Linnear 02 - The Miko

Eric van Lustbader

No character in The Miko bears the slightest resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, save those mentioned as obvious historical figures. Though MITI is real, and though its power and role in the development of the postwar Japanese economy have been accurately portrayed here, certain specific events at the time of its formation as well as the ministers depicted are purely a product of the author’s imagination.

Thanks are due to the following people: Roni Neuer and Herb Libertson, the Ronin Gallery; Richard Bush, the Asia Society, Washington, D.C., for unlocking the riddle of the Wu-Shing;

Charlotte Brenneis, assistant to the president, Asia Society, New York City;

Nancy Lerner;

All at the Grill & Bar, Kapalua, for helping to make work so pleasurable;

HM, for editorial assistance; VSL, for editorial assistance and spiritual sustenance; and, especially, Tomomi Seki, the Ronin Gallery, for translations, assistance in all things Japanese time and again, not only for the The Miko but for The Ninja as well.

Domo arigato, Seki-san.

Tsugi-no ma-no tomoshi mo kiete yo-samu kana

The next room’s light

that too goes out, and now the chill of night

Shiki (1867-1902)

MRS. DARLING: George, we must keep Nona.

I will tell you why. My dear, when I came into this room tonight I saw a face at the window.

]. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

NARA PREFECTURE, JAPAN SPRING, PRESENT

Masashigi Kusunoki, the sensei of this dojo, was making tea. He knelt on the reed tatami; his kimono, light gray on dark gray, swirled around him as if he were the eye of a great dark whirlpool.

He poured steaming hot water into an earthen cup and, as he took up the reed whisk to make the pale green froth, the form of Tsutsumu shadowed the open doorway. Beyond his bent body, the polished wooden floor on the dojo stretched away, gleaming and perfect.

Kusunoki had his back to the doorway. He faced the edge of the shoji screen and the large window through which could be seen the cherry trees in full blossom, clouds come to walk the earth, marching up the densely wooded slopes of Yoshino, their oblique branches as green as the hills beyond, covered with ancient moss. The scent of cedar was very strong now, as it almost always was in this section of Nara prefecture, save during those few weeks of winter when the snow lay heavy through the ridges and rises of the terrain.

Kusunoki never tired of that view. It was steeped in the history of Japan. It was here that Minamoto no Yoshitsune sought the shelter of these fortresslike mountains in order to defeat the treachery of the Shogun, his brother; it was here that the great doomed Emperor Go-Daigo assembled his troops and ended his exile, beginning his attempt to return to the throne; here, too, where Shugendo developed, the way of mountain ascetics, a peculiar fusion of Buddhism and Shinto. Mount Omine was out there and on its slopes congregated the yamabushi, the wandering, self-mortifying adherents of this syncretic religion.

He looked now at the tea, its color lightening as the spume rose, and he saw all there was to see beyond that thin pane of glass.

Behind him, Tsutsumu was about to announce himself softly but, seeing the sensei kneeling, unaware, froze his tongue. For a long time he contemplated the figure on the tatami, and as he did so his muscles began to lose their relaxedness. He had been alert; now he was ready. His mind sought the many pathways toward victory while his eyes drank in the utter stillness in the other. The hands must be moving, Tsutsumu told himself, because I know he is preparing the tea… yet he might as well be a statue for all I can see of it.

He knew the time to be right and, unbidden, he rose, unfurling himself like a sail before the wind. Taking two swift, silent strides, he crossed the threshold and was within striking distance. His body torqued with the first onset of intrinsic energy.

At that instant, Kusunoki turned and, extending the hot cup of tea, said, “It is always an honor to invite a pupil so quick to learn into my study.”

His eyes locked onto Tsutsumu, and the student felt as if he had hit against an invisible, impenetrable wall. All the fire of the energy he had banked for so long, now at last turned loose, was stifled, held momentarily in thrall, then dissipated.

Tsutsumu shivered involuntarily. He blinked as an owl might in daylight. He felt intensely vulnerable without that which had always been his.

The sensei was smiling pleasantly. “Come,” he said, and Tsutsumu saw that another cup of tea had somehow materialized. “Let us drink together… to show respect and our mutual good intentions.”

The student smiled awkwardly and, shakily, sat on the tatami facing Kusunoki. Between them was a break in the reed mats that was far more than an architectural or an esthetic delineation. It was the space between host and guest, always observed.

Tsutsumu took the cup and, holding it carefully and correctly in both hands, prepared to drink. The warmth of the tea rushed into his palms. He bowed to his sensei, touched the curved rim of the cup to his lips, and drank the intensely bitter beverage. It was very good, and he closed his eyes for an instant, forgetting where he was and, even, who he was, to the extent that that was possible. He tasted the earth of Japan and with it all things Japanese. History and legend, honor and courage, the weight of kami, hovering. And, above all, duty. Giri.

Then his eyes opened and all was as it had been before. He felt again the uncomfortableness of being so far from home. He was from the north and Nara was an alien place to him; he had never liked it here. Yet he had come and had stayed for two long years. Giri.

“Tell me,” Kusunoki said, “what is the first thing we assess in combat?”

“Our opponent,” Tsutsumu said immediately. “The exchange of attitude and intention tells us where we are and how we are to proceed.”

“Indeed,” Kusunoki said, as if this were a new concept to him and he was mulling it over in his mind. “So we think of victory.”

“No,” the student said. “We concern ourselves with not being defeated.”

The sensei looked at him with his hard black eyes that seemed ripped from a hawk’s fierce face. “Good,” he said at last. “Very good, indeed.”

Tsutsumu, sipping his tea slowly, wondered what this was all about. Words and more words. The sensei was asking him questions to which any good pupil must know the answers. Be careful, he cautioned himself, remembering the instantaneous dissolution of his attacking force. Be on guard.

“So here we equate defeat with the end of life.”

The student nodded. “In hand-to-hand we are on the death ground, as Sun Tzu has written. We must fight, always.”

Now Kusunoki allowed a full smile. “But Sun Tzu has also written, ‘To subdue the enemy without fighting shows the highest level of skill. Thus, what is supreme is to attack the enemy’s strategy.’”

“Pardon me, sensei, but it seems to me Sun Tzu was speaking solely about war in that instance.”

“Well,” Kusunoki said evenly, “isn’t that what we are also talking about?”

Tsutsumu felt his heart skip a beat and it was with a great personal effort that he kept himself calm. “War? Forgive me, sensei, but I do not understand.”

Kusunoki’s face was benign as he thought, And Sun Tzu also wrote that those skilled in war can make themselves invincible but cannot cause an enemy to be vulnerable. “There are many faces war may take on, many guises. Is this not so?”

“It is, sensei,” Tsutsumu said, his pulse in his throat.

“We can ask, what war can be made here”his arm drifted through the air like a cloud, describing an arc toward the wonder and peace of the wooded hillsides visible through the window “in Yoshino where the history of Japan lives and thrives. One might think war an outmoded concept here among the cherry trees and the cedars.”

His great black eyes fixed on Tsutsumu, and the pupil felt a muscle along his inner thigh begin to tremble. “Yet war has come to this indomitable fortress of nature. And thus it must be dealt with.”

Now Tsutsumu was truly terrified. This was no ordinary invitation to sit at the sensei’s feet and sip tea while speaking of mundane matters, the substance of daily lessons.

“There is a traitor here in Yoshino,” Kusunoki said.

“What?”’

“Yes, it is true.” Kusunoki nodded his head sadly. “You are the first I have spoken to about it. I observe you in class. You are quick, quick and intelligent. Now you will work with me on this matter. You will spy for me among the students. You will begin now. Have you observed anything out of the ordinary that might help us in identifying the spy?”

Tsutsumu thought furiously. He was not unaware of the amazing opportunity being afforded him and was immensely grateful for it. He felt as if a great weight had been taken off his chest. Now he must make the most of this opening. “I seem to remember,” he began. “Yes, yes. There is something. The woman” he used a most unflattering inflection”has been seen here late into the evening hours.”

“What has she been doing?” There was no need to name her. The dojo contained only one womana choice of the sensei that was not popular with his pupils though none dared voice their displeasure where he could hear. Nevertheless, he knew about it.

Tsutsumu shrugged. “Who knows, sensei? Certainly she was not practicing.”

“I see.” Kusunoki seemed engulfed in thought.

Tsutsumu sought to press his advantage. “Of course there has been much talk lately concerning her; a great deal of talk.”

“She is not liked.”

“No, sensei” Tsutsumu confirmed, “most of the students do not feel she has a place here within the sanctity of the dojo. It goes against tradition, they feel. This kind of…ah…training should not be open to a woman, they believe.” The student bowed his head as if reluctant to go on. “Forgive me, sensei, but there has even been some talk that her presence here was the reason that you left your high position within the Gyokku ryu. They say she came to you there, that on her behalf you went to the council of jonin and sought their vote for her entry into the ryu. They say it is because you could not muster enough votes within your own council that you left.” His head raised. “All because of her.”

Invincibility lies in the defense, Kusunoki thought. The possibility of victory is attack. To his pupil, he said, “It is true that I was once jonin in the Gyokku ryu; that much is common knowledge. But the reasons for my departure are my own; no one else knows them, not even the other members of the council. My great-great-grandfather was one of the founders of Gyokku; it took much thought on my part to make the decision. It took much time.”

“I understand, sensei,” Tsutsumu said, thinking that what he had just been told was an utter lie. He was certain within his own heart that Kusunoki had, indeed, jeopardized his entire career for this one woman. Inexplicably.

“Good.” Kusunoki nodded. “I thought you might.” The black eyes closed for a moment, and the student breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He felt a trickle of sweat creeping like an insect down the indentation of his spine and he struggled to keep his body still. “Perhaps I have been wrong about her, after all,” the sensei said. With a great deal of elation, Tsutsumu recognized the sadness in the other’s voice. “If what you have gleaned is indeed the truth, then we must deal with her swiftly and ruthlessly.”

Tsutsumu’s head swung around at the mention of the word we. “Yes, sensei,” he said, thinking, Softly, softly now, knowing he was moving in, trying to keep his jubilation in check. “Any way I may serve you is an honor. That is why I first came here, and I have not wavered in that resolve.”

Kusunoki nodded. “It is as I suspected. There are few one can trust even in this day and age. When I ask for your opinions now, when I ask for you to take action, both of these must be given willingly and faithfully.”

Tsutsumu could barely contain his euphoria; outwardly he showed nothing. “You have but to ask me,” he said.

“Muhonnin” Kusunoki said, leaning forward, “this is all I ask.”

The word traitor had only begun to register on Tsutsumu’s brain when he felt the incredible pain engulf him and, looking down, saw the sensei’s hand gripping him just below the collarbone. It was not a strike he had yet mastered and, staring bewilderedly at it, trying to fathom its secrets, he died, a froth of pink saliva bubbling between his trembling lips.

Kusunoki, watching life escape like a puff of invisible smoke, took his hand away from the corpse. Without his support, it swayed and fell to one side, the pink drool staining the tatami on which Tsutsumu knelt.

Behind the sensei a shadow appeared to move behind the shoji and then a figure emerged. Hearing the pad of bare feet, the sensei said, “You heard it all?”

“Yes. You were correct all along. He was the traitor.” The voice was light, pleasingly modulated. Female.

She wore a dark brown kimono, designed with gray plovers within circles of black. Her gleaming black hair was drawn tightly back from her face.

Kusunoki did not turn around at her silent approach. Instead, he was staring at the rice-paper scroll hung in a niche along one bare wall. Just below it was an earthenware bud vase in which he had placed one perfect day lily. At dawn this morning, as he did every morning of his adult life, he had gone walking in the wilderness, strolling the slopes, through glades still dark and misty with remnants of the night, past rushing streams etched with the last silvered thorns of moonlight, in search of this one flower that would reflect its mood of peace and contemplation all through the day. Plucking it carefully, he had made his way back to the precincts of his dojo.