A/Ns. Sendai's more prominent traditional crafts include the manufacture of umoregi-zaiku, or lacquerware made from fossilized wood (Google up some images, they're really lovely!), and okashi, which is usually translated as candy but which isn't necessarily all that sweet. Most Sendai okashi is made to complement bland/bitter tea, so they're fairly subtly flavored.
Tsurugajou Castle was the palace of the Matsudaira daimyo ruling Aizu before the Restoration.
The Touji temple pagoda is that tall tower Watsuki-sama shows in the manga (and in the anime) to indicate Kyoto. One of the region's best-known sights.
Why this fic is turning out to be a virtual "Visit Japan! 2004" tourism campaign thinly disguised as RK fanfic, I have absolutely no idea...
glossary:
onsen = hot spring bath-resorts
osenko = incense for religious purposes
-san = (different from "Mr./Ms./Mrs.") respectful suffix denoting a mountain, e.g. Fuji-san
oniisama = really polite way of addressing an older brother, or in this case, addressing someone as a brother
Mune no Monogatari
by Mirune Keishiko
Nine: Signs
Trivial. Useless. Unnecessary. Aoshi held a special abhorrence for anything that could be called these. They got in the way of the mission, and for the Oniwabanshuu, the mission was absolute.
Long ago, he had found that emotions were a prime example of useless and unnecessary potential hindrances to his work. So too were idle, irrelevant thoughts that only cluttered the mind and mired the body. For much of his life, cold rationality had been his weapon of choice; discipline, will, unflinching realism, the armor he had carefully forged against failure.
And so he caught himself shaking his head as he walked along the street, and doubled his pace. Abruptly he fished out of his buttonhole the wilted rose that teased his senses with its fragile, lingering perfume; for a moment he considered tossing it away into the street, but then stuffed it into an inner pocket of his coat. He reminded himself sternly of the mission at hand: Establish contact with several umoregi-zaiku artisans in Sendai before the shops closed, investigate the progress of the harbor expansion project, and then hold a meeting over dinner with the heads of an okashi cooperative.
For he had been ambling along slowly, in an almost leisurely way, caught up in thoughts utterly irrelevant to his purpose in town, and glancing in shop windows that were clearly not related to either lacquerware or candy. Now, as he quickened his steps along the sidewalk, he realized in chagrin that he had allowed himself to be distracted by such frivolities on display as jewelry, flowers, intricately brocaded silk kimonos. He had already spent a full minute loitering in front of a store selling medical supplies, his gaze drawn to expertly crafted instruments with elegant handles of ivory and silver, before he remembered himself and, whirling, walked rapidly away.
As he passed a shady stone path that trailed up into the mountain, he paused, thinking longingly of the temple that awaited at the end. Lacquerware be damned—he needed to meditate again. Re-center himself. Refocus. Clear his mind.
Because it was just too full of her.
It had not helped that they had met again, quite by accident, the previous morning when he had left Aizu. He had risen early as was his habit and decided to savor the crisp, unhurried air of the still-slumbering town by taking a walk—perhaps pass by Tsurugajou Castle which he had never yet seen, make inquiries in a few onsen in case the Aoiya decided to establish connections in the future. Acutely aware of the turmoil in the back of his head where he had deliberately shoved it to make way for more orderly thoughts, he had decided to give Megumi's neighborhood a wide berth.
Only when already staring up at the imposing brick building had he realized he had not decided, not consciously at least, to avoid the Sanada hospital.
And there had been Megumi, standing in the grounds by a bed of fragrant summer roses, staring at him in blank surprise.
He had heard it said that if one thought long and hard enough about something, it would come true.
She had inquired frankly about his unexpected appearance; when he asked about hers, she had flushed and turned away with a shrug, saying something about awakening unusually early and deciding to get some paperwork done at her office. "The groundskeeper here lets me get a few things for my desk every once in a while," she had added, raising a pair of garden shears for him to see.
She informed him of her intent to travel to Tokyo within the next few weeks and asked him if he had anything he wished to give or tell the Himuras. He had had none, had merely expressed his hopes for her safe journey and pleasant visit.
There had been little to say after that; he had realized this after a few more moments of stilted pleasantries, and been quick to bid farewell. He had not missed the sudden coolness in her tone, though nothing had changed in her demeanor as she wished him well on the next leg of his journey. Then he saw the cinnamon gaze waver, dart off to one side as though an idea occurred to her. Asking him to wait, she had turned toward the flowers as he had watched expectantly.
Her gloved hand had passed over red ones and yellow ones and finally alit on a pale pink feathery one that bobbed merrily by itself, blooming low and close to the ground. She had seemed quite unaware, as she presented to him the freshly cut flower, that her cheeks were imitating its delicate tint.
"Until I can repay your kindness with something far less humble, Aoshi-san, please accept this with my thanks."
A pale pink rose. White for innocence and purity, but also secrecy; pink for friendship, respect, gratitude. Brooding on his horse on the way to Sendai, relishing the silky feel of the petals against his fingers, Aoshi had remembered her hand gliding graceful and sure toward its delicately colored target—not yellow, or joy and happiness; not red...
...Not Aizu, not anymore. This is Sendai now. He shook his head at himself in irritation and strode decisively past the path to the shrine. Lacquerware. Then candy.
All else was immaterial.
With a newfound single-mindedness he finished his tasks for the day well before sunset, long legs and great strides bringing him swiftly and unerringly from one location to the next. As he walked away from the harbor, where expansion was proceeding well under government contract, he realized that he had some idle hours left before his dinner meeting. Thankfully, he turned his steps toward the temple he had passed earlier.
Summer was noisy as always with birds and insects; they sang and chirped and hummed and buzzed in the lush green all around him, filling what would otherwise have been the silence of an empty street. Harsh midafternoon sunlight was softened into gray and green shadows dappling the stone walk. Cherishing his aloneness after the busy day, Aoshi found now no objection to slackening his pace, no frivolity in savoring the wind on his face and the leafy rustle in his ears.
For his day had been busy: So many new people to meet and names to memorize, so much new information to assimilate, so much meaningless but still necessary politics in which to engage. While it had been the businessman in him who had talked and taken tea with these new contacts, it had been the cool, efficient onmitsu in him that had been observing, analyzing, judging throughout—the glance of a pair of eyes, the nuances of honorific speech, the slight, telltale gestures and postures that indicated integrity, or the lack of it.
Perhaps he was getting old, he mused sardonically. In his youth, as part of the Oniwabanshuu whose business it was to know everything and everyone, he had constantly exulted in such expertise, such awareness that often meant the difference between success and failure, life and death. But for some reason he found now that it tired him more than it thrilled him.
And so, the moment it was no longer necessary for him to associate with these strangers, he was pleased to turn his steps toward silence and solitude.
He reached the temple at last, lit the incense and left his shoes at the entrance, and passed within. The monks seemed to take no notice of his dark-suited figure padding soundlessly through the corridors. As he headed for the less public side of the temple that faced the gardens, he drew a slow, deep breath. The faint, familiar smells of an old, well-tended temple were unique comfort—a gentle mix of osenko and beautifully preserved, centuries-old wood.
When he had newly returned to the Aoiya after the incident at Hiei-san, he had sought shelter in meditation. He had craved quiet and aloneness away from the bustling Aoiya, where he and his former comrades-turned-enemies had shared a torturous uncertainty in how to treat each other. He had needed discipline and focus in order to exorcise the demons his dead comrades had become for him. Guilt, humility, understanding, forgiveness—he had struggled within himself to grasp these amid the din of everyday life in downtown Kyoto, and had found them at last only at the temple that had remained peaceful and still through the turbulence of the ages.
He had thought at first that, once he came to grips with the pain and grace of his past, he would find no more need for meditation. But then he found himself returning even more frequently to the temple, staying for ever longer hours. Even when all had stilled again in his soul, he found other people's company increasingly bothersome and sought instead the tranquility of sitting alone with smoothly swept stones spread before him.
Okina had once teased him—during the few, brief times he had lingered at the Aoiya—that he might as well retreat into the mountains and rival Hiko Seijuurou as resident hermit. The old man, Aoshi observed, tended to pass off deliberate remarks as harmless humor.
Perhaps that was why Okina had seemed both pleased and reluctant when he had first brought to Aoshi the idea of expanding business and the need for finding contacts across the country.
And after the first few weeks of his extensive journey, Aoshi had begun to sympathize with the old man.
As he was just seating himself on the engawa, a monk quietly arrived, broom in hand. He appeared barely twenty years old. Paying no heed to Aoshi, the monk began quietly to sweep the dried leaves that had been scattered across the garden. The bright sunlight brought out the dove-gray tones in his shabby white robe.
Another reason Aoshi enjoyed staying at temples: Everyone ignored him.
He had never bothered to count the many, many times people had called him antisocial—whether to his face or behind his back. It was a judgment he saw no reason to contest. He felt no pleasure in social intercourse for its own sake; he classified it together with emotions and idle thoughts, and engaged in it only when absolutely necessary for his work.
Even as Okashira, he had actively limited personal contact with his men to the barest need, preferring to lead by example, not by personality. Thus Misao had been a truly rare exception: neither a superior nor a subordinate, but one nevertheless who had somehow managed, over the years, to worm herself into some sort of personal relationship with him.
He grimaced—that thought had crept up on him unawares.
It had been precisely because of that uncertain relationship that he had taken it upon himself to leave Kyoto and set about realizing Okina's ambitious ideas.
And it had been while traveling from one city to the next, thinking intermittently of the girl with the bright jade eyes who was undoubtedly now rampaging at the Aoiya about his departure, that he had come at last to understand why he had always avoided people so deliberately, and why—after the madness of the Shishio incident—he had taken to lurking in the stillness and anonymity of the temple to avoid them even more.
People meant responsibilities. People meant leadership. People meant dependence.
And he hadn't done a very good job with those who had depended on him, had he?
It was in his time that Edo Castle had been abandoned, the ancient existence of the Oniwabanshuu negated overnight by the very man they sought to serve. He had been powerless to prevent the dissolution of the legendary onmitsu that had suddenly lost the influence and position they had kept faithfully for centuries. When the last four of his comrades deigned to accept ignominious death in the name of loyalty, he had then betrayed his few remaining friends by allying himself with evil, solely in order to attain his own petty, misguided goals.
And even when he had at last been officially stripped of his title of Okashira, he had still betrayed the one remaining person who continued to wager her existence on his.
Yet again he felt powerless about this betrayal—not even the strictest discipline and the clearest focus, he knew, could force his heart to respond to hers as she desired. Leaving Kyoto had been the most he could do to serve her still, to fulfill the responsibility and duty he felt pressing chill upon his heart every time those expressive eyes rested on him, shining with a hope and a trust and a loyalty that were all too painfully familiar.
Perhaps that had been one reason he had found himself drawn to Megumi, however brief their contact had been in his short stay in Aizu. No doubt because of her own bitter experiences, she, unlike most men and women he had ever known, had expected absolutely nothing from him—neither kindness nor brutality, faithfulness nor duplicity, trust nor hatred. She had neither avoided him nor forced herself into his company. In Aizu, he had simply happened to her. She had simply happened to him.
It had come therefore as an utter surprise, as much to himself as to her, when he had sworn to protect her.
He still remembered the pang of shock that had gone through him even as he had said those words to the woman Mizuaki. He had never planned such a vow, never considered it—but the idea had passed in an instant from thought to speech accompanied only by an intuitive feeling of rightness. And Aoshi had learned many years ago to trust his own intuition.
The memory of his words had hung heavy in the taut air between them the rest of that evening: she intent on thanking him with a meal, he sinking into thought, trying in vain to understand his own instincts. And then, the awkwardness of the next morning's encounter, and the flower now limp and brown inside his pocket.
Megumi, he knew, understood that an offer so freely given could hardly be refused without personal offense. And so she had chosen instead to express her awareness of the value of his promise and her gratitude in the face of the freedom with which he had made it.
He suspected this was also why she worked so hard at the hospital. She had avoided seeking the Sanadas' aid as longtime friends of her family when she had first returned to Aizu and attempted to set up her own clinic. But when Sanada Hiroshi took it upon himself to provide her with work as no other physician in Aizu had done—disdaining her as a woman, if not as a Takani—she had striven to prove herself worthy not of his kindness, but of his respect.
Then again, after her past ordeals, he was not surprised that she asked for and expected so little from others—and thus, when she could not properly reject unsolicited help, valued it so highly and sought to repay it.
The young monk had finished sweeping the garden and now approached Aoshi, who immediately focused on him with some suspicion. The monk bowed low, smiling apologetically.
"Forgive me for intruding, oniisama," said the monk quietly, still with his self-effacing smile. "My teacher wished me only to ask you if the kurowashi remains at the Touji pagoda."
Aoshi stiffened. Kurowashi. Black eagle.
His old nickname among the Oniwabanshuu outside Kyoto—he had not heard it in years.
A message from Okina?
"The kurowashi has taken flight," he said blandly, glancing up at the cloudless sky as though merely commenting on the weather. "Does the ao-sagi give chase?"
In those days, Nenji Kashiwazaki had been referred to as the gray heron.
"Indeed it does." The young monk produced a much folded paper from his sleeve and laid it before Aoshi, making another deep bow. "I am honored, Okashira-sama. My master moved on from this world four years ago, but I have not forgotten his instructions. Before he wore our robes, you knew him as Amegasa."
"I am sorry to hear of his passing. He did honor to us all his years of service." Aoshi returned the bow. "Thank you..."
"...Tsuki-ren, Okashira-sama." The monk bowed again modestly. "It was my duty and my privilege. Should you need anything else here in Sendai..."
He trailed off as Aoshi shook his head. Then the young monk nodded, made a last, respectful bow, and left, sandals flapping quietly.
Aoshi was left to himself again, marveling silently at the persistence of old ties, ancient responsibilities, past comrades.
Then he unfolded the letter, which had been folded to fit the capsule on the leg of a pigeon. The sight and feel of the special paper—exceptionally thin, extraordinarily durable—brought back many memories.
Okina's message was simple.
Misao has left for Tokyo and is searching for you.
For long moments the letter lay open and unseen in his hands as he stared fixedly off into space. Then a sigh escaped his lips as it had not done for over two months, and he tucked the letter away.
It seemed his long journey was hardly at its end.
~ tsuzuku ~
Excessive A/Ns. (bowing repeatedly with a big sheepish grin) Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long time it took to update. I am seriously out of my writing rhythm these days. @.@
I hope I didn't bore anyone with this super long chapter of almost pure Aoshi-think. Wahh... T.T I've always strived for the "show not tell" method of storytelling, but... it would take pages of yakkety-yak to bring out all of the above, and even more pages of actions (with wayyy too many Ocs)... so I thought this was ultimately the most serviceable way to do a little character investigation. Now you must tell me whether this worked or flopped miserably. ^.^; In the latter case I will rehash, I swear... ^.^
The meaning of the colors of roses vary widely... But most webpages I came across agreed that pink roses mean gratitude. Not necessarily romantic love!! I would like to make that point crystal clear. Hahaha.
"Before he wore our robes, you knew him as Amegasa." Sometimes (I don't know if always... sorry) when a person becomes a Buddhist monk, he gets a new name. "Tsuki-ren," by the way, means "moon lotus"; an amegasa is a rain hat. These names had no other significance, I promise. ^.^
And Aoshi's and Okina's codenames were completely made up. If someone knows more about accurate historical ninja stuff, please feel free to educate me, for example if this bird codename stuff is pathetically corny and unrealistic or something. ^.^; Part of why this chapter took so long (excuses, excuses) is that I really hunted up decent names for them:
The kurowashi, lit. "black eagle," is Aquila chrysaetos japonica. Basically a big meat-eating predatory bird with dark brown/black plumage. Imagine my glee when I learned that this bird is "very silent," making sounds only occasionally. Isn't that so Aoshi-sama? ^.^ The ao-sagi or gray heron is often found in flocks on Kyoto riverbanks. "Riverbanks" is one meaning of the kanji "kashi" in Okina's real name. Thank God for kanji software. ^.^
As for the Oniwabanshuu turning up practically everywhere: (1) I'm taking my cue from the Kurokuwa ninja in Kazuo Koike's "Lone Wolf & Cub", who really had agents everywhere in virtually every imaginable occupation, up to and including Buddhist monks. Let's just be glad this monk isn't assassinating someone, right? ^.^ and (2) yep, this has "plot device" written all over it in big can't-miss-'em letters... ^.^
Anyhow, thanks very much, as always, for reading! And please be so kind as to leave a little note for me... just to let me know you haven't given up on my poor little monogatari for being so slowly updated, ne? ^.^