Shōgun

"We just fell on evil times. That was the year of the great famine, and, now that my master was dead, I became ronin." Ronin were landless or masterless peasant-soldiers or samurai who, through dishonor or the loss of their masters, were forced to wander the land until some other lord would accept their services. It was difficult for ronin to find new employment. Food was scarce, almost every man was a soldier, and strangers were rarely trusted. Most of the robber bands and corsairs who infested the land and the coast were ronin. "That year was very bad and the next. I fought for anyone-a battle here, a skirmish there. Food was my pay. Then I heard that there was food in plenty in Kyushu so I started to make my way west. That winter I found a sanctuary. I managed to become hired by a Buddhist monastery as a guard. I fought for them for half a year, protecting the monastery and their rice fields from bandits. The monastery was near Osaka and, at that time-long before the Taikō obliterated most of them-the bandits were as plentiful as swamp mosquitoes. One day, we were ambushed and I was left for dead. Some monks found me and healed my wound. But they could not give me back my sight."

His fingers probed deeper and ever deeper. "They put me with a blind monk who taught me how to massage and to see again with my fingers. Now my fingers tell me more than my eyes used to, I think.

"The last thing I can remember seeing with my eyes was the bandit's widespread mouth and rotting teeth, the sword a glittering arc and beyond, after the blow, the scent of flowers. I saw perfume in all its colors, Yabu-sama. That was all long ago, long before the barbarians came to our land-fifty, sixty years ago-but I saw the perfume's colors. I saw nirvana, I think, and for the merest moment, the face of Buddha. Blindness is a small price to pay for such a gift, neh?"

There was no answer. Suwo had expected none. Yabu was sleeping, as was planned. Did you like my story, Yabusama? Suwo asked silently, amused as an old man would be. It was all true but for one thing. The monastery was not near Osaka but across your western border. The name of the monk? Su, uncle of your enemy, Ikawa Jikkyu.

I could snap your neck so easily, he thought. It would be a favor to Omi-san. It would be a blessing to the village. And it would repay, in tiny measure, my patron's gift. Should I do it now? Or later?

Spillbergen held up the bundled stalks of rice straw, his face stretched. "Who wants to pick first?"

No one answered. Blackthorne seemed to be dozing, leaning against the corner from which he had not moved. It was near sunset.

"Someone's got to pick first," Spillbergen rasped. "Come on, there's not much time."

They had been given food and a barrel of water and another barrel as a latrine. But nothing with which to wash away the stinking offal or to clean themselves. And the flies had come. The air was fetid, the earth mud-mucous. Most of the men were stripped to the waist, sweating from the heat. And from fear.

Spillbergen looked from face to face. He came back to Blackthorne. "Why-why are you eliminated? Eh? Why?"

The eyes opened and they were icy. "For the last time: I-don't-know."

"It's not fair. Not fair."

Blackthorne returned to his reverie. There must be a way to break out of here. There must be a way to get the ship. That bastard will kill us all eventually, as certain as there's a north star. There's not much time, and I was eliminated because they've some particular rotten plan for me.

When the trapdoor had closed they had all looked at him, and someone had said, "What're we going to do?"

"I don't know," he had answered.

"Why aren't you to be picked?"

"I don't know."

"Lord Jesus help us," someone whimpered.

"Get the mess cleared up," he ordered. "Pile the filth over there!"

"We've no mops or-"

"Use your hands!"

They did as he ordered and he helped them and cleaned off the Captain-General as best he could. "You'll be all right now."

"How-how are we to choose someone?" Spillbergen asked.

"We don't. We fight them."

"With what?"

"You'll go like a sheep to the butcher? You will?"

"Don't be ridiculous-they don't want me-it wouldn't be right for me to be the one."

"Why?" Vinck asked.

"I'm the Captain-General."

"With respect, sir," Vinck said ironically, "maybe you should volunteer. It's your place to volunteer."

"A very good suggestion," Pieterzoon said. "I'll second the motion, by God."

There was general assent and everyone thought, Lord Jesus, anyone but me.

Spillbergen had begun to bluster and order but he saw the pitiless eyes. So he stopped and stared at the ground, filled with nausea. Then he said, "No. It-it wouldn't be right for someone to volunteer. It-we'll-we'll draw lots. Straws, one shorter than the rest. We'll put our hands-we'll put ourselves into the hands of God. Pilot, you'll hold the straws."

"I won't. I'll have nothing to do with it. I say we fight."