Shōgun

So much sadness today. And happiness: daimyo of Izu-to-be; Commander of the Regiment; the Anjin-san’s to be kept in Anjiro, therefore the first ship is to be built within Izu—in my fief. Put aside your sadness. Life is all sadness. Kiku-san has her karma, I have mine, Toranaga has his, and my Lord Yabu shows how foolish it is to worry about this or that or anything.

Omi looked up at Toranaga, his mind clear and everything compartmentalized.

“Please excuse me, Sire, I beg your forgiveness. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“You may greet her if you wish, before you leave.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Omi wrapped up Yabu’s head. “Do you wish me to bury it—or display it?”

“Put it on a spear, facing the wreck.”

“What was his death poem?”

Omi said:

“ ‘What are clouds
But an excuse for the sky?
What is life
But an escape from death?’ ”

Toranaga smiled. “Interesting,” he said.

Omi bowed and gave the wrapped head to one of his men and went through the horses and samurai to the far courtyard.

“Ah, Lady,” he said to her with kind formality. “I’m so pleased to see you well and happy.”

“I’m with my Lord, Omi-san, and he’s strong and content. How can I be anything but happy.”

“Sayonara, Lady.”

“Sayonara, Omi-sama.” She bowed, aware of a vast finality now, never quite realizing it before. A tear welled and she brushed it aside and bowed again as he walked away.

She watched his tall, firm stride and would have wept aloud, her heart near breaking, but then, as always, she heard the so-many-times-said words in her memory, kindly spoken, wisely spoken, “Why do you weep, child? We of the Floating World live only for the moment, giving all our time to the pleasures of cherry blossoms and snow and maple leaves, the calling of a cricket, the beauty of the moon, waning and growing and being reborn, singing our songs and drinking cha and saké, knowing perfumes and the touch of silks, caressing for pleasure, and drifting, always drifting. Listen, child: never sad, always drifting as a lily on the current in the stream of life. How lucky you are, Kiku-chan, you’re a Princess of Ukiyo, the Floating World, drift, live for the moment. . . .”

Kiku brushed away a second tear, a last tear. Silly girl to weep. Weep no more! she ordered herself. You’re so incredibly lucky! You’re consort to the greatest daimyo himself, even though a very lesser, unofficial one, but what does that matter—your sons will be born samurai. Isn’t this the most incredible gift in the world? Didn’t the soothsayer predict such an incredible good fortune, never to be believed? But now it’s true, neh? If you must weep there are more important things to weep about. About the growing seed in your loins that the weird-tasting cha took out of you. But why weep about that? It was only an “it” and not a child and who was the father? Truly?

“I don’t know, not for certain, Gyoko-san, so sorry, but I think it’s my Lord’s,” she had said finally, wanting his child so much to bind the promise of samurai.

“But say the child’s born with blue eyes and a fair skin? It may, neh? Count the days.”

“I’ve counted and counted, oh, how I’ve counted!”

“Then be honest with yourself. So sorry, but both of our futures depend on you now. You’ve many a birthing year ahead of you. You’re just eighteen, child, neh? Better to be sure, neh?”

Yes, she thought again, how wise you are, Gyoko-san, and how silly I was, bewitched. It was only an “it” and how sensible we Japanese are to know that a child is not a proper child until thirty days after birth when its spirit is firmly fixed in its body and its karma inexorable. Oh, how lucky I am, and I want a son and another and another and never a girl child. Poor girl children! Oh gods, bless the soothsayer and thank you thank you thank you for my karma that I am favored by the great daimyo, that my sons will be samurai and oh, please make me worthy of such marvelousness. . . .

“What is it, Mistress?” little Suisen asked, awed by the joy that seemed to pour out of Kiku.

Kiku sighed contentedly. “I was thinking about the soothsayer and my Lord and my karma, just drifting, drifting. . . .”

She went farther out into the courtyard, shading herself with her scarlet umbrella, to seek Toranaga. He was almost hidden by the horses and samurai and falcons in the courtyard, but she could see he was still on the veranda, sipping cha now, Fujiko bowing before him again. Soon it’ll be my turn, she thought. Perhaps tonight we can begin a new “it.” Oh, please. . . .

Then, greatly happy, she turned back to her game.