envy was written all too clearly on my face? Fuma had been a fool for his false lover; I was not going to be a fool for him in my turn. I hated my own body for flaming with desire for him. At least I could do something about that. I threw the kakebuton aside and got to my feet. I would walk away from him. Join the sailors on shore and see if there was food to satisfy at least one hunger.
Before I could take a step away, Fuma’s hand clenched my ankle. He must surely have caught me off balance. How else was it possible that he was able to tug me back down beside him?
“Let me go,” I said calmly. “I understand that you are upset, recalling your past love. It must have been deeply upsetting for you to talk about her, especially to another woman. I am grateful for all you have done for me, Fuma, but now I believe we are equal. You spared my life. I have allowed you to cleanse your conscience. I’ll spend the rest of the night on shore with the men.”
“I don’t think so, Keiko-chan.”
I was angry, not really listening. It took me a moment to realize he had called me Keiko, not Soru. Coming from his mouth, my name sounded odd. As if my shadow had walked into the cabin with no command from me and he was talking to it rather than me. I took a deep breath and let it out in a controlled hiss.
“I don’t recollect giving you permission to call me by that name, Fuma-san.” I spoke with deliberate courtesy. “I was introduced to you as Soru. While ever I am on board your ship, that is my name. Now, I have no wish to keep you awake any longer. You no doubt wish to sleep. I will go on land and sleep next to my comrades, your sailors.”
“I don’t think so,” he said again, but no name at all this time. Just a repeat of his last words. His hand was on my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his palm, the strength of his fingers. At any other time, I would have laughed and thrown my heart into enjoying our banter and the subsequent lovemaking that I knew was to follow. Tonight, the ghost of Chiaki hung close to me like persistent fog, blurring my vision and making everything indistinct. Only one thing was still clear to me.
I would not ever be second best to her. Nor to any woman, for that matter. I spoke brutally, hurting myself as much as Fuma.
“I believe you must have mistaken me. Are your dreams still heavy on your mind and your eyes? Do you perhaps see what you want to see? If that is the case, I must disillusion you. I am not Chiaki. I am not a porcelain doll with a pretty face and murder in her heart.”
I held up my hands, the fingers spread. My hands are large, but slender. Even when I thought of myself as ugly, I was always quietly proud of my hands. My fingers are long, the nails a perfect almond shape. Even now, when they were roughened by the sea and hard work, they were still shapely. But they could never be taken for the hands of a small woman. A woman who had never used them for anything but eating and drinking and pleasuring her man.
“Look at my hands, Fuma. Look at my face and be warned. I am onna-bugeisha. A warrior woman of the samurai. These hands have killed men. They are not be taken lightly. I have no fancy to stay and hear you call me by another’s name. I will go, and you should be thankful that that is my decision.”
I stood with a fluid grace that denied my aching limbs. Fuma did not try and stop me. I had anticipated that he would try, and furious that he did not. I had taken the few steps to the cabin door when his words stopped me as if the ability to move had been taken from me at the sound of his voice.
“I have never called you Chiaki, not even in my sleep. But you have called me by another name, Soru. You have called me Akira. When the opium held you fast, it was he you saw, not me. I did not challenge you then, but now surely I have the right to ask. Who was he who hurt you so very deeply that even in your dreams you call out for him?
Twenty-Four
To sleep. The breeze whispers, stay.
The sun coaxes me
To sleep. The breeze whispers, stay.
The sea demands, come
You should understand that this is just hearsay. But I have been told—by people who claim to have seen this strangest of sights with their own eyes —that there are certain places where things turn to stone by nothing more than the action of water.
They say that in these places, water flows gently over the mouth of a cave. It appears to be perfectly ordinary water. It can be drunk with no harm at all. But if any item—clothing, say, or a child’s toy—is left suspended in the dripping fall, then eventually, it will become petrified. Cloth will not just take on the appearance of stone, it will become stone. The process is so strange and perfect that people leave mementos of the dead, hung beneath the cliff, and wait until they are converted to stone before they take them down and return home with them, to be given a place of honor in memory of the beloved lost one.
Just as strange as this mysterious water was my sudden inability to move at all. In the same way as the petrifying water acted on cloth, I was stone. I found it difficult to even breathe, as if I was truly trying to breathe water instead of air.
Fuma rose from the futon and stood behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders and leaned down so I could feel his breath on my neck.
“Who is he, Soru? Who is Akira? What is he to you?”
I set my lips tightly. It appeared that I had made a very terrible error. I protested to myself that I had been in the grip of an opium dream. I had not even known I had spoken his name. Yet it was no use trying to convince myself. I was onna-bugeisha. Awake or asleep, I should have been in charge of my emotions. Fuma’s fingers massaged my shoulders gently, and I realized how tensely I was standing. I would not tell him. He had no right to know. Even as I thought it, I sighed. I was wrong, of course. Fuma was perhaps the only person in this whole world who did have that right. He had told me his heart’s secret things. It was only right that he should know my story in return.
“He was my lover.” I stared straight ahead. If Fuma tried to turn me to look at him, I would resist. He did not, but neither did his grip ease. I lifted my head and spoke defiantly. “He is yakuza, but not just any yakuza. He is the oyabun of the most dreaded yakuza gang in Edo. People will not speak his name for fear that somehow he will hear them and come to teach them a lesson for speaking of him behind his back. He controls rich and poor alike.”
“I have heard of him.” How very calm Fuma sounded. “His reputation has spread far from Edo. In fact, he is so famous that he has become a legend rather than a real man. Some people say he doesn’t exist at all, just as they say there is no longer any onna-bugeisha. They are obviously wrong on both counts. Tell me, how did you come to take him as your lover?”
I struggled for words. So much had happened to me in such a short time, it was difficult to know where to begin. And in any event, how could I explain to this man, who should have been a daimyo and almost as far above me in rank as the shogun himself, how a samurai came to be captivated by a monstrous yakuza? Suddenly, I was speaking urgently, as if my words had a life of their own.
“After my father and brother were killed, I pleaded with our daimyo, Lord Akafumu, to allow me to continue the line of the House of Hakuseki. I was the only one left. My men were all dead. My sister had married and taken her husband’s name. Akafumu laughed at me and refused me outright. He humiliated me and offended my ancestors. I swore I would get my revenge on him for his insult to both me and my ancestors, and I did.” I had spoken in a rush, and I was panting for air when I finally paused.
“Akafumu. Yes,” Fuma said thoughtfully. “My father knew him, but not well. He never cared for him. He said he was a greedy man who cared only for his own comforts in life and nothing at all for his people, who should have come first. When we heard that he had been taken with a strange illness, Father said it was the gods punishing him for his selfishness. I am pleased to have met the person the gods chose to give him that punishment.” I suspected Fuma was laughing at me, but I would not turn my head to look at his face. His voice was grave, and I would have to trust his words. “But what has Akira the yakuza to do with Lord Akafumu?”
“Nothing directly. But Akafumu was only the start for me. I dealt with him, but I soon found myself in a situation where I had made other enemies. Those men had nothing to do with the honor of my family. Their wrongs were personal. I soon found out that one of my enemies had also betrayed Akira’s father. This man was sure his betrayal was in the past and long forgotten. But yakuza have a code of honor of their own. To be sure, it appears strange to those of us who live by the code of bushido, but it is a code of honor all the same. I gave this man who was my enemy to Akira, and Akira was delighted to have found him again. That was the start of it. I can’t explain it to you. I still can’t explain it to myself. But I found Akira deeply attractive from the start.”
Fuma spoke thoughtfully. If there was any jealousy in his words, he hid it well. I was pleased I had not made my own jealousy of Chiaki plain. Had he known of it, no doubt he would have been amazed, and probably even amused.
“I suppose he was a very powerful man. And immensely rich. And I daresay you had never met anybody quite like him before. I can understand that you were attracted to him. He must have seemed very exotic to a well-bred samurai lady.”
