Chapter 4 The Path of Light Between the River of Fire, and the River of Water The castle of the Tokugawa Shogun, Edo castle, the seat of the Shogun, the man who held the Heavens in his very grasp, stood tall in the clear blue sky, the supreme authority of the nation. The part of Edo castle where the condemned daimyo would commit seppuku had been elaborately arranged. A mat had been placed on a wooden pedestal, and on the mat set a small table, a short-sword without a handle set on top of it, the tang of it revealed, the blade wrapped in white cloth. A white, fold out veil with black trim stood to the side of the pedestal. The samurai of the condemned daimyo knelt on their knees on the left side of the room, heads bowed, each one in great pain. Seated on stools at the right side of the room were the castle samurai, none of whom wore an expression. It was a voice outside the room that announced him. “Enter! Yoshi Onimura! The Shogun’s Official Decapitator!” The double screens slid fast apart to reveal Yoshi. He wore the sacred Decapitator robes, the symbol of the Tokugawa clan sown upon them. He had his short-sword tucked neatly into his sash. He carried his Owazimono loose his left hand. He stepped into the room. The samurai of the condemned glared with hatred at his katana as he passed. Yoshi remained stoic, his steps timed, practiced and flawless. He knelt down next to the mat, set his katana beside him, moved his arms out of his vest, crossed and re-crossed his arms so that the vest fell to his back. The screen to the side of the room slid open fast, and the young man, fifteen years on earth, entered, escorted by an elderly samurai retainer. The elderly retainer led his Lord past the kneeling samurai and the castle officials. Suddenly the samurai of the condemned lost all composure. “Lord!” they screamed. And, “Our Lord!” And, “Lord no!” And, “Even if it the Shogun’s will, not this!” And, “Lord!” And, “My Lord we will follow you in death!” And, “Lord, no!” The elderly retainer wheeled on them. “Silence!” he scolded. “You stain this sacred moment! It is the duty of a loyal samurai to at least…to at least watch…his Lord’s death with…with dignity!” He broke down in sobs. He continued to lead his Lord by the hand to the place prepared for him. The samurai of the Lord lowered their heads and they sobbed. The castle officials looked down on them from their stools, and they were filled with contempt at such unseemly behavior. The young daimyo knelt down on the mat, and the old retainer bowed to him one last time, wiped tears from his eyes, then scooted away from him forever. The young boy looked at Yoshi. Yoshi looked at the boy with compassion. “Perhaps a parting poem?” he asked. The young Lord nodded. Already, this boy was renowned across the land for his poetry. He spoke his death poem. He said: This life is as good as any other walk into death, the journey of the leaf back to its branch. Yoshi bowed his head slightly, raised his head. “Well spoken, my Lord. You need only touch the blade to your belly. Ready? Calm your heart.” The young boy nodded. “Such a Lord of country and castle,” Yoshi said. “A samurai among samurai.” The young boy steadied himself, removed his vest, tucked it beneath him, and reached toward the blade and died. The Owazimono swept once more back up. Only a strip of skin at the neck kept the head of the child from tumbling to the floor. A stream of blood pumped from the wound. Blood splashed against the white fold out veil. The samurai of the dead screamed out in a symphony of agony. Yoshi walked away from the room. He stepped outside of the main castle, escorted by two guards a pace behind him at either side. The guards each wore official hats made of straw. These hats had wide brims that went all round, then gradually narrowed into a peak at the top. These hats had a certain shape to them past the brims, slanted more inwards. Yoshi wore a straw hat with a crease down the center of it, folded that way. He walked toward his estate, a small castle to itself connected to the main one, silhouetted now against the graying sky where the clouds prophesied the storm to come, storm to pass. He entered his castle at the rear entrance, through the double gates and into the garden where the servants were prepared for his arrival. They bowed to him. They bowed to the waist. He entered into the first room, and a servant girl bowed on her haunches and greeted him, accepted his katana and short-sword, and offered him a fresh kimono then left. He changed out of his holy robes, folded them with care and tucked them away, then redressed into the brown kimono without a vest and entered into the next room. Another servant girl bowed to him and handed him another short-sword which he tucked leisurely into his sash. He went on. He prayed in his temple. After he did he slid open the screen of his wife’s bed chambers. She had been laying down on silk sheets with a big comforter over her, a mid-wife beside her to attend her. When she saw her husband she sat up quick. “Welcome home, my Lord,” she said. “You must be tired.” Yoshi softened. “Akahana,” he said. “Enough. Lay yourself down.” He sat down beside her, where she sat up in bed. “How do you feel?” he asked her. “Actually…” she said. Her words trailed off, then disappeared. She looked at him, as if suddenly startled. “Husband!” she cried. “Is something wrong?” asked Yoshi. “Do you think that our child will be alright?” she asked him. “What is troubling you? Try to tell me.” “I will try. Of late I have had the most horrible dreams. They come to me again and again.” Yoshi said nothing, but became slightly disturbed. “It is the souls of the daimyo which you have been honored to decapitate,” she said, her voice ghostlike. “They scream at me. They scream from lakes of blood. From mountains walled by flames. Howls that make me afraid, they scream, cursing.” Yoshi reflected. “They curse our coming child, husband. They say that they curse the Yoshi clan. Over and over they say it.” “This is foolishness,” Yoshi said. “It is a mother’s intuitive fears for her coming child, nothing more. Your pregnancy nears its end. Its is your body that spins these vapors. Think no more about it.” “Yes, husband. Forgive me, but--” “Enough! It is not like a strong woman such as yourself.” “Yes, my Lord.” She stared at him with her deep set eyes and inside them there was not sorrow but only that same fathomless depth of loneliness which breeched the world to its heart. Yoshi said, “If the child you bear is a girl, we will name her Ai, meaning love. If it is a boy, we will name him Akatsuki, meaning dawn. Our child will have a name of one who can live in knowledge, and eventually wisdom, and gain true freedom in the cycle of reincarnation.” “Ai,” said Akahana. “Akatsuki. Ai Yoshi. Or Akatsuki Yoshi.” “Do not fear,” Yoshi said. He said, “You shall bear a strong child, prosperous in the face of adversity, undaunted by wealth, unaffected by poverty.” “My husband,” she said. “Wife,” he said. “My love.” Yoshi looked at his wife who sat by the candle, he looked into his wife’s eyes, and he saw himself there. He had not ever known that you could see yourself in the eyes of others, or witness such things therein as fire. He sat in her eyes beside the fire, he sat paired in the deep pools of his wife’s eyes with his face, this very man, in these same bones, as if it were an associated man that had been lost long ago who now stood sealed away in another world where the candles burned and the wind moved the bare branches of the trees, as if it were a labyrinth where the vagabonds of his spirit had journeyed and so reached this their destination behind these eyes, where there could be no way to return always.
Posted on: Sat, 03 Aug 2013 05:45:15 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015