CHAPTER SIXTEEN

COLD EVEN TO HIS GUMS

Hanshiro sat cross-legged in the shelter of the straw mat he had thrown over a bamboo pole propped up by a forked stick. Upriver from Kawasaki, he shared the grove of bare willows at the Yaguchi ford with a big bronze bell hanging under a wooden roof with upswept eaves. The willows didn’t stop a cold wind from blowing in off the river.

Now and then dusty travelers stopped to dip water from a small stone basin in front of the bell. They rinsed their hands and mouths, purifying themselves for a small act of worship. They pulled on the cord that swung the horizontally suspended log into the bell. The low-pitched tolling vibrated in Hanshiro’s chest.

He could have stayed at the shack that served as an inn here at the ford, but he knew it was infested with fleas. And when possible he preferred to keep watch himself instead of hiring someone to do it. So this lean-to under the rustling, bare branches of the willows had been his home for the past three days. Frankly, as the old saying went, his teeth were itchy. He was impatient and irritable.

Hanshiro was impatient with his impatience. Time is an illusion invented by the mind, he reminded himself.

The past didn’t exist. The future didn’t exist. The only reality was the moment. But the moment was cold.

He leaned over the river embankment and dipped a broad section of green bamboo into the fast-moving water. He fed willow twigs into the tiny fire he had built between three flat rocks. Then he balanced the bamboo container on the rocks and drew closer for the warmth. While he waited for the water to heat, he mended a torn tabi.

He used his thumbnail to push the needle through the seam in the canvas. He knotted the cotton thread, bit it off, and wrapped the remaining length around the needle. He stowed it among the packets of ginseng and bear gall and powdered horn in the inro, the set of small nested lacquered boxes hanging from his sash. He put the tabi back on and tied his straw sandal on over it.

He measured tea leaves into a small cup. Using his towel to insulate his fingers from the heat, he picked up the bamboo pot and poured water over the leaves. He let it steep, holding the narrow, cylindrical cup in his big hands and enjoying the warmth emanating from the porcelain. He stared out at the parade of humanity.

In the middle of the deep ford four porters were demanding more money to carry an enormous wrestler across. Hanshiro could hear them complaining about his weight. They were threatening to tip the platform on which he rode and spill him into the icy river.

It was an old ruse; and given the fact that the collected intellect of the five would not have filled a sake cup, it was comical. But Hanshiro was not amused.

With a willow withe he drew a circle in the sand. It was lopsided. The circle was a test of clarity of mind, and Hanshiro had just failed it. He sighed.

This woman was interfering with his rhythm, with his concentration. Where had she gone? How could she vanish in less than two and a half narrow ri of road? Losing her was like losing an ant on a bell rope.

A detour west across the mountains was unthinkable. They were precipitous and uncharted and infested with brigands. Maybe she went by sea or hired a boat to cross the river, although he knew Kira’s men had been questioning all the fishermen between here and Edo. No one admitted to seeing her. And if Kira’s men were inept at swordplay, they were very able at intimidating the lower classes.

In fact, they must have visited Nakamura Shichisaburo again, and Shichisaburo’s memory must have improved. Kira’s agents were now asking about a komuso, a priest of empty nothing.

Hanshiro knew Kira’s men hadn’t taken Cat. Three of them were waiting near the ferry, and two of them were here, lounging in the shade of a roofed well on the approach to the ford. They scratched themselves frantically as they squatted over dice. They had been staying at the inn.

Hanshiro continued his methodical analysis. He was trying to slip into the body and mind of the small fugitive as he had just slipped into his own tabi. He was finding it much more difficult than usual.

Hanshiro had a young informant at the ferry, and so far he hadn’t reported seeing a wandering priest of Cat’s description there. Maybe she had changed disguises. Maybe a procurer had kidnapped her or lured her back into service. Maybe she had been sold and now sat in one of the lath cages in the maze of brothels back in Edo, but Hanshiro doubted it.

Hanshiro was used to looking beyond appearances into the essence of a matter, and he had revised his initial opinion of the runaway. This woman was surrounded by mysterious deaths and disappearances. She had a naginata, and she would not, he was sure, allow herself to be captured without a fight. Any such incident would have been a prime topic of conversation among the travelers and denizens of the Tkaid.

Both Shichisaburo and the old woman who sold grilled eels had said she was alone; but maybe they were wrong. Maybe unknown accomplices had hidden her. Hanshiro decided that was the most logical explanation.

He took the blue silk scarf from his jacket and untied it. The coil of black hair inside was still glossy. He raised the scarf to his face and breathed in. The hair no longer had an aroma. After three days of separation from its owner, it had lost her essence. It was neutral and uninformative. He wrapped it up again and returned it to his sleeve.

With the willow twig he began tracing characters in the sand. He was amused by the cynical old verse that came to mind. It described three impossible things.

Sincere courtesans,
Square eggs, and a fat full moon
On the month’s last day.

Even the act of writing such a foolish verse calmed Hanshiro. It gave order to what was turning into a disordered affair. He drew another circle, much more symmetrical this time.

The wind plucked at his sleeve and funneled down the neck of his old coat. He erased the verse and wrote one of Bash’s.

The salted bream
Looks cold even to his gums,
On the fishmonger’s shelf

He felt like that bream, cold and waiting on a shelf.

“Tosa!” A boy dodged through the travelers gathered in small knots to haggle with the river porters. He raced across the sand and into the willows. He carefully avoided the poem Hanshiro had just drawn. He dropped to his knees and bowed low. “Tosa, the priest came to the ferry landing. Four men attacked him.”

Hanshiro rubbed the stubble on his chin and stared out at the river. He had given Lady Asano too much credit. She had walked into Kira’s men’s trap.

“He beat them, master,” the boy said.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Hanshiro hissed, maybe in surprise, maybe in warning. The boy had never lied to him before. Was he doing it now?

“He’s a naginata player.” The boy jumped to his feet. He made whistling noises as he flung his arms about, imitating Cat’s fighting style.”They’re calling him the Devil Youth. They say he’s the ghost of Yoshitsune and he studied with the mountain demons.”

The boy had been enthralled by a lad, not much older than he, beating three samurai and one sword-wielding lantern painter.

“Maybe he was a different holy man.”

“I think he was the one you seek, master. The whole village is as excited as a madman stung by a hornet. The magistrate is shouting about all the reports he’ll have to write.”

Hanshiro ducked out from under the mat and began to roll it up, along with the one on which he had been sitting. “What happened?”

“He was splen …” The boy hesitated. He didn’t want to insult Hanshiro by praising another. “He defended himself well enough for one so young. But of course a naginata is a woman’s weapon. It gives the wielder an unfair advantage.”

Hanshiro tied a cord around the ends of the roll of mats, leaving a long loop in the middle. He put the loop over his head and adjusted it across his collarbone.

“Where did they take him?”

“He escaped.” The boy grinned. “They were too busy picking up the ears and hands the Devil Youth left scattered about.”

“Is that right?” Hanshiro stared hard at him. Was the boy teasing him?

“It’s true.”

Hanshiro held out a packet of coppers, and the boy bowed and accepted them. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, master.” The boy was apologetic. “No one rode across in the ferry with the mad priest, except the ferryman.”

Within three or four minutes Hanshiro had packed his meager gear, buried the fire, and turned to leave.

“Let me go with you as sandal bearer, master.” The boy dreamed of being Hanshiro’s disciple in the Way of the warrior, but he dared not ask for such a privilege. “I’ll serve you well.”

“I want no one trailing after me.”

“Please, master. I ask nothing. Not even that you teach me.”

Hanshiro knew that that was exactly what the child did want. But he didn’t have the temperament to be a teacher. He felt no need to pass his skill and knowledge to others, certainly not for money. Besides, the country was full of out-of-work rnin setting themselves up as masters of this school or that.

Hanshiro had watched many of them and had decided that if they were masters of swordsmanship, dragonflies were birds.

“I cannot take you with me.” Hanshiro turned to go, then relented. “‘While riding the ox the boy looks for the ox,’” he said. “When you can explain this, come find me.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The boy was rigid with concentration but hardly able to contain his excitement. He knew the task Hanshiro had given him might take him years, and he was eager to start.

Hanshiro gazed across the river. Then, with the toe of his sandal, he rubbed out the circles and the poem. He put his swords into his sash, hitched up his hakama, and settled the roll of mats on his back. He took off his sandals and tabi and tied them with a straw cord to his sash. Then he waded into the icy water.