Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [43]
“I’ve asked our house kami to watch over you,” Midori had said just before she left, referring to the particular Shinto spirit that had their house in his care, “and I’ve sent an offering to the Buddhist temple for prayers. I’ve told Suwo to be his most perfect, and sent a message to Kiku-san. Oh, Omi-san, please let me stay.”
He had smiled and sent her on her way, the tears spoiling her makeup.
Omi was sad to be without her, but glad that she had gone. The screams would have pained her very much.
His mother winced under the torment on the wind, moved slightly to ease the ache in her shoulders, her joints bad tonight. It’s the west sea breeze, she thought. Still, it’s better here than in Yedo. Too marshy there and too many mosquitoes.
She could just see the soft outline of Yabu in the garden. Secretly she hated him and wanted him dead. Once Yabu was dead, Mizuno, her husband, would be daimyo of Izu and would lead the clan. That would be very nice, she thought. Then all the rest of the brothers and their wives and children would be subservient to her and, of course, Mizuno-san would make Omi heir when Yabu was dead and gone.
Another pain in her neck made her move slightly.
“I’ll call Kiku-san,” Omi said, referring to the courtesan who waited patiently for Yabu in the next room, with the boy. “She’s very, very deft.”
“I’m all right, just tired, neh? Oh, very well. She can massage me.”
Omi went into the next room. The bed was ready. It consisted of over- and under-coverlets called futons that were placed on the floor matting. Kiku bowed and tried to smile and murmured she would be honored to try to use her modest skill on the most honorable mother of the household. She was even paler than usual and Omi could see the screams were taking their toll on her too. The boy was trying not to show his fear.
When the screams had begun Omi had had to use all his skill to persuade her to stay. “Oh, Omi-san, I cannot bear it—it’s terrible. So sorry, please let me go—I want to close my ears but the sound comes through my hands. Poor man—it’s terrible,” she had said.
“Please, Kiku-san, please be patient. Yabu-sama has ordered this, neh? There is nothing to be done. It will stop soon.”
“It’s too much, Omi-san. I can’t bear it.”
By inviolate custom, money of itself could not buy a girl if she, or her employer, wished to refuse the client, whoever he was. Kiku was a courtesan of the First Class, the most famous in Izu, and though Omi was convinced she would not compare even to a courtesan of the Second Class of Yedo, Osaka, or Kyoto, here she was at the pinnacle and correctly prideful and exclusive. And even though he had agreed with her employer, the Mama-san Gyoko, to pay five times the usual price, he was still not sure that Kiku would stay.
Now he was watching her nimble fingers on his mother’s neck. She was beautiful, tiny, her skin almost translucent and so soft. Usually she would bubble with zest for life. But how could such a plaything be happy under the weight of the screams, he asked himself. He enjoyed watching her, enjoyed the knowledge of her body and her warmth—
Abruptly the screams stopped.
Omi listened, his mouth half-open, straining to catch the slightest noise, waiting. He noticed Kiku’s fingers had stopped, his mother uncomplaining, listening as intently. He looked through the lattice at Yabu. The daimyo remained statuelike.
“Omi-san!” Yabu called at last.
Omi got up and went onto the polished veranda and bowed. “Yes, Lord.”
“Go and see what has happened.”
Omi bowed again and went through the garden, out onto the tidily pebbled roadway that led down the hill to the village and onto the shore. Far below he could see the fire near one of the wharfs and the men beside it. And, in the square that fronted the sea, the trapdoor to the pit and the four guards.
As he walked toward the village he saw that the barbarian ship was safe at anchor, oil lamps on the decks and on the nestling boats. Villagers—men and women and children—were still unloading the cargo, and