Laura Rowland - The Iris Fan

“It’s the middle of the night,” Reiko said. “Wait, we’ll work things out somehow.”

“Wait for how long? Until Masahiro gets Taeko with child? Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.” The last thing they needed was an illegitimate pregnancy. Reiko felt a stab of sorrow at the idea of a baby. She’d had a stillbirth four years ago. A part of her had never stopped mourning, although she tried not to let it show. Any little thing-the sight of a baby or a pregnant woman-could evoke painful memories of the circumstances of the stillbirth, which had been almost as traumatic as the baby’s death. And there had never been time to recover. Reiko was too busy, in charge at home while Sano and Masahiro were working. With fewer servants than when they’d lived at Edo Castle, she did housework, took care of Akiko, and helped Midori with her children. Now, while trying to cope with the problem of Masahiro and Taeko, she felt the empty ache inside her and fought tears.

“How could you let your son seduce my daughter?” Midori burst out. “Why didn’t you control him?”

“How could I?” Reiko spread her hands. “He’s a grown man.”

When samurai boys turned fifteen, they acquired all the duties and freedom of adults. Masahiro, like other honorable young men, respected his parents’ wishes, but if Reiko had told him to leave Taeko alone, he probably wouldn’t have listened. He could be just as stubborn as Sano-or herself.

“He lives under your roof,” Midori said. “You and your husband are responsible for what goes on here. How could you let this happen? Haven’t you hurt us enough already?” She was furious at Sano for reporting Hirata, Reiko knew. Midori had begged Sano to give Hirata another chance, even though Sano had already given Hirata many chances. “I hate you all!” Midori cried.

Reiko also knew that although Midori blamed Sano’s family for the fact that hers was homeless and disgraced, Midori blamed and hated Hirata-the husband who’d abandoned her and her children-most of all. “I’m sorry,” was all Reiko could say.

Midori’s anger dissolved into misery. “You’ve taken care of us when nobody else would and look how I’m acting! I don’t deserve your kindness. I just don’t know what to do!”

Taeko and Masahiro looked shaken; they realized how much worse they’d made a bad situation. Reiko took Midori in her arms and patted her back. She felt just as helpless; she didn’t know what to do, either. Along with the baby she’d lost her confidence, resourcefulness, and bold, adventurous spirit. She felt overwhelmed and afraid all the time, and now she was in charge during this new crisis.

“I’ll make sure that Masahiro and Taeko are never alone together again. All right?” Reiko aimed a stern glance at the couple.

Midori nodded, weeping against Reiko’s shoulder. Reiko understood that this was just a temporary solution to one problem. The bigger problem was Hirata. Only heaven knew what had become of him or what would happen when he was caught.

Every problem that both families had stemmed directly from Sano’s stubborn commitment to honor.

Month 4, Hoei Year 2

(April 1705)

A trill of birdsong pierced the black silence in which he floated. Falling water splashed in the distance, a cool breeze swept his skin, and wind chimes tinkled.

Hirata opened his eyes to soft, pale light. He was lying on a futon, alone in a small room. Through the open doors he saw a veranda with red railings and wooded hills veiled with fog. Twisted pines clung to rocky cliffs above a waterfall that cascaded like a spill of liquid silver. The breeze tinkled brass wind chimes hanging from the eaves. A red bird perched on the railing and trilled. The view had a serene, unearthly beauty.

Hirata had never seen it before, nor this room.

Confused, he kicked off the white quilt tangled around his legs. He was naked. Although his mind was fully alert, he couldn’t recall what he’d been doing before he fell asleep. He jumped out of bed. A white cotton kimono lay folded on the tatami.

Who had left it there? Whose house was this?

Hirata put on the kimono, then ran outside. The red bird flew away. The veranda jutted over empty space. On hills that sloped down to a valley were dark pines and trees with pink and white blossoms. Hirata searched for familiar landmarks and found none. He leaned over the railing and peered upward. The house was part of a temple built on a cliff. The tiers and spire of a pagoda rose above the curved roofs of other buildings.

What temple? How had he come to be here?

Into his mind seeped a dim memory of flashing blades, a sword battle with … Tahara and Kitano.

The rusty floodgate between past and present creaked open. He’d tried to kill Tahara and Kitano, to shut down the secret society and end its treasonous scheme. Details of the battle were hazy, but he knew he’d lost.

“Then why am I still alive?” Hirata said aloud.

Birdsong echoed across the valley. Hirata remembered lying strapped to a table in a cave while Tahara and Kitano chanted a spell, pressed a leather mask over his face, and fed fluid through a metal tube into a vein in his arm-some bizarre, unheard-of medical procedure. The smell of sweet chemicals was the last thing Hirata remembered.

What had they done?

Hirata flung open his robe and examined his body. It looked normal, with the long, puckered, familiar old scar on his left thigh. He pushed up his sleeves. On his left forearm was a small, round discoloration where the tube had pierced. He felt fine, but his eyes couldn’t tell him if he still had his martial arts skills, his supernatural powers.

Merciful gods, had they taken those away?

Hirata drew deep, slow breaths. Meditation aligned and amplified the mental, spiritual, and physical energies in him. Power flowed through nerves and muscles. He pointed his finger at the wind chimes. Each slender brass cylinder began to spin, one after another, on its string. Hirata exhaled with relief. Then he felt the pulse of an aura, the energy that all living things emitted. His trained senses identified its source as human. Each human had a unique aura that signaled his personality, health, and emotions. This one was a strong, booming, familiar cadence that struck fear into his heart. Reaching instinctively for his sword, forgetting that he was unarmed, Hirata whirled.

Two samurai, dressed in white martial arts practice jackets and trousers, strolled out onto the veranda. Their conjoined aura dissipated. They, unlike other creatures, could turn it on and off. They weren’t armed, either. They didn’t need weapons to kill.

“Somebody’s up and around,” said Tahara, in his voice that was both smooth and rough, like water flowing over jagged rocks. His deep black eyes twinkled. His left eyebrow arched higher than his right, lending his strong, regular features a rakish charm.

“It’s about time.” Kitano’s mouth moved, but the rest of his face was an immobile mesh of scars. Cuts sustained during a long-ago battle had severed his facial nerves. He was in his fifties, with gray hair and a robust physique that seemed impervious to aging.

“Where am I?” Hirata demanded.

“At the Sky Mountain Temple in Chikuzen Province,” Tahara said.

He and Kitano studied Hirata with an intense, eager interest. Hirata realized that someone was missing. “Where’s Deguchi?”

Deguchi was a Buddhist priest, the fourth member of the society. “Don’t you remember?” Kitano sounded concerned.

Now Hirata did. Deguchi had fought on his side in the battle against Kitano and Tahara. Memory served up an image of Deguchi’s dead, broken body. Hirata’s heart sank.