Laura Rowland - The Iris Fan

Midori’s disgusted expression said she remembered something very different. “You missed me so much that you abandoned me and let me live on charity from Sano and Reiko?”

“I didn’t want to,” Hirata protested.

“I suppose you didn’t want to choose those troublemaking friends of yours over me.” Midori’s voice was replete with scorn. “But you did anyway.”

“Things happened-” Another jab from General Otani silenced Hirata.

“Things always happen, and it’s never your fault, is it? You never take any responsibility for the things you do.”

“I’m here to take it now.” Hirata swallowed his pride. “I’m sorry.”

She stared, incredulous. “What good is apologizing? It won’t change the fact that you’re a wanted traitor, or that the children and I will share your punishment.”

The thought of the children drove another spear through Hirata’s heart. “How are Taeko and Tatsuo?” They would be almost grown up now. “And Chiyoko?” She wouldn’t remember him; she’d been a baby when he’d left.

“You don’t deserve to know.”

“But I’m their father.”

“You should have remembered that before you put their lives in jeopardy.”

Hirata fought despair. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you and the children?”

“Yes.” Angry tears sparkled in Midori’s eyes. “You can go kill yourself. Then maybe the government will be happy you’re gone and they’ll let me and the children live.”

She cared so little about him that she wanted him to die! “I tried to kill myself. But I couldn’t-” General Otani held his tongue before he could explain.

“Shut your mouth before any more nonsense comes out! I’m going home.”

Desperate to keep her with him, Hirata grabbed her arms. “Wait.”

“Let go!” As she tried to wrench away, Midori dropped her basket. Hirata held tight.

“Please! Forgive me!” His voice was hoarse with emotion and tears. He pulled Midori to him. “I love you so much.”

“Leave me alone!” She struggled and thrashed.

For years Hirata had felt no lust. Mystic martial arts training, and later his problems, had diminished his sex drive. But now it was revived by the softness of Midori’s body against him, the heat of her breath and anger. He was suddenly erect, wild with desire.

“Stop!” Midori cried. Terror filled her eyes as she twisted in his grasp. “Please!”

Hirata didn’t want to frighten her or hurt her, but he was so excited. He nuzzled her neck, caressed her body through her clothes, and groaned. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d experienced sexual release. A hunger that wasn’t his own fanned the fire of his need. The ghost inside him roared with excitement, urging him on. It had been even longer since General Otani had had sex. The ghost overpowered Hirata’s self-control. Hirata shoved Midori against a wall and yanked up her skirts.

Midori bit Hirata on the cheek. He shouted in pain. General Otani howled with rage. Hirata let go of Midori and staggered backward. Touching his cheek, he felt warm, wet blood. Midori pulled her skirts down and began to cry. Hirata’s desire vanished. He felt a shame and remorse so strong that they drowned out General Otani’s angry frustration.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t me, I didn’t mean to-”

Sobbing, Midori picked up her basket and flung it at Hirata. It struck his chest, then fell to the ground, spilling its contents. “I hate you!” she screamed. “I never want to see you again!”

She ran out of the alley. Hirata dropped to his knees amid the broken eggs, miserable, wishing he hadn’t seen Midori. It had only made things worse.

I told you so, muttered General Otani.

* * *

Inside the heir’s residence, servants scurried about, preparing for Lord Ienobu’s departure. They bundled up clothes and bedding, tied straw mats around furniture, nestled ceramic vases in straw in wooden crates. In the garden, porters loaded the packed items onto litters and carried them out of the castle. Lord Ienobu stood with Manabe in the empty reception chamber. His face was set in resolute lines; his protuberant eyes didn’t blink. Ignoring the people emptying his home, he was the still center of the storm.

Manabe watched Ienobu with concern. His master’s reaction to the crisis was unnatural, unnerving. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Ienobu said. “Don’t fuss over me like a nursemaid.”

Once Manabe had, in effect, been Ienobu’s nursemaid. They’d met forty-seven years ago, when Manabe was ten and Ienobu an infant. Manabe had been a page in the household of a retainer to Ienobu’s father, the now deceased Lord Tokugawa Tsunashige. Lord Tsunashige was the older brother of the current shogun. He’d fathered a baby on a chambermaid. The baby Ienobu’s birth was hushed up, lest it jeopardize Lord Tsunashige’s betrothal to a noblewoman. Ienobu was sent to live with the retainer, who would raise Ienobu as his own child. Manabe remembered the day the baby arrived and everyone had discovered why its existence needed to be kept secret.

The newborn Ienobu was deformed. Should the family of Lord Tsunashige’s fiancée find out, they would cancel the betrothal for fear that Lord Tsunashige had bad blood and would sire more defective children. Horrified by Ienobu’s misshapen body and face, the adoptive parents confined him to a separate wing of their house with a wet nurse, a maidservant, a bodyguard, and Manabe. The nurse, bodyguard, and maidservant, repulsed by Ienobu, gave him minimal attention. Manabe felt sorry for the poor little thing. He took over Ienobu’s care. It was Manabe who played with Ienobu, and held Ienobu’s hands while Ienobu learned, at the late age of four, to walk. He’d grown fond of Ienobu, and he’d discovered how clever Ienobu was. Ienobu had taught himself to read by the time he was six. By that time he already spoke with big words, and when other children teased him, he responded with devastating insults that made them cry. He’d never let abuse go unpunished.

Manabe was worried to see Ienobu so passive now. His long history with Ienobu allowed him to speak bluntly. “Yanagisawa and Yoshisato are set to take over the regime. Why are you just standing there with one foot in the grave?”

“This is just a temporary setback. They won’t win.”

“Yoshisato is the heir and Acting Shogun. He’ll be the real shogun, and probably soon.”

“He won’t,” Ienobu declared. “ I am destined to be the next shogun.”

Manabe remembered an eight-year-old Ienobu crawling out of a mud puddle where a gang of samurai had pushed him. Manabe had drawn his sword and been ready to do battle, but Ienobu had stopped him, saying, It doesn’t matter. I’ll be shogun someday. He’d always had a peculiar way of making the most outlandish things sound perfectly reasonable. From then on Manabe felt a commitment to Ienobu that went beyond a samurai’s usual duty to his master. Manabe was no longer just a caretaker of a deformed, unwanted child; he was the guardian of a future shogun. And soon there came a sign that it was true. Lord Tsunashige’s noble wife died; there was no more reason to keep secret the existence of his deformed only child; and Ienobu was recognized as Lord Tsunashige’s legitimate son and a true member of the Tokugawa ruling clan. He was eligible for the succession.

Thirty-nine years later, he still had that peculiar quality. But now, for the first time, Manabe wondered if Ienobu’s longtime sense of destiny was self-delusion.

“We kidnapped and imprisoned Yoshisato.” Manabe had denied it to Sano, but it was true. “Yoshisato knows. He has the shogun half convinced. You saw.”