Chapter 2 - The Third Son

   I was born in Kyoto, the third son of the Echigoya family—wealthy merchants specializing in textiles. My mother called me Sozaburo, because that was my name. My father called me San—three—because he couldn’t be bothered to remember my name. Not just mine, either—my elder brothers were Ichi and Ni, respectively. My sisters my father never called anything. They were beneath his notice.
   My father only really cared about the money he could make, and the only reason he had children at all was because it was expected of him. And of course, my father never went halfway on anything. He had five of us, three boys and two girls, and presented us all to the best of his ability.
   In my eldest brother, Hikozaemon (or Ichi,) my father had a successor. Hikozaemon was very serious and self-possessed, and had a strong, wonderful profile which only went farther to enforce his image as my father’s eventual replacement. Never mind that Hiko had no business sense and would much rather be a wandering painter than a textile merchant. It was he my father wished to be his successor, so successor would Hiko be.
   In my second brother, Orinosuke, my father had a charmer. Although it was Hiko’s image that my father paraded, it was Suke’s wit that he tried to make well-known. Suke could talk a sow’s ear into the proverbial silk purse without moving a finger. The problem? He was crippled, his left leg rendered useless by an accident with a horse when I was only a year old, and lazy as a cat in a puddle of sunlight. Were it not for his laziness, Suke would have been the smarter choice for successor—but Suke would let the business pine away through sheer lack of interest.
   In reality, it was my elder sister, Rantoyoko, to whom the position of my father’s successor should have fallen. Ran was utterly brilliant and unshakably practical—by the time she was ten, she was running the house while my mother drifted about like a delicate ghost. Ran could have commandeered textiles as easily as breathing. However, she was a girl; and worse, a girl with brains instead of beauty. There were few men indeed who wanted her as their bride, no matter how large a dowry my father offered.
   It was my younger sister, Sakurako, who was beautiful. Four years younger than I, she showed every sign of surpassing my mother—who was indeed beautiful, in her own ethereal way—before she even reached marriageable age. Sa-chan, my father could marry off. What was her personality? Unfortunately, it was difficult to tell. Sa-chan was unable to speak. Only through her actions could you ascertain her true self, and I, as one of the few who saw it, can assure you that Sa-chan was probably the sweetest person I have ever met.
   For then, between Ran and Sa-chan, there was I. And if my father had problems with my siblings—Hiko running away every other week, Suke doing his best to wriggle out of anything resembling work, Ran becoming increasingly like an army drill sergeant, and Sa-chan unable to utter anything more than a gravelly grunt—they were nothing compared to his problems with me.
   I was born at a bad time. Already my father was grooming my brothers for society—or trying to, anyways. When Ran was born, my father believed that his time for sons was over, and set about devoting his energies to Hiko and Suke. Then two years after Ran’s birth came mine. And my father had no idea what to do with me.
   A third son is never wanted in a matter of succession. They are close enough to the position being succeeded to that they have a chance at reaching it, but far enough away that it won’t come soon. Assassination, I once heard my father say soberly, is always a possibility. Ridiculous. If I’d really wanted to succeed to my father’s position that badly, I would merely have had to let Hiko run away and give Suke a large enough allowance that he could attend to his preferred hobby of lazing around in brothels. Assassination was hardly necessary. Of course, my father didn’t see things that way. So what did he try to do with me instead? Ultimate indignity—he attempted to marry me off.
   I may have given you the impression that Sa-chan was the beauty of the family. Unfortunately, she was not. I was. I say this out of no vanity—I have had ample cause to rue my face ever since I was five, when the neighborhood boys started calling me “Sonnaburo,” “onna” of course meaning “woman.”
   More than being beautiful, I was…effeminate. Not so much in personality as merely in appearance. There were times when, walking by a sliver of mirror or a reflective pool and catching sight of my own face, even I[/i] would stop and think, “Who is that girl?” until I could look closer and realize that it was not a girl at all—only me.
   I was thirteen when my father made his attempt to marry me off, and already by then, I was pretty enough that my mother would have been jealous, had she been the type to ever be jealous of anything. By accidents of chronology, none of the wealthy families with whom my father would consider dealing with or vice versa had any daughters near my age. It was with the Watanabe family that my father finally cinched his deal.
   I only met Watanabe Kimiko once, and I lived through that event more than enough times in my memory. I did not need to relive it again now. But if there was a way to stop it, I did not know it, and once again I saw myself at thirteen, dressed in a man’s kimono and accompanied by my brothers and father, going to the Watanabe house for the omiai—the first meeting—between myself and Kimiko.
 
      *  *  *
 
   Watanabe Kimiko was tall and strikingly beautiful, dressed in a beautiful red kimono which set off her powdered white face and lacquered black hair to perfection. She was charming and graceful and an accomplished player of the koto. She was also twelve years older than I was.
   She swept into the room, golden flowers fluttering across the red fabric of her kimono in the best embroidery, and lowered herself to her koto with the air and grace of a falling leaf. The folds of her kimono fell perfectly across the floor, spreading like the wings of a bird; she reached out to the strings of her koto with her long white fingers and plucked one, filling the room with the mystery of a single note.
   She was fascinating. My mother never filled a room with her mere presence, struck your eyes with white and black and red—my mother floated through our house, a dream, an illusion, her eyes far away, her hair unbound and fluttering like a banner. Watanabe Kimiko astounded me with the force of her appearance, the brightness and solidity of the colors she wore. I stared at her kimono—I could not help but do so.
   And she stared at me, although at thirteen I did not care enough to notice so. Kimiko was beautiful, indeed, but looking back at the scene it was clear who the most beautiful person in the room was, and it was not she. I watched her kimono, and she watched me, lashes fluttering across her deep black eyes, the hunger there plain to see. But I was too young to understand it—too young even to see it.
   She struck a sweet, rippling chord, and began her song in earnest. But throughout her performance, her eyes were on me.
   Beside me, Hiko fell asleep, staring out the window—it was a talent of his I greatly envied, falling asleep with his eyes open. Suke stared at Kimiko as I did, but his eye was caught more by the gentle rise and fall of her kimono, the pulse that beat in her ivory throat. My father sat as a statue, waiting stolidly for the music to end.
   When it did, Kimiko’s father—Watanabe-san—cleared his throat.
   “Kano-san,” he said diffidently to my father, “perhaps you should send your son outside for now. We have much of business and various arrangements to discuss, and I’m sure he would be better entertained out in the gardens…?”
   “Indeed,” my father said thoughtfully.
   “If I may, Kano-san,” Kimiko murmured dulcetly, her eyes cast innocently down, “our servants could perhaps take him on a tour. We have many wonderful sights in our gardens, and they must be seen properly to be appreciated. And of course, you would not wish your son alone…”
   Her eyes searched mine out as she said this.
   “A splendid idea.” My father turned to me, and gave a brief nod. I knew what was expected—I bowed to him, then to Watanabe-san, then to Kimiko, and then rose to my feet.
   Kimiko swept her magnificent kimono across to the door, and tapped on one screened panel. A servant slid the door open, and bowed to her as well.
   “Take Kano Sozaburo-san out into the gardens, and show him around,” Kimiko said sweetly, gesturing towards me. “Start with the rock gardens…and end with the tiger lilies, if you would.”
   “Of course, Watanabe-domo,” the servant said. She was a large, square-faced woman, who reminded me just a bit of Ran, although even Ran was prettier than this woman was.
   Kimiko turned back to her father. “Oto-san, nothing could please me more than remaining to play for you, but I must plead a headache. It was ever so sunny this afternoon, and my eyes are still smarting. If I may retire early to my room…?”
   “Of course, Kimiko,” Watanabe-san said warmly. “You need not stay and listen to us old men speak of business.”
   “Thank you, Oto-san,” Kimiko smiled, bowing to him. She turned to my father. “Forgive me for taking my leave so early, Kano-san. Good night.”
   She bowed again and retired. And I, staring after her kimono, was ushered out into the gardens by the servant woman—out into the silence and the moonlight.
 
      *  *  *
 
   The serving woman led me out around the side of the house, following a curving path of small stones set in the middle of more plantlife than I had ever imagined in one place before. Here, a tall grove of swaying green bamboo with its feathery fronds dancing in the night breeze. There, a leafy mass of kudzu twining elegantly around stakes erected for its use. And everywhere, bright as candles in the dark, were flowers in a myriad of colors for which I had no name. The only ones I could recognize were the lilies—my mother’s favorite.
   We came to a small pool filled with koi fish as bright as the flowers, and along its side was a small garden of sculptured rock and crystal, delicate shapes, beautiful arrangements. I stared at them, entranced. Never before had I seen a garden such as this.
   “Come,” the serving woman said brusquely.
   I had to tear my eyes away from the rock garden. I could have stood there all night, and still not have quenched my thirst for the artistry enshrined there. But the serving woman was already moving off towards another stand of bamboo, and I didn’t want to be left here alone. As beautiful as it was, it had a slightly eerie feeling to it. I didn’t feel safe alone.
   I wasn’t[/i] safe alone, it turned out.
   The serving woman followed a turn of the little path around the bamboo, returning to the side of the house. I balked for a moment—I thought we were going back in, and I was not near to being finished. Then I realized that this was not the door we had entered the garden from; we were on a completely different side of the house. That was all right, then. I picked up my steps again.
   The serving woman led me along the side of the house, and then—quite like a spirit from an old tale—she vanished completely into the shadows.
   I stopped, expecting her to reappear and lead the way to another rock garden. But she did not. All that came to me was the rustling of bamboo.
   Unsure of what was going on, I took a step forward, then one backwards. It was dark out—very, very dark out. The gardens’ beauty, transformed by shadow and loneliness, became sinister.
   A cloud put out the moon.
   Just before I lost my nerve completely, a door slid open behind me. I whirled around, my heart thumping wildly up to my throat.
   “Why, Kano Sozaburo-san!” Kimiko exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
   I nearly collapsed with relief. Kimiko’s face was bright as the moon in the darkness, lit by the candle she held in one white hand, and her familiarity was comfort in itself.
   “Where is Yone?” Kimiko asked, looking around. “I don’t believe that woman. She left you alone?”
   I nodded, my teeth starting to chatter from…nerves, I suppose.
   “Well, I never,” Kimiko said, with a little laugh. “Come in, Kano-san, you’re shaking like a leaf. Goodness, it’s cold out, isn’t it? Come into my room, and I shall warm you up a little.”
   She had no need to tell me twice. I was in her room in a heartbeat, swearing to myself that I would not go walking in gardens after dark again.
   Kimiko closed the door, took my hand in hers, and led me over to her futon, a lavish affair spread invitingly over the warm wooden floor, across from a large fire. It was very warm inside, much warmer than it was in the cool night outside, and my teeth soon stopped chattering.
   “Thank you, Watanabe-san,” I said, remembering my manners. “It’s much nicer in here.”
   “Please, call me Kimiko.”
   Kimiko blew out her candle and placed it on a table. I noticed with some sadness that she had changed out of her fabulous kimono—she was now dressed in a thin sleeping-robe loosely tied around her waist, and she had let her hair down. But I didn’t realize what this meant.
   She sat me down on her futon and sat down beside me, much closer than anyone had ever sat next to me before. The room, which had been warm, was starting to feel stifling—I wiped a trickle of sweat off my forehead.
   “You seem hot,” Kimiko said. “Let me loosen your kimono.”
   Before I could say anything, she took hold of my sash and pulled it loose, which did, indeed, make the heat a little easier to bear. But then she took both sides of it in her hands and began to pull it off my shoulders—and that, I knew[/i] was improper.
   “Watanabe-san,” I yelped, wriggling backwards and pulling my kimono back together, “you shouldn’t—”
   She covered my mouth with hers, muffling my yell with her lips. I was so shocked by the contact that I forgot to resist as she pushed me backwards, down onto her futon, and threw my kimono open. One hand tore the leather band out of my hair, letting it spill onto the blankets—the other went to my skin.
    With terrible suddenness, I realized I was in danger—although I didn’t realize how much—and I tried to fight her, tried to use what martial arts I knew against her, to push her away. I had no chance. She was almost twice my age, twice my strength, and twice my weight—she could hold me down with one hand. And did so, her body a huge heavy weight against mine, her mouth never releasing mine for more than an instant.
   I didn’t know what her free hand was doing until her own sash came away, and her robe fell open like mine. She pressed herself down against me, her breasts a strangling pillowy softness against my chest. It was so hot in the room, beneath her, that I couldn’t breathe. I was drenched in sweat, both mine and hers, and I think it pleased her that this was so. Her hands slipped on it, streaking powder across my body.
   All I wanted was to be home. I wanted Ran and Sa-chan and my mother so badly that I started to cry, although I could make no sound—I had just barely enough air to remain conscious. My body was doing strange things—Kimiko was forcing it to—but my mind and heart screamed for me to run, to get away. I didn’t want this. I knew I didn’t want anything like this, ever.
   I didn’t know the door slammed open until Kimiko jolted up, her hair flung back, her makeup soaked into running trails of color, her robe cast away onto the futon. I didn’t know who had opened it until Hiko grabbed me and pulled me off the futon into his embrace, my kimono hanging loyally onto my arms. I sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder, my hair sticking to us both in sweatstained, tearstreaked ropes.
   There were other voices, other shapes all around us, but I paid them no heed. All I saw was Hiko’s kimono. All I heard was his voice, whispering wordless reassurances beside me.
   He lifted me up, and carried me out of Kimiko’s room into the hallway, where cool air hit my sweating body like the flat of a sword. Hiko helped me tie my kimono back together—then he held me until exhaustion dragged me mercifully into darkness.
 
      *  *  *
 
   Hiko carried me back home, Ran told me later. The other shapes that had come into Kimiko’s room had, of course, been my father, Kimiko’s father, and Suke, as well as two servants, including Kimiko’s partner in crime, Yone. My betrothal to Kimiko was naturally now an impossibility.
   My mother had never been so mad, Ran said in tones of great awe. My mother, the woman who knew nothing outside her own house and her own head, had divined the outcome of our visit by taking one look at me, and had gone at my father with a fully uncharacteristic fury—a fury that had doubled when my father had let it slip that Kimiko had a reputation for…preferring boys of my age.
   “ ‘You knew[/i]?!’ ” Ran screeched, imitating our mother. “ ‘You knew[/i] what this woman was, and her reputation around young boys, before[/i] you proposed a betrothal?! You knew[/i] what she was like?! You knew[/i] all this, and you still tried to give MY SON[/i] to her?! You took MY SON[/i] into her house[/i]?! You let my son[/b] into her room[/b], unaccompanied and unprotected?![/i]’ ”
   The argument had boiled off by the time I woke up again, but it was evident that it had not blown over. My mother was not speaking to my father. My father was not speaking to my mother. I was not speaking to my father. My father was not speaking to me.
   My father had become tied in my mind to everything that had happened to me at the Watanabe house. Being led outside and left by Yone; being led inside and attacked by Kimiko; it was all because my father had brought me over there and ignored me, just the way he did here, in our house. Without Hiko, I would never have been saved in time. Ran told me.
   “Hiko woke up when you went outside and Kimiko left, and he was staring out the window getting ready to fall asleep again when he saw you and that servant woman go past. So he was thinking about what you two must be seeing when the servant goes past the window again, this time without[/i] you. He waited, but you didn’t go by and she didn’t come to the door. So he thought she’d lost you and was trying to find you before she could get into trouble. So Hiko excuses himself to go to the benjo, except when he went outside he grabbed that old lady and asked where you are. She dithered, so he got worried and went back inside to say you were gone, and her dad went rice-pale and started dithering too. So Hiko got an idea what was going on, and ran to her[/i] room, and barged on in, and…well, you know better than me.”
   Yes. I did.
   In a way, though, Kimiko actually did something good for me. The imprint of her attack stayed in my mind and drove me forward to excel in one thing—my swordfighting class.
 
      *  *  *
 
   I was a student of Hamano Senzaemon of the Shingyoto school. Hiko had been before me as well, but had long since graduated and moved on to the duties my father forced upon him. Suke, you could as easily have gotten into a fighting class as you could have given him wings. Ever since I had turned nine, I had been enrolled in Hamano-sensei’s class…but until that night, when I had need to defend myself and could not, I never saw the importance of it.
   Once I did, my growth staggered my teachers. Before the year was over, I had nearly doubled my knowledge of sword techniques. Before, it was just something I did, something I went to and forgot about. Now, it was something I had to do. More than do—master.
   And master it I did. When I finally turned sixteen, I received a dispensation to graduate early from my class, and became instead Hamano-sensei’s assistant, training other students at his side. I immersed myself in my training, and somehow—some odd, bizarre way—I began to love it.
   Then the Shinsen militia began to call up its reserves. And Hiko went to war.
 
      *  *  *
 
   The man who came to the door had a look on his face I will never forget—a grim, sad look, filled with sympathy that was not really for us, but which he was trying to pretend was.
   Sa-chan was the one closest to the door, and it was she who answered it. She took one look at the man out on our doorstep and screamed, although to this day I don’t know if it was because she knew what his being here meant or if she was just terrified by his stern, sad face.
   Her scream reverberated through our entire house. Ran and I got to her at the same time, and while I tried to comfort Sa-chan, Ran confronted the man at the door.
   “I have urgent news for the Kano family,” the man said, his voice an audible mirror of his face—hard as granite, but filled with sorrow. “Is Kano-san at home?”
   “I am here,” our father said from behind Sa-chan and myself. I jumped—I had not heard him approach. “I am Kano-san.”
   “Kano-san,” the man said gravely, “it is my great sorrow to inform you that your son, Kano Hikozaemon, has fallen in battle.”
   The news hit us like a physical blow. I sucked in my breath, and closed my eyes, fighting tears. Sa-chan, who had been making distressed noises in her throat ever since the man came to the door, clung to me like a crab, feeling my hurt as well as her own. Ran fell back a step, her hands going to her mouth.
   Only my father seemed unaffected.
   “I understand,” he said, his voice low. “I…thank you…for bringing us this news.”
   Only the hesitations between his words gave any indication that he was feeling anything at all. My father never hesitated.
   There was more, of course. There always is. The man spoke, and our father listened. Perhaps he replied. I do not know. Ran and Sa-chan and I did not stay to find out.
 
      *  *  *
 
   It was a bad day for us all. My father broke the news to my mother, and she disappeared like a wraith. I have no idea where she was that entire day. Suke drank enough sake to float a barge and passed out drunk in the living room. Ran barricaded herself in her room and cried stormily for the rest of the day. You could hear her if you passed by the door.
   After we left the man and our father alone, Ran ran to her room for the aforementioned barricading. Sa-chan and I followed her, and stood outside for a while, listening to her cry and scream and—occasionally—throw something. Sa-chan stood there without moving for almost half an hour—then abruptly ran off herself, down the hallway. I followed her, thinking she was going to follow Ran’s example and shut herself up her in room.
   But she did not. It was Hiko’s door she threw open, and Hiko’s blankets she threw back, and Hiko’s futon she huddled on, pulling the blankets up over her head.
   I stopped in the doorway.
   Hikozaemon. Our brother, our eldest brother, who for as long as I could remember had always been strong. He defied our father, never to his face, but in a hundred small ways—falling asleep during important meetings, forgetting the fine points of the family business, and of course, his recurring attempts to escape to a life of wandering artistry. He had been there for us if we ever needed him. We rarely ever did, but somehow it had seemed like no matter how far away he was or how much he had to do, if we did[/i] need him, we would have him. And now, the distance was too great for even him to cross.
   I had never been able to thank him, for saving me from the Watanabe house. I could never figure out how I could possibly repay a debt so large. Now, it didn’t matter if I ever thought of a way. He wasn’t here to appreciate it any longer.
   I crawled into Hiko’s bed with Sa-chan, and she wrapped her arms around me without a sound. I returned the gesture, and interlocked together, we stayed in our brother’s bed until the sun had set below the horizon and changed the room to a moonlit dream.
 
      *  *  *
 
   Sa-chan fell asleep, but I did not. I stayed awake, brooding into my sister’s black hair. Something was bothering me.
   Without Hiko, what was to become of Suke and myself?
   I detached Sa-chan’s arms from around me with great delicacy and carefully slipped off of the futon, casting my shadow across the wall and leading it out the door with me.
   I saw not a soul the whole way to my parents’ room. I passed Ran’s door, and heard only silence.
   I came at last to The Door—our parents’ door. I steeled myself to do the unthinkable, and disturb our father after he had gone to bed. I walked up to the door and prepared myself to knock. I stopped dead.
   “You have only yourself to blame, Gennai,” my mother’s voice snapped. “You[/i] insisted he sign up for the militia, all so that people would look and say, ‘Oh, yes, Gennai sires the most excellent sons, so noble, so brave, willing to fight even though they’re just businessmen’! You got your wish! Hikozaemon went to war! And now—”
   “It’s not my fault the boy got killed, Nyoko, so stop heaping the blame on my head!” my father roared. “I never wanted him to fight! He was the one who wanted to protect his country! I[/i] told him that with his brain so filled with stupid artsy fantasies, he’d be dead within a month!”
   “Of course you did, you knew he’d go if you told him not to! I’m sure he’s lost all those ‘stupid artsy fantasies’ now, don’t you think?!”
   “You make it sound like I wanted[/i] Ichi to die! Believe it or not, it’s not convenient[/i] for me for him to be gone! If I’d had my way—”
   “If you’d had your way, your sons would be numbers!” My mother dropped her voice with an audible effort. “It’s not ‘convenient[/i]’ for you that Hikozaemon died? Convenient[/i]? Did you ever have any thought for the boy beyond his ascending to your place in the company?! He was your son, not a textile! You know why you’re upset? Because you put all your work into making Hikozaemon the next Kano Gennai and now that he’s gone you’re stuck with the two models you rejected to take the place you’re so proud of!”
   “Models I rejected?! Where have you been, Nyoko?! Ni’s a drunkard and a cripple—”
   “Orinosuke is an intelligent young man!”
   My father snorted. “And San’s an effeminate pretty-boy who’d be a better girl than—”
   “Don’t you speak about your children that way![/i]”
   “Face the facts, Nyoko, it’s true and you know it! If that boy doesn’t lean the wrong way, I’ll resign my position.”
   “And you say that like it has any[/i] bearing at all on what Sozaburo really[/i] is. He is a dedicated young man, Gennai, and I’m here to tell you—”
   “What you have to tell me makes no difference in the sons you gave me!” my father bellowed. “Orinosuke is a flake and Sozaburo is an abnormality! Change that with your words, and maybe you can get started bringing Ichi back from the dead, too!!”
   That was it for me. I turned and ran. I got lost in the corridors I knew as well as my own skin, and fell outside through a door I couldn’t recognize, moaning for Hiko and hearing only the frogs. We had no fantastic rock gardens as the Watanabes did, but we did have a pond which housed a coterie of frogs. I more or less fell into it, scaring the frogs away and sending up a cloud of pond-bottom mud which hid my reflection.
   The first time I heard my father call me by my rightful name was to call me an abnormality.
 
      *  *  *
 
   But as with Kimiko, this event had a silver lining. It inspired in me a second drive, even more powerful than the first. Kimiko drove me to learn the sword. My father drove me to use it.
   Seeing it now—living through it again—I have to admit, I know not whether my mother’s words were true or false. I do not think he was quite the selfish demon that my mother made him out to be with her impassioned words. I am not trying to defend my father—he had no love for us, and we all knew it. However, my mother was reeling from the loss of her first-born son, and from the grief and anger that such a loss inevitably brings. At sixteen, I knew little of loss. Now—presumptuous though it may be to say so—I understand it much better, and what I know makes me wonder; was my hatred of my father fully founded?
   It is too late now, of course. I am dying now; I chose my path then. Once my brother’s funeral was held, I went to Hamano Senzaemon—my sensei—and told him I wanted to join the Shinsen militia. He was reluctant at first—but when I told him I wanted to avenge my brother, he promised me his help, and sent me to the Nishi Honganji temple, on the other side of Kyoto.
   It was not really Hiko who I wished to avenge. It was myself.
   I was just too blind to realize it.

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