Title: Merchant of Death

Author: setlib

Rating: T-rated for violence

Pairings: Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

Merchant of Death, Chapter 9: Rail and Blade

Tokyo, Japan. Spring 1885.

Sleep was impossible. I sat up on my mattress in the dark and stared out the window at the white-tipped waves moving slowly across Edo Bay. Every time I started to drift off to sleep, I clutched the furoshiki full of money closer to me, terrified that it would somehow get lost or stolen if I took my eyes off it for even a second. I didn't trust anyone, especially not the students. If any of them knew the fortune I held they would surely scheme to take it, leaving me to the punishment of those three fearsome samurai.

I had been in a daze when I returned to school last night, although I tried to act as normal as possible to avoid arousing any suspicion. I passed out grilled meat to the students in the dormitory as usual, barely able to enjoy the irony as they complimented me on the tenderness and taste of that night's batch. Of course it was better than usual. All Joseon people knew that dog meat was more tender than beef, with a richer flavor - although if those pampered Japanese boys had known the truth about what they were eating, they would have recoiled in revulsion.

I retreated to my room as soon as that chore was done, setting the bag of money down in the middle of the floor and staring at it as though it was a venomous serpent, ready to strike. An unimaginable fortune, entrusted to me by near strangers? This was some kind of test, no doubt, with stakes that made my stomach twist in anxiety. And yet, the opportunity this represented was too good to pass up. By dawn my swirling hopes and fears had coalesced into a calm sense of purpose. I would prove myself. I would pass this test. And I would reap the rewards.

I started out early, grabbing my walking stick and heading northeast to pass through Shiba Park while it was still quiet. I had only seen Shimbashi station a few times, always when I was running errands to Ginza for the students. My first trip to the area was to deliver a broken pocket watch to the clock-dealer, Hattori, for repair at his store in Kyobashi, just north of Ginza. I had walked wide-eyed and amazed through its wide avenues, staring at everything from its Western brick buildings with their strange columns and glass windows facing the street, to the horse-drawn trolley cars, streetlights, and array of foreign objects in the shops. One merchant even displayed a huge snake in his front window, as wide around as my thigh, apparently captured in the jungles of the Americas where such beasts were common.

I had been more composed the next time I visited Ginza to pick up the repaired timepiece, consulting it idly as I walked through the streets. Fukuzawa had a clock in his house, of course, and I had learned to read it even though it didn't seem like a useful skill. Why would anyone need to know the time down to the minute, or even the second? The temple bells rang five times a day, and that had always been enough. I couldn't imagine then how the recent obsession with Western concepts like time-keeping would be helpful to anyone.

Of course, at the moment I wished I had a watch of my own, had that handheld reassurance that I wasn't going to miss my train. Until now I had only stood on Shimbashi bridge and watched from a distance as the iron carriage belched its choking black smoke, with just the vaguest idea how a train actually worked. Fortunately this morning I arrived early - extremely early, more than an hour early according to the large clock hanging in the station. Perfect. I would make good use of the time.

I climbed the stone steps and entered the station, studying the patterns of the passengers and employees. The station attendants wore crisp Western uniforms and scurried around pointing and barking self-important orders as if they were police, but they weren't. Nevertheless I was careful to school my face into an expression of bored superiority, my fine samurai clothing and confident posture a shield that deflected most minor interference. Extra baggage was weighed and tagged for a separate train car, perhaps explaining why Toyama-san hadn't given me the money in a bag or satchel. The ends of the furoshiki were tied across my chest, the stacks of paper yen wrapped tight and pressed against my back where I could reach behind me and touch them anytime for reassurance that nothing was missing.

When the time for the early train approached, the crowds thinned out as people boarded. To avoid any unwanted attention, I went to the shop in the corner that sold cigars and newspapers and purchased the latest issue of Fukuzawa's own Jiji shimpō, settling on a bench to pretend to read. As hard as I'd been studying the last few months, I could only understand less than a third of the kanji in the paper. Still, a large article caught my eye immediately, Datsu-A Ron, 'Goodbye Asia', because in it I recognized the symbol for Joseon. I could read a few of the other words, such as 'civilization' and 'independence', reminding me of the debate at Fukuzawa's house a few nights ago, but there were too many characters I still didn't know and the overall argument escaped my grasp. Frustrated, I let my gaze roam around the station instead, periodically checking the clock and studying the flow of traffic as gradually more people arrived for the next train.

Fifteen minutes before nine, just as I was nervously contemplating what to do if he didn't show up, Uchida-san strolled calmly into the station. His geta snapped sharply against the wooden floor as he entered the line for the first-class tickets. I slowly folded my newspaper and stretched, letting a few other people get in line behind him before I followed. I had to suppress a grimace as I fished the money out of my coin purse for the ticket - an entire yen seemed like an extravagant expense when a rickshaw to Yokohama cost half as much, and a steamship ride half of that - all together it was enough money to buy half a year's worth of rice. Apparently people were willing to spend a small fortune for the convenience of being able to travel there and back in the same day. But of course money always determined how others treated you, and it was a good bet that the first-class passengers would be spared the indignities of any kind of search or interference by the station personnel.

Without a glance in my direction, Uchida moved into the first class waiting room and I followed, leaning against the wall rather than sitting down again. Ladies waited in a separate space on the far side; a staircase wound along the wall to a restaurant on the second floor. I kept my face neutral and my gaze light, touching on people here and there without lingering long enough to attract any attention, but always returning to study the strange old samurai as he faced away from me, toward the platforms. He carried a Western-style cane, shorter than my own walking stick, highly polished and topped with a carving of a boar on the handle. He sat erect on the wooden bench, legs wide in a pair of navy hakama, palms folded together on top of the cane, and I noticed again that his hands were gnarled and stained in a way that belied his gentlemanly appearance.

When the attendant announced that it was time to board, I walked ahead of Uchida to join the small number of first-class passengers heading out to the platforms. Breathing deep and slow, I calmed my nerves as I handed over my ticket. The attendant barely spared me a glance and I felt my tension ease as I climbed into the carriage with the furoshiki full of yen secure on my back. The first-class cabins had long benches that stretched the length of either side of the car, covered in thick red cushions so elaborate that I had to fight the urge to take off my shoes before entering such an elegantly appointed space. I took a seat and then opened my newspaper again, feigning disinterest as the other passengers boarded. There weren't many people riding in first-class, merchants by the look of them, because who else could afford the fare? Uchida was the last to board and he sat on the same side of the car, just one cushion down from me, while the next nearest passenger was several feet away.

Despite my best attempts to look calm, I started when the shrill whistle blew, forgetting my newspaper and looking excitedly out the window as the train shuddered into motion. It built speed slowly, the engine hacking and wheezing like an old man in winter. But when it finally got going, the speed was dizzying. We flew past buildings and people like a great black bird, emerging south of the city to race past wide open rice fields on my right and boats floating in the bay to my left. My heart pounded with excitement and when I caught a glance of Uchida's face, he was watching me with a wry smile. Embarrassed, I tore my gaze away from the window and forced myself to stare blindly back down at my newspaper.

"It's only natural, Ishida-kun, to relish your first train ride." His voice was soft enough that none of the other passengers could hear him over the roar of the engines, and he turned his steady regard to the handle of his cane as he spoke. "You've done well so far. When we arrive in Yokohama, hire a rickshaw to take you to the Grand Hotel. Our friend is staying in room twelve. After you give him the package, tell him I'll be waiting to meet him at the One Hundred Steps Teahouse."

I nodded, and he didn't speak again for the rest of the ride. I wasn't sure why he felt the need for such secrecy - there were no police on the train, and while it was possible one of the other passengers could have been following Uchida, nothing about their behavior seemed suspicious. Perhaps it was all just an elaborate test. More people boarded at each station and the carriage grew increasingly crowded until we reached Yokohama, according to the station clock, less than an hour after we had started.

I followed his instructions exactly, careful not to look back at him as I hired a rickshaw and rode away. I paid close attention to our route so that I would be able to find my way back on my own. I was reminded of Ginza as we crossed over a river on a wide bridge and wound through city streets lined with tall Western-style buildings of stone and brick. In this part of the city, it didn't really feel like we were in Japan anymore. Is this what Europe looked like, block after block of pale columns, reaching up to the sky like bony fingers? I preferred the warm wood of Japanese buildings, with all their curves and imperfections, to the rigid symmetry of these foreign forms.

The rickshaw runner approached Yokohama Bay and crossed another bridge, coming to a stop in front of a two-story brick building with row upon row of glass windows on both floors. The hotel stretched the length of the canal and then bent to the left with a second wing looking out across the bay. I scanned the area carefully as I paid the runner and entered the main doors into a wide open room. Several seating areas were arranged in corners to my right and left, some with other guests engaged in quiet conversation. I felt strange keeping my geta on while inside, but unlike a Japanese ryokan, there were no shelves provided to exchange my outdoor shoes for slippers, and the other guests all wore their Western leather shoes still. A large wooden desk pulled me across the room where I saw uniformed employees but no police or guards. Suppressing my nervousness, I asked for room twelve, following the attendant's instructions to head up the stairs.

The stacks of yen tied to my back seemed to weigh as much as gold bars, a burden I was eager to unload as soon as possible. But when I reached the top of the stairs and turned right as instructed, a hitch in my step was the only sign of surprise I gave when I saw two uniformed police standing in the middle of the hallway outside one of the rooms. I knew immediately that was the room I needed, and that I absolutely would be searched if I asked for admittance. I walked slowly and calmly past the door to room twelve, acknowledging the police with a nod of my head and reaching the end of the hallway, turning left as I entered the wing that faced the bay. Even after I had turned down the next hallway, out of sight of the police, I kept my footsteps at a constant pace in case they were listening. My movements were steady but my heart thundered and my mind raced. I had to make this delivery. I couldn't get caught. What were my options?

I reached the stairway at the end of the second wing and paused to gather my thoughts, leaning against the Western glass window that looked out onto the water. It had been opened slightly to allow the springtime ocean breeze to carry fresh air inside, and I had a flash of inspiration. Shouldering the window open further, I leaned out and studied the decorative stone ledge that stretched the length of the building between the first and second floors. Before I could think too much about it, I tucked my walking stick and geta in the corner and pulled myself out the window. My toes gripped the rough stone ledge and I stepped carefully from one window to the next, sliding along the edge of the building. The wind whipped through the ends of my kimono but my grasp on the brick was strong. Step by step, window by window, I moved quickly and steadily, rounding the corner of the wing and counting my way to room twelve.

Their window was slightly open as well and I could hear Joseon voices arguing in the room. I peered carefully through the glass to confirm there were no police inside, then jerked the window open and practically threw myself inside, landing in a heap on the floor. The conversation halted and I looked up to see Iwata and the other activists staring at me, mouths agape.

I stood smoothly, attempting to recover some of my dignity, and greeted the yangban with a respectful bow. "I have a delivery from Toyama-san," I explained quickly, pulling the furoshiki off my back and setting it on a low table. The men crowded around and, when I untied the edges to reveal its contents, they erupted into excited cries.

"Just as promised," Iwata said, nodding happily. "I knew they would come through for us." He clapped the others on their backs in celebration. "This is just the beginning. Weapons, men, ships - we'll get everything we need, and finish what we started."

While the others settled down to count through the money, Iwata seemed to remember that I was there. "Do you have any other message for us, boy?"

"Uchida-san would like you to meet him at the One Hundred Steps Teahouse."

"Of course." Iwata nodded at the others. "Hide that well, and let's head out." He adjusted his necktie and put on a Western jacket, halfway to the door before he turned back to me. "You'll have to leave the same way you entered. We can't raise suspicions."

I bit my lip and bowed again to hide my disdain, pulling myself back out the window while the others were still gathering up their cash. My fingers and toes were stone-scraped and bleeding by the time I made it back to the stairwell, but the pain was worth it. I had accomplished my mission. I had proven myself. The sense of satisfaction I felt more than soothed any discomfort.

I walked confidently out of the hotel, past the waiting rickshaws and over the canal bridge before I realized that I hadn't received any instructions about how to report back to Uchida. I asked a passer-by for directions to the teahouse and headed there, far behind the others. After walking west toward the steep hill called Sengen-yama for about ten minutes, I crossed another large bridge and a sudden flight of stone steps came into view. I headed up slowly, leaning on my walking stick as my geta clattered loudly throughout the climb. At the top of the hill I paused to recover my breath, struck by the view across the city to the bay.

I threaded my way under cherry trees, branches swollen with blossoms, to a small shrine perched on the hill to the right of the teahouse. From there I could avoid notice while keeping watch on all the entrances and exits. I could hear high-pitched female laughter through the paper screens of the teahouse, and the low murmur of men's voices. As time passed, I noticed a pattern in the guests coming and going. One man lingered outside alone, moving from front to back of the building but never going inside. His distinctive Western dress, gray pants paired with a long navy overcoat, too heavy for the spring weather, seemed somewhat familiar. Had I seen him at the hotel, or on the train? I should have been more observant, but I had been too distracted by the novel experiences all morning. Had he followed Uchida from Tokyo?

It was over an hour before Iwata and the others emerged, their police escort coming out of the teahouse behind them and following them down the long flight of stairs. Uchida left a few minutes later and spotted me immediately, heading over toward the shrine to join me.

"I think you're being followed, Uchida-san," I said quickly, my voice low.

He nodded. "As expected. Don't worry, he won't take any interest in you. I have more business to conduct in Yokohama today, but you can head back to the station." He waved me forward and I headed over to the steps in front of him, my wooden geta clattering loudly as I picked my way down the stone stairs.

"I heard what you had to do to deliver the package," he said quietly after we had descended several steps. The man following him wasn't visible yet. "That was quick thinking, climbing through the windows."

I bowed my head. "It was an honor to be chosen for such an important mission."

"A lot of people would panic in that sort of situation. I can teach someone fighting techniques, but I can't teach them how to adapt to the unexpected. A few are naturally good at it; most will never master it. You, my boy," he glanced over at me, "are quite good."

"Thank you, Uchida-san," I said, flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

"Therefore, I've decided to give you a chance."

When he didn't explain after a few moments, I asked, "A chance at what?"

His Western cane swung in a quick arc, knocking my walking stick off the steps. "Try to hit me."

My eyes widened in surprise. "I couldn't -"

"You have until we reach the bottom of the steps."

I glanced down - we were already a third of the way there. The man trailing Uchida was visible now at the top of the hill, following us at a distance.

"If you can land a blow of any kind - just one - I will grant you a reward."

I calculated quickly and, tightening my grip on my walking stick with both hands, swung at his legs. He parried easily with his cane, throwing me off balance. I stumbled on the steps, scraping my knee while he continued descending at a slow and steady pace.

Raising my stick over my head, I approached him from behind and swung hard. He must have heard me approach because without even looking at me, he sidestepped quickly, throwing me off balance when my hit didn't connect, then he slammed the handle of his cane into my face. Hard. I fell back onto the steps, blood blossoming from my split lip and welling in my mouth. Breathing hard, I grasped my walking stick and climbed back to my feet, trying to think.

Don't panic, I reminded myself. That was the lesson he was trying to teach. Adapt. Think.

Looking ahead, I saw a couple start climbing the steps. That would force us to sweep to the left side to make room for them to pass. We would be near the bottom and I would only have one more chance, so there was no more room for error.

I spat blood into the dirt and pulled off my geta. The wooden shoes were throwing off my balance and also giving away my location. My toes and heels were torn up from earlier, but the pain of the rocks under my bare feet helped ground me. Moving quickly I caught up with Uchida just as the couple passed on his right. He seemed to sense my approach at the last moment, turning with his cane raised, but I threw both shoes at his head and shifted my balance as if I was attacking him from the left. The woman next to us squealed and her partner shouted, but I ignored them both. Uchida ducked and swept his cane at my knees; I jumped and changed direction, avoiding his blow and swinging my walking stick into his shoulder. It wasn't a particularly good hit, but at least I made contact.

Slowly he straightened, his lips curving into a slight smile as the couple raced up the stairs away from us. "Well done. You've earned your reward."

I dabbed the remaining blood away from my mouth with the sleeve of my kimono. "Thank you, Uchida-san. What is it?"

"Sensei," he said quietly. "You may call me sensei." With that he turned and quickly took the last few steps, striding down the street across the bridge and past the stores. The man trailing him brushed past me with a confused look and followed him through the town.

Bemused, I recovered my shoes and limped in the general direction of the train station. If he was to be my sensei, what would he teach me? Fukuzawa already saw to it that I could read in three languages, add numbers, and tell time. He had shown me how to care for his horse - a massive black stallion from a far away desert land, called an Arabian - and told me he would teach me to ride it as well. The older Joseon students at the military academy let me practice riflery with them. Now that the weather was getting warmer, boys were swimming in the pond on campus and showing me how to tread water. There was only one more thing I wanted to learn. One thing Fukuzawa frowned on. One thing that fascinated me, that I knew I'd be good at.

I wanted to learn to fight.

I didn't want to end up like my father, unable to raise my hand - or my blade - to defend myself or my family. Never again would I be at the mercy of market ladies who would spit on my bowed head and laugh. People would respect me. Or fear me. But they would never ignore me again.

The train ride back to Tokyo was simple, even relaxing, without the stress of a fortune in cash strapped to my back. I saved my money and sat with the crowds in the third-class carriage, but it was still amazing to realize how far I had traveled in the span of a few short hours. The distance from Hanseong to Chemulpo was similar, and I thought back to that long night when I had fled the city and walked hour after hour through the bitter cold to reach the port. Would Joseon ever build something like this modern railroad? It seemed unimaginable, but who could predict the future?

Indeed, the next few weeks were full of surprises. Oi or Kobayashi would seek me out at Fukuzawa's house with assignments, often pickups and deliveries. I made several more trips to Yokohama but didn't ask what was inside the packages I carried. I was never offered any additional payment, although the money I'd already received was a veritable fortune which I carefully hid away on top of the bookcases in my tower room.

I only saw Toyama once more during this time. I had been sent all the way to Tomioka, a shrine so far east of the Sumida River that I had to pay to ferry across Edo Bay. The shrine was so large that it had its own boat landing, and after I disembarked I strolled along the broad pathway of wide flagstones. It was no wonder that this shrine would be popular in a city full of former samurai. Tomioka was dedicated to Hachiman, the God of War. He had supposedly been born human as Emperor Ōjin, the son of Empress Jingū, after staying in her womb for twelve months during her conquest of ancient Joseon. He later became a Bodhisattva who offered protection to samurai and other warriors. The Tomioka shrine was a favorite spot for sumo wrestlers to make offerings to Hachiman and pray for success in their matches.

It was after sunset when I arrived, and with the peak cherry blossom viewing season over, the crowds had already begun to thin out. Stalls selling charms and food had few customers left. The path under the great stone torii was illuminated by the flickering light of the oil lamps inside the stone lanterns. I made my way up the steps to the shrine where I could hear two people engaged in a heated argument.

When I got closer I was surprised to recognize Kurushima-san, Toyama's samurai bodyguard. He was again wearing two swords thrust in his sash, the lamplight catching on the fine polish of their black lacquer scabbards with delicate pink cherry blossoms painted along the sides. The man he was arguing with was a bit shorter but heavily muscled, his kimono stretched wide not only across his shoulders but his waist and thighs. Despite his imposing stature, the man was sweating nervously, his voice high-pitched and defensive.

"I apologize, of course. I just got carried away. I was so close to ranking up, I couldn't bring myself to throw the match. It will never happen again, I swear it."

Kurushima, by contrast, was calm and composed. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression cold. "Do you have any idea how much money you cost us, Nishinoumi-zeki?"

I recognized the name. Although I had never attended a sumo match, everyone had been talking about the wrestler from Osaka who had been winning match after match since he came to Tokyo. Nishinoumi anxiously ran his hand up along his forehead to the top of his head, which was styled in samurai-fashion with his long hair tied up in a slick chonmage. "I will pay it all back. When I win the next match-"

"All your winnings for the next five years wouldn't be enough to pay back your debt. If you ever want to wrestle again, you have to prove to Toyama-san that you'll follow orders next time." With that Kurushima reached into the wide sleeve of his kimono and pulled out a square of white silk and a tanto, its red lacquered scabbard no longer than the distance from my elbow to my wrist.

Nishinoumi looked like he was about to vomit. He fell to his knees and bowed low, his head scraping the pavement as he pleaded. "I swear to you, I won't make that mistake again."

Kurushima sighed in irritation and his gaze landed on me. I finished climbing the steps and bowed in greeting. "I was told to pick something up here?"

He nodded toward the sniveling man at his feet. "We've got to get it first. Here, take this." Thrusting the dagger and cloth at me, he moved behind Nishinoumi, reaching his left arm under the wrestler's left shoulder and locking his hands together across the man's chest, grumbling in disgust, "You're only making things worse. Have some dignity."

Surely Nishinoumi could have fought his way free if he had wanted to. Instead he seemed totally cowed, stretching out his left hand obediently, thick fingers trembling.

Kurushima looked at me consideringly. "Make it quick, boy. His little finger, just past the second joint."

Perhaps he thought I would balk. Or that I would make a mess of things, hacking awkwardly through the flesh. Instead I crouched on the shrine stones and drew the tanto, admiring the smooth feel of the hilt and glimmer of steel. Nothing like the crude implements I had used to butcher cows and pigs, this was a work of art. The hilt was wrapped in supple animal skin, much thinner than leather, most likely fish or rayskin. The flickering lantern light made the mirror-like blade look alive, the subtle grains in the metal flowing like water. I confidently examined the joints of the wrestler's finger to find the point of least resistance. Quick and sure, I pressed the single-sided blade down hard and the digit snapped off easily. Nishinoumi clutched his hand and reared back, howling, but I ignored him. I cleaned the blood from the blade and my hand with the sleeve of my kimono, then used the white cloth to pick up the fingertip, wrapping and typing it neatly.

Kurushima released the wrestler to writhe on the ground, then headed down the steps without a backward glance. I followed close behind while Nishinoumi's sobs continued to echo off the shrine walls.

The samurai tucked his arms into his sleeves and sighed. "Shameful. He should have offered his apology in person. He should have accepted his punishment like a man. Instead he's crying like a woman." He glanced over at me. "Let this be a lesson to you. It doesn't matter how big your opponent is. All that matters is your will. If you can intimidate them, if your will is stronger, then you can overpower even the largest foe."

I nodded and held out the silk wrapping, but he shook his head. "You earned it. You should make your delivery in person. Come on." We reached the landing and he hailed a chokibune, much smaller than the ferry I had used earlier. The boatman guided us away from the Sumida River into the maze of canals. Relaxed, Kurushima leaned back in the boat, occasionally pointing out famous restaurants or shrines as we navigated north of Fukagawa and through the sumo district of Ryōgoku. Many large restaurants and teahouses perched right on the water's edge, their lanterns lighting up the dark and inviting customers to their docks. Finally we reached the geisha district of Yanagibashi and climbed ashore near the "Willow Bridge" for which the area was named.

I followed Kurushima past a line of high wooden walls, threading our way through a cluster of waiting rickshaws, to enter an imposing set of doors with an elegant plaque that read, 'Kamesei'. We passed through the doors into a lush garden with a small pond, lanterns, and mossy stepping stones suggested an air of relaxation. However from the sounds coming from the building I would guess that very little relaxing was happening. The balconies on the second floor had their doors slid open to the night air, and from the party rooms I could hear the strains of an expertly-played shamisen, the beat of a drum, and raucous laughter. To my surprise, Kurushima passed his long sword to a young man at the front door, who respectfully and carefully placed it in a tall sword stand against the wall which already contained a half dozen other weapons. His short sword, however, stayed in his sash. We removed our shoes and headed upstairs, a little maid guiding us to a set of doors, kneeling and sliding them open for us.

A dozen men sat in the banquet room in two rows facing each other, each seated on a cushion behind small tables laden with trays of food. Many of them were in their twenties or thirties, none wore Western dress, and most still had their short swords as well. Young women in elaborate kimono were scattered around, pouring sake or chatting with polite smiles. Doors along the far side were open and I could see the Sumida River glistening in the moonlight past the balcony. A haze of smoke drifted through the air, both from pipes and incense burning on a low table along the back.

At the head of the room, seated in front of a tokonoma displaying a simple scroll and delicate vase of fresh purple irises, Toyama-san was laughing heartily as a woman leaned in to whisper something in his ear. I could see Uchida seated between the other men with their backs to the balcony, but clearly Toyama was the center of the party tonight.

Kurushima paused in the center of the room and bowed low, while I stood behind him, to his right, making sure to bow even lower. Toyama waved us forward with a shout. "You're late! Where is he?"

Kurushima walked forward rapidly and dropped to his knees in front of Toyama, bowing so that his hands and forehead pressed against the finely woven tatami mat. Nervously, I followed suit.

"Oyabun, I failed." He rose to meet Toyama's gaze, and I sat up as well. "Nishinoumi-zeki was too afraid to come here and face you."

Toyama leaned back with a scowl and scratched at his belly. "Young people these days," he grumbled. "Where is their loyalty? Their values? When a man has no honor, he has nothing!" He pounded his fist on the lacquered table, making the assortment of small porcelain dishes jump. "I trust you punished him properly?"

Kurushima nodded at me and I stood, walking forward with my head down and arms extended, offering the blood-stained bundle to Toyama. He took it and I retreated, shuffling backwards, resuming my seat just as Toyama untied the furoshiki and started laughing.

"Well done. That's a lesson he won't soon forget." He held up the severed finger and the other men murmured their approval while the women let out soft gasps.

"Credit goes to Ishida-san," Kurushima said. "He not only carried the package, he wielded the blade with a steady hand."

I sat straighter when Toyama's gaze fell on me. I pulled the tanto out of my kimono sleeve and set it on the mat in front of my knees. In the bright light of the room, I could more clearly see the artwork lining one side of the red lacquered scabbard. Raised copper depicted a dragon which wound, serpentlike, around a blunt-edged sword.

"Young cub, you continue to impress me. I believe you've earned a reward."

I bowed again, my forehead to the mat. "I couldn't accept. It is an honor to be of service."

"Of course. But a young man needs a blade, does he not?"

I sat up, glancing at Toyama's face in my surprise.

He pointed to the dagger. "Do you recognize that symbol?" When I shook my head, he explained, "Kurikara, the blade that slays demons and cuts through ignorance. It's wielded by Fudō Myō-ō, whose wrath protects believers and subdues evil. The Immovable One. A good patron for a steady-handed boy." Before I could protest again, he clapped his hands and maidservants scurried quickly into the room. "Set two more places for my guests. And let's have some music!" He turned to the woman at his side. "Get your shamisen, my dear! It has been too long since I heard your singing."

As the women shuffled into place, I picked up the precious dagger and returned it carefully to my kimono sleeve. Kurushima and I moved to the end of the far row that looked out onto the river as the maids brought out more cushions and low tables. As we settled ourselves comfortably, he leaned in close, one hand braced against the tatami mat.

"Since you handled yourself so well tonight," he said quietly, "are you ready for something more challenging?"

I nodded. "What is it?"

"We need another package delivered. But you'll have to pick it up in Kyūshū."

My mouth dropped open in surprise. The island of Kyūshū was over two thousand li to the south, a distance that could take weeks to travel. Riding the train to Yokohama was one thing; navigating a journey that far was something else entirely.

Kurushima grinned. "You should see your expression. Don't worry, you won't be alone. Pack lightly. Be ready at sunrise."

I bowed. "I'll be ready. I won't disappoint you." My mind raced, wondering what sort of delivery could possibly require such a long trip. Money? Weapons? Fingers? Before I could ask any more questions the the maids returned, balancing heavy trays as they sank to their knees in front of our tables.

An overwhelming assortment of dishes were placed before us - and although I had become used to fresh and delicious food while living with Fukuzawa, I had never seen anything prepared like this. Each dish was tiny, but crafted with a degree of artistry that made it almost a shame to eat it. Rice was pressed into the shape of a sakura blossom, flakes of red tuna giving it a soft blush of pink color. A small bowl of light broth contained one perfect clam framed by floating chrysanthemum flowers. Grilled sea bream nestled on steamed bamboo leaves, a daikon radish carved into a delicate plum blossom, sweet egg rolls topped with razor-thin slices of curling lotus root - the courses kept coming, each shape and color complementing each other perfectly, evoking the beauty of spring.

A young woman settled elegantly onto her knees between us, holding out a jar of sake with a bow. Her kimono was a brilliant purple, like the iris in the tokonoma, with just a hint visible of the line of her scarlet nagajuban. Her hair was waxed into elegant sweeps on either side of her head, pinned with a sprig of wisteria blossoms. Her face was powdered white but her bow of a mouth was blood red, commanding attention.

"Ah, Momomaru, how long has it been since your debut? You are so refined now," Kurushima said smoothly.

She held one hand to her mouth to cover a giggle. "You are too kind. I must admit, when I heard that Toyama-sama was hosting a banquet, I was hoping to see you again." She moved to fill his cup, tilting the jar as far as she could, but only a few drops came out. "I'm so sorry, it seems I've run out." With a quick bow, she excused herself, "I'll return with more right away,"

When she was out of earshot, I leaned over to ask Kurushima, "Is she a geisha?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. She's still hangyoku - in training. The young ones with the bright kimono are hangyoku and the older ones, in more conservative dress, are full geisha. You can also tell by their actions." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, "A true geisha would have noticed she was out of sake before trying to serve it."

The criticism surprised me. "You two seemed friendly. Do you know her well?"

He shrugged. "What's to know? They're all the same." He pointed to the opposite side of the room at the geisha and hangyoku who were pouring sake for the other guests. "They giggle. They flatter. They pretend that you're the only one they want. But be warned, Ishida-kun, in truth there's only one thing they really want. Your money."

"Maybe she really likes you. She didn't talk to me at all."

"Of course not, she doesn't know if you're worth her interest yet. Nothing's free, you know. If she thinks you have money, she'll ask to meet you outside the party. But be warned, you'll be charged for her time." Momomaru reentered the room and Kurushima whispered, "Watch and learn."

"Honorable gentlemen, let me fill your cups now," she said as she knelt between us again, her voice high and thin as if she was out of breath. She filled Kurushima's cup and then turned to me.

"Momomaru, let me introduce you to Ishida Sho," Kurushima said. "Forgive him for being shy earlier, this is his first time meeting a geisha. He's a student at Keio University now, so he'll probably be running his own company in a few years."

I opened my mouth to correct him - I hadn't even passed the entrance exam yet - but the girl's face lit up.

"A student! I love students! So knowledgeable, so fashionable. What are you studying? Business?" She leaned close to me to pour the sake, the nape of her neck a mere hand's breadth away. Her kimono rode low on her back, revealing a length of bare skin emphasized by white powder that exposed a suggestive v-shape of unpainted flesh.

"Ah, I haven't decided yet."

"And how long have you known Toyama-sama?"

"Not long."

"I see," she said. Her gaze started to drift away and I felt a strange urge to see if I could win back her attention.

"I've been busy riding the train to Yokohama. On business. Several times."

Kurushima's shoulders began to shake with laughter at my clumsy bragging, but I won my objective - Momomaru turned back to me with wide eyes, as if I was the most fascinating person she had ever met.

"The train! How exciting! I've always wanted to ride the train, but it's too expensive. Perhaps you could take me with you next time? I've heard Yokohama has gorgeous teahouses!"

"Yes, the Teahouse of One Hundred Steps. I've, uh, been there."

"That would be wonderful. We would have such fun if we could go there together," she cooed. "Try the sake, Ishida-san."

I picked up the small cup and tried to drink it in one fast gulp, as I had seen the other men do, but just then Momomaru shifted so that her thigh pressed briefly against mine and I choked in surprise, spitting out the strong rice wine and coughing loudly.

Kurushima and Momomaru burst out laughing, and I blushed in embarrassment. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but most of them were cheering on Toyama who was standing now, dancing in front of of the geisha as they played music, his face flushed.

"Let's have the dancers!" Toyama called out cheerfully. "Who wants to go first?"

The geisha put their heads together in brief conversation, then one rose and shuffled over to Toyama with a bow. She wore a darkly colored kimono, a blue so deep it almost looked black, with subtle ripples in the pattern like waves flowing along the edges of the cloth. Her fan, however, was red and gold, and as she paused in the front of the room in a formal pose, waiting for the music to begin, it was the fan that drew my eye.

When the dance started, Momomaru leaned in close again to interpret each move for me. "See the gentle flutter of the fan?" she asked. "She is sitting by the side of the river, longing for her lover, watching the lanterns floating on the water." When the dancer turned her free hand, palm rising toward the sky, Momomaru explained, "She sees a bird hovering overhead, a skylark, and she realizes that, because love is fleeting, it is precious."

Precious. Skylark. Love.

My heart began to pound unsteadily, my fists clenched. Those words instantly transported me back to Joseon, stuffed inside the yangban girl's luxurious palanquin, the cries of my parents as they were beaten to death still echoing in my ears. The fragile girl in front of me, eyes wide, declaring that my life was precious. Even knowing the filth I sprang from, even seeing the blood smeared on my face, she was unafraid. She was pure, unspoiled by the meanness of the world, beautiful like nothing else I had even seen.

And what did I do? I cut her heart with my sharp words. I soiled her skirt with my dirty blood. As if I wanted to prove her faith wrong, to show her that there was nothing precious about me at all.

Momomaru shifted slightly against my side and suddenly I could see her bare toes, their nails painted, peeping out from beneath the red edge of her nagajuban. Such a suggestive exposure was surely intended to captivate me, but instead, I was repulsed by the vulgar display. I longed instead for the sweetness, the purity that I had rejected, for the soft sweep of pink silk against my fingers.

I held my cup out again and again for more sake, choking it down, ignoring the way it seared my throat. It stoked a fire in my belly that burned through the memories haunting me and left my brain floating in a welcome haze of smoke, obscuring my regrets, dulling my shame. When the party finally broke up around midnight, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was still able to stand without swaying, hold down the contents of my stomach, and find my way home. And better yet, the pain of my past remained at bay where it belonged. All I had to think about now was doing a good job tomorrow. Whether or not I was a precious person, or deserved love - if I had to, I would drink until I could keep those thoughts buried forever.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

GLOSSARY:

Chokibune - A small Japanese boat with one oar, often used to navigate the canals of Tokyo and transport men to and from the several pleasure quarters in the city, especially Yoshiwara.
Chonmage - Traditional Japanese men's topknot worn by samurai and sumo wrestlers.
Hangyoku - Meaning "half-jewel" or "half-price", the term for an apprentice geisha in Tokyo; in Kyoto they are called maiko.
Kanji - One of several writing systems in Japan, these ideographs were adapted from original Chinese characters. Roughly 2,000 must be memorized for sufficient literacy to read a newspaper.
Oyabun - The boss of a Japanese yakuza (mafia) gang, the term suggests a role that is a combination of foster-father, teacher, and lord, and demands absolute loyalty from his kobun, or follower / son.
Ryōtei/Ryōriya - A traditional Japanese restaurant, in Tokyo especially, where geisha can be hired to perform in private dining or banquet rooms. This is in contrast to Kyoto, where geiko typically appear at ochaya, "teahouses".
Tanto - A Japanese dagger roughly 12 inches (30 cm) in length.
Tokonoma - A small alcove that serves as the focal point of a formal Japanese room, displaying artistic items such as a scroll, pottery, or seasonal flower arrangement.
Zeki - Japanese honorific given to high-ranking sumo wrestlers.

WORKS CONSULTED:

"Biography of Kintaro Hattori." Seiko Museum, Seiko Holdings, 2019.

Bird, Isabella Lucy. Unbeaten Tracks in Japan. 3rd ed., John Murray, 1888. Internet Archive.

Downer, Lesley. Women of the Pleasure Quarters: The Secret History of the Geisha. New York, Broadway Books, 2001.

Ericson, Steven J. The Sound of the Whistle: Railroads and the State in Meiji Japan. Harvard UP, 1996.

Fujimoto, Taizoh. The Nightside of Japan. London, T. Werner Laurie, 1914. Internet Archive.

"Fukagawa: A Blue-Collar Working District." Edomatsu. , National Association of Japan-America Societies.

Kuroda, Joe. "Rikishi of Old: The 16th Yokozuna Nishinoumi Kajiro I (1855-1908)." Sumo Fan Magazine, no. 22, Dec. 2008.

Schumacher, Mark. "Fudō Myō-ō." A-to-Z Dictionary of Japan's Buddhist Deities, Onmark Productions, 2014.

Seidensticker, Edward. Tokyo from Edo to Showa 1867-1989: The Emergence of the World's Greatest City. Tuttle, 2011.

Sinclaire, Clive. Samurai: The Weapons and Spirit of the Japanese Warrior. Guilford, Lyons Press, 2004.