The Ghost of Tokaido Inn: Chapters 7–12

“A clever imitation made of glass, one that could be part of the costumes of a kabuki theater troupe.”

The guards dragged the man before Judge Ooka. He looked sullenly at the floor.

Bunzo reached down and deftly swung Seikei onto the back of his saddle.

Bunzo was a burly samurai with a mustache.

The leggings were tight and their thick rough cloth scratched Seikei’s legs. As he walked gingerly about, Bunzo grinned.

The garden changed slightly, in ways almost too subtle to notice. A little breeze stirred up some of the grains of sand. The rocks in the distance seemed to move farther away.

But the komuso moved more quickly than they did, because he could slip easily through the throngs of people.

His horse was surrounded by people hawking magic charms and potions. One man shouted that his could cure any disease; another told Seikei that his would bring wealth.

One of them tried to grab the bridle of the judge’s horse, but he pulled away from her.

Lord Kira called him a country bumpkin, a stupid man.

When the shogun learned of it, he commanded the Lord of Ako to commit seppuku, to kill himself. There was no other way, no appeal. The shogun’s command was law.

The actor was a short, wiry man, just like the acrobat Seikei had seen jump out of Lord Hakuseki’s way on the road.

Oishi himself appeared, staggering as if drunk, his clothes dirty and his hair hanging down around his face. He fell to the ground in a stupor, and passers-by kicked at him and laughed.

One of them appeared from the shadows, clad all in black, his two swords hanging from his belt.

More ronin appeared, stealthily climbing the ladder.

The head was swiftly placed into a basket, and the ronin marched solemnly off stage, carrying it with them.

The shogun was respected and feared. In him rested all the ideals of the samurai, but he ruled Japan with an iron fist.

One of the other actors took off his helmet and handed it casually to Seikei.

But Kazuo led him to a part of the town where the windows still glowed and soft, enticing music tinkled from within.

Seikei smelled sweet incense drifting throughout the house.

“And who’s this?” Tomomi’s smile was genial, but Seikei had the feeling the man was carefully inspecting him.

But Tomomi’s eyes compelled him to speak.

“Are you willing to defend your honor?”
Seikei nodded grimly, though his hands were shaking with fear.

“I am Seikei, the son of Konoike Toda, and a retainer of the samurai Ooka. Come take my head if you can.”

“Yes, that is my true origin,” he declared to the three women, who were cowering in a corner.

The actor’s sword whistled through the air, aimed at Seikei’s head. Without thinking, Seikei raised his wooden sword to ward off the blow.

“Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. What’s he doing with a bunch of kabuki actors? Everybody looks down on actors, don’t they?”
Seikei shook his head. “I am the son of a merchant, and everybody regards us with contempt.”

He was afraid of seeming foolish, but Kazuo was so frank and open that Seikei felt he would not laugh.

Some were clearly afflicted by illness, coming here to seek a cure.

The pilgrims reached out to catch the perfumed smoke in their hands and wave it over their bodies, for it was said to cure illness. Seikei saw a mother carrying a child with no legs, trying to get close to the smoke. He could hear people in the crowd crying out with joy or weeping softly as the smoke wafted over them.

A little girl left an onion; an aged farmer set down a gourd that grew in such an unusual shape he was convinced a kami lived within.

As he turned, he saw Tomomi’s face glaring down at him. “I thought you would be here sooner,” Tomomi said.

What could he mean? It must be one of his cruel jests.

He turned back to Tomomi, who smiled as if he were basking in the applause of an audience.

He had discovered who the thief was, but...he had left the stolen jewel here. And he wanted the judge to know about it. Why? Was he trying to atone for his theft? But then why not return the jewel to its owner?