Laura Rowland: The Ronin’s Mistress

Bled dry and washed clean, the neck smoothly severed, Kira’s head looked like a wax prop from a Kabuki play. Sano caught himself thinking how lifelike the details were-the yellowed teeth, the age spots, the gray hairs, the scar on the crown, and the white, wrinkled skin. The mouth hung open; the eyelids drooped. Sano hardly recognized Kira, the prim, stiff-lipped man he’d known.

Sano’s party stared in dumbfounded shock.

Hirata broke the silence and addressed the forty-seven ronin. “This is the shogun’s sosakan-sama .” He indicated Sano. “Which of you is the leader?”

“I am,” said the man standing nearest to Lord Asano’s tomb. “My name is Oishi Kuranosuke.” His voice had the raspy sound of diseased lungs. “I was Lord Asano’s chief councilor.”

He was in his forties, lean but broad-shouldered. Although his pallor was gray with fatigue, his fierce eyes glittered as if from an inner fire. He reminded Sano of statues of guardian deities in temples. The candlelight on their eyes imbued their carved wooden figures with life.

Oishi gestured at his comrades. “These were Lord Asano’s other men.” The other forty-six ronin stood as motionless as the grave markers, except for the youngest, who strode to Oishi’s side. “This is my son, Chikara.”

The two men shared the same long nose, slanted brows, flared nostrils, and thick, firm mouth. But Chikara’s face was still soft with youth, his build sturdy. The ferocity in his eyes seemed a deliberate imitation of his father. It flickered on and off, as though he couldn’t keep up the act.

“Which of you killed Kira?” Sano asked.

“I did.” Oishi spoke quietly. “But we were all in on it together.”

He and his comrades radiated savage pride. Although they’d freely publicized their crime, Sano was nonetheless surprised by their candor. “Are you aware that the shogun forbade action against Kira and your vendetta was therefore illegal?”

“We are,” Oishi said.

“Then why did you do it?” Sano asked.

“We had to avenge Lord Asano’s death. It was our duty.”

That was the stock answer Sano had expected, but he heard something in Oishi’s voice, a faint dissonance of tone. He sensed that the man’s words were true, but perhaps not entirely. “What else?”

“Nothing,” Oishi said, adamant.

Sano perceived a wrongness in the air, like a smell. The silence among the ronin was unnerving. They looked eerily alike, even though their ages, shapes, and facial features varied. They seemed part of one monstrous creature, with Oishi clearly the brains.

“Why are you standing here?” Sano said. “Why didn’t you commit seppuku ?” Ritual suicide was mandatory for illegal vendettas, which the law considered murder. “Or run away?”

“We’re awaiting orders,” Oishi said.

Sano frowned in puzzlement. “Orders from whom?” He felt as if he were caught in a nightmare whose events didn’t follow ordinary logic. “To do what?”

“We’re awaiting orders,” Oishi repeated. The other ronin nodded.

“What’s going on?” Sano demanded.

“We avenged our master’s death. Our mission is accomplished.” Oishi’s words sounded stiff and formal, recited. Although none of his men spoke, Sano could almost hear cheers shouted from their minds.

“Well, you’re all under arrest,” Sano said. “You’re coming with us.”

He braced himself for the ronin ’s reaction. He craved a battle even though there had been enough violence for one day. Marume, Fukida, and his other troops stirred, ready for a fight. Hirata alone remained calm. Sano still wanted a chance to be a hero, to regain his lost standing, and although nothing he’d seen of the forty-seven ronin indicated that they would resist arrest, their behavior was so peculiar that he couldn’t predict what would happen.

Oishi gave Sano a long, enigmatic look. A moment passed. Salty, metallic blood scented the air. Then Oishi nodded to his comrades. Without protest, the forty-seven ronin let Sano’s troops escort them from the temple.

Relief and disappointment trickled through Sano.

“That was a little weird,” Fukida said as he and Sano and Marume and Hirata followed their prisoners out.

Marume laughed. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

“Where are we going to put them?” Hirata asked.

“That’s a good question,” Sano said. Edo Jail was reserved for commoners. Samurai criminals were usually kept under house arrest, but these didn’t have a proper home. They’d lost it after the house of Asano had been dissolved.

“At least the case is closed,” Hirata said.

“Maybe not.” Sano had a hunch that it wasn’t. And he suspected that his hunch was more than just wishful thinking.

Dressed in padded robes and bundled in quilts, Reiko and Chiyo rode through the city in a palanquin carried by four bearers. Mounted guards from Sano’s army accompanied them. Masahiro rode with the guards. Reiko looked out the window at him and smiled.

“He’s so proud to have his first horse,” she said.

“He’s already so good at riding,” Chiyo said.

Reiko wasn’t sure he could control the horse, a brown stallion that seemed far too big. He might be thrown and get hurt. She felt a tender pain in her heart because soon he would be grown up; she couldn’t keep him safe at home forever.

After a short, cold journey, her procession arrived at the south end of the Nihonbashi Bridge. Quays and warehouses spread along riverbanks lined with boats. Because the bridge was the starting point for the five major roads leading out of town, the area was crammed with inns and shops. Today Reiko saw few travelers in the snow-covered streets. Along the block to which Okaru’s letter had directed Reiko, cheap inns stood side by side, enclosed by bamboo fences. The proprietors looked out their gates in hope of customers. One gate had a tattered paper lantern, which sported a crudely painted dragonfly crest, suspended from its roof. There Reiko’s procession stopped. Her chief bodyguard, the homely, serious Lieutenant Tanuma, announced her to the innkeeper.

“This is Lady Reiko, the wife of the shogun’s sosakan-sama . She’s here to see one of your guests, a woman named Okaru.”

The innkeeper had a mouth that was puckered as if he’d just drunk vinegar. “All right, but please be quiet. My other guests arrived late last night, and they’re still asleep.”

Reiko and Chiyo, Masahiro and Lieutenant Tanuma, followed the innkeeper through a passage to a small garden buried under snow and surrounded by guest rooms in small, shabby wooden buildings. The innkeeper pointed to a room on the right. “She’s in there.”

Reiko and her companions waded through the snow and mounted the steps to the veranda. She knocked on the door. After a moment it was opened by a tall, broad, mannish-looking woman dressed in a brown-and-black-striped kimono and black trousers. A faint mustache darkened her upper lip. She gazed down at Reiko.

“Who are you?” Her voice was high, feminine, and unfriendly.

Disconcerted, Reiko said, “My name is Reiko. I-”

A little scream came from inside the room. A girlish voice said, “It’s Lady Reiko! Let her in, let her in!”

The mannish woman stood aside. Reiko, Chiyo, and Masahiro slipped past her; Lieutenant Tanuma waited on the veranda. The room was barely larger than a closet. Baggage lay stacked against the wall; bedding overflowed from the cabinet. The girl who’d spoken knelt on the floor beside a charcoal brazier, holding a comb. Her long black hair hung damply around her shoulders. She wore a pale pink robe, the sash loose. She’d evidently just bathed. The sweet fragrance of a clean young woman scented the air.