Red Chrysanthemum (9 page)

First had come months of scholarly study. “Why do I need to learn about medicine and anatomy?” Hirata had asked Ozuno. “I’m not training to become a physician.”

“You need to know the vulnerable points on the human body,” Ozuno had explained in his gruff, resonant voice. “The points are the same as those used by physicians during acupuncture. They’re located on junctions along nerve pathways that connect vital organs. Memorize them, and don’t argue.”

Hirata looked ahead to lessons on the secret combat techniques. But when they came, they brought another unpleasant surprise:
Dim-mak
was the most incomprehensible, vexatious thing he’d ever attempted.

Now, as he and Ozuno faced off, Ozuno said, “You’re not using the secret breathing technique. In order to build and channel your inner forces, you must get the maximum air through every part of your body. But you are panting like a dog in summer. You haven’t been doing your breathing exercises.”

Hirata hated those. The ritual of sucking in and expelling air for hours on end was a tedious bore.

“And you’re as tense as if someone poked a stick up your rear end,” Ozuno said. “Relax! When your muscles are tense, they contract. They pull your strikes back toward you and decrease their power.” His eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You haven’t been practicing meditation enough.”

“Yes, I have,” Hirata fibbed.He also hated meditation, which seemed like sitting and doing nothing. In the past, he’d been a good fighter without wasting time on it.

“Don’t resist that which you do not enjoy,” Ozuno said. “Meditation is necessary to quiet the mind so you can forge a link with the cosmos and the infinite knowledge embodied there. Only then can you know the proper actions to take during combat. Otherwise you will fall prey to insecurity and confusion and lose the battle. You will be unable to tap your spiritual energy. I can tell mat’s the case with you, because I can hardly feel your shield.”

The shield was the subtle energy field that surrounded all things. It sprang from a person’s thoughts as well as bodily processes. “There’s too much chaos in your mind,” Ozuno said. “Your shield is so weak that you can’t detect the energy from other people’s shields and sense threats from them.”

“I can feel yours,” Hirata said. Ozuno’s shield gave off a mighty thrum, like lightning about to strike. Hirata braced himself for combat.

Ozuno sneered. “You’re too anxious to beat me. You persist in acting as if your opponent is your adversary. Remember that he’s not; he’s your partner in your quest for victory. Without him, you can’t win. Merge your energy with mine. Don’t oppose it.”

Hirata had always struggled with this concept of oneness with his opponent. How, in a real battle, could he be partners with someone when they were trying to kill each other?

“We’ll practice the no-hit technique,” Ozuno said.

That entailed projecting bursts of spiritual energy that impacted the opponent’s shield and convinced him that he was being hit even though no physical contact occurred. An expert could drive an opponent to the ground without touching him. Hirata raised his palm at Ozuno.

The priest burst out laughing. “You look like you’re constipated. Are you even trying to project your energy?”

“I am,” Hirata said, nettled by the constant, insulting criticism that he’d endured from Ozuno for three years.

“Then stop my attack.”

Ozuno lashed out. Hirata willed his energy at Ozuno’s fist. It should have arrested Ozuno’s movement, but instead the blow landed squarely in Hirata’s stomach. The breath whooshed out of Hirata. He doubled over, gasping.

“Merciful gods, what a sorry excuse for a pupil you are!” Ozuno began boxing his ears.

“Stop!” Hirata wheezed and ducked.

“After all your training, you should be able to stop me yourself,” Ozuno said. “Project a powerful thought of violence toward me. Put me on the defensive.”

Even as Hirata tried, Ozuno hit him again and again. “Well? I’m waiting. Oh, forget it!”

He pushed Hirata away. They resumed circling each other. Hirata was dripping sweat, was exhausted from twenty days of lessons. His bad leg ached. Ozuno lunged, raising his hand to strike Hirata’s face. Hirata swept his own hand past his face and outward. This should have made Ozuno lose focus and led his blow away from its target, but Ozuno’s hand collided with Hirata’s chin. Hirata found himself lying flat on the ground.

“Never have I had a pupil so slow on the uptake,” Ozuno said. He wasn’t even winded. “The gods must be punishing me for some sin I committed during a past life.”

Stung, Hirata clambered to his feet and said, “I’d do better if we used swords.” Swordsmanship was his area of expertise, and he was angry that for
three
years Ozuno had focused solely on unarmed combat, his weakness.

“It would make no difference,” Ozuno said. “Weapons are only an extension of the self. You must master the principles of
dim-mak
before applying it to sword-fighting.”

“But in the meantime, what will happen if an enemy attacks me with a sword?” Hirata said. “How can I fight back?”

Ozuno uttered a sound of exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you? Combat is more mental than physical. The mind is the foundation of a warrior’s power. Conquer your foe’s mind and you win, no matter what weapons you don’t have.”

Defeat washed through Hirata. He turned away from Ozuno and gazed across the mountains, still hidden in the mist. His goal of learning the secrets of
dim-mak
seemed even farther away than when he’d begun his training. He yearned for the old days before he’d been injured, when life had been so simple. He missed the family he’d left at home.

“One of your problems is that you focus on the physical aspects of your training and refuse to develop your character,” Ozuno said to Hi-rata’s back. “You are immature, impatient, and arrogant. You expect things to be easy. You can’t take criticism, and instead of trusting me and following directions without complaint or debate, you question my authority and judgment. Unless you change radically, you will fail.”

Worn down from the constant humiliation, Hirata trudged toward the gate. “I have to go back to Edo.” He’d stayed away much longer than he should have.

“Are you coming back?” Ozuno said.

Hirata paused; he turned to face Ozuno. Their gazes held. Ozuno’s face was somber, devoid of his usual mockery. Hirata realized that they’d reached a critical point where he must decide whether to continue his studies or part ways with Ozuno. The idea of quitting his pursuit of his dream horrified Hirata. Yet right now the dream seemed not worth the suffering.

“I don’t know,” Hirata said.

Fifteen days later, Hirata rode his horse through the gate of Edo Castle on a fine spring afternoon. He looked forward to a meal, a hot bath, a good night’s sleep, and time to sort out his life. But when he arrived at his mansion in the official quarter, his wife, Midori, greeted him at the door, holding their daughter in one arm and their baby son in the other.

“Thank the gods you’re home!” she cried. “You’re wanted by the shogun and Lord Matsudaira. They’ve been asking for you every day you’ve been gone.”

Hirata’s heart sank because he was surely in trouble. He rushed to the palace, where he found the shogun and Lord Matsudaira at a cherry blossom party. They and their guests sat in the garden, sipping wine, eating delicacies, composing poetry. Pink petals drifted down on them. The shogun smiled in delight, but Lord Matsudaira wore a grim expression: He hated dancing attendance on his cousin, which he had to do in order to maintain his influence over the shogun and his control over the regime.

“Ah, Hirata-ran,” the shogun called, “join the party.”

Hirata knelt and bowed. A servant poured him wine. Lord Matsudaira demanded, “Where in the world have you been?”

“Away on business,” Hirata said, quaking inside because Lord Matsudaira took serious umbrage at any offense and seemed even angrier than he’d expected.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to disappear for almost two months. What good is an investigator who’s never around when I need him?”

“Ahh, don’t scold,” the shogun interrupted, flapping his hand at Lord Matsudaira. “It’s too nice a day for a quarrel.”

“Yes, Honorable Cousin.” Lord Matsudaira’s tone hinted at how much he hated deferring to the shogun. “Will you permit me to take Hirata-san for a walk and show him the prettiest cherry blossoms?”

“Certainly.”

Hirata braced himself for the reprimand he knew was coming. As they sauntered under the trees, Lord Matsudaira spoke in a low, furious voice: “This recent absence isn’t the only problem I have with you. You’ve been pretty scarce for awhile.” He trampled on petals; he swatted angrily at one that drifted against his face. He was less in control of himself, and more insecure, every time Hirata saw him. “When I want to know the progress of your investigations, your men give the reports. They seem to be doing all the work and covering for you.”

Hirata was dismayed that he hadn’t hidden this fact as well as he’d thought. “My men work under my direction. I can’t be everywhere at once. But I’m at your service now.”

Lord Matsudaira fixed on him a gaze that measured his dedication.

“Well, that’s good, because I have a job that I want you to handle personally, not pass on to somebody else.”

He glanced toward the shogun, then led Hirata to the far end of the garden. “It has come to my attention that there are men close to me who may have secretly joined the opposition.”

This news surprised and alarmed Hirata. Lord Matsudaira had always been nervous about treachery, but not until now had Hirata heard that treason might be breeding within Lord Matsudaira’s inner circle. Hirata realized how out of touch with politics he’d become during his martial arts training. “May I ask who these men are?”

Lord Matsudaira whispered in his ear. The twelve names sent a ripple of shock through Hirata. Those were the most powerful, important men who’d put Lord Matsudaira on top. Together they had the power to knock him down if they wished.

“I want you to investigate each of them,” Lord Matsudaira said. “Determine if indeed they are plotting to betray me. And keep your investigation absolutely confidential.”

The detective in Hirata welcomed a new, important challenge, but the investigation could take ages. His heart plummeted. When would he fit in his martial arts lessons?

“If I catch you neglecting your duties,” Lord Matsudaira went on in an ominous tone, “you’ll be free to do whatever you want instead. Do you understand?”

He meant that unless Hirata devoted himself entirely to this investigation, he would lose his post; he would be cast out as a
ronin,
to fend for himself and his family in a harsh world. No matter how much Hirata longed to be an expert martial artist, he couldn’t sacrifice Midori, his children, or his honor.

“Yes, Lord Matsudaira,” he said. “You can count on me.”

A month later, Hirata sat in his office with Detectives Inoue and Arai, sorting through the information they’d collected on the potential traitors. He shook his head as he skimmed a document. “We’ve bribed servants, retainers, and family members to spy on all those men, but not one has reported anything that indicates a plot against Lord Matsudaira.”

“We’ve posted listeners all over the castle and town, but they’ve heard nothing to implicate the suspects,” Arai said.

“Maybe they’re innocent,” Inoue said.

“Maybe we’ve wasted a month chasing phantoms of Lord Matsudaira’s imagination.” Frustration filled Hirata. Every day he spent away from his training, he regretted abandoning it. Each morning he practiced the hated meditation and breathing exercises, in hope that he would soon return to Ozuno. “If we don’t find some evidence that those men are traitors, Lord Matsudaira will be displeased rather than relieved.”

He and the detectives sat in silence, picturing themselves demoted, exiled, or put to death because they’d failed to produce the desired results. Arai said, “What should we do next?”

“We mount surveillance on the suspects,” Hirata said. “We pray that we catch them doing something wrong.” The surveillance would take a massive effort. His studies could not resume for months—if they ever did.

“All right. We’ve got twelve men to watch,” Inoue said. “Where do we start?”

“We might as well draw straws,” Hirata said.

A guard appeared at the door and said, “Excuse me, but I thought you would want to see this.” He gave Hirata a rolled-up, flattened paper. “I found it stuck under the back gate while I was making my rounds.”

Hirata unfolded the paper and read the words written there. Surprise interrupted his heartbeat. “Listen.”

If you want to catch a traitor, look no further than Lord Mori. He is leading a conspiracy to overthrow Lord Matsudaira. He is expecting to receive a secret shipment of guns and ammunition at his estate.

“Maybe this is the break we need,” Arai said, voicing Hirata’s hope. Inoue looked skeptical. “Who wrote the letter?”

“There’s no signature, and I don’t recognize the calligraphy.” Hirata asked the guard, “Did you see who left the letter?”

“No. It could have been anybody passing by.”

“Anonymous tips are not to be trusted,” Inoue said.

“But not to be ignored, either.” Hirata knew from past experience that they sometimes told the truth, and he needed every clue that came his way. “If we should catch Lord Mori stockpiling weapons, that would be evidence of treason.”

“And what have we got to lose by choosing him as our first surveillance target?” Inoue said.

Arai nodded. “When do we begin?”

“The letter doesn’t say exactly when he’s due to receive the shipment,” Hirata said. “We should begin our watch tonight.”

The next eleven nights found Hirata, Inoue, and Arai perched on the roof of the mansion across the street from Lord Mori’s estate. Other detectives occupied roofs within estates nearby, whose owners Hirata had ordered to cooperate with his investigation. Gables and trees concealed them. The only person in a position to spot them was the lookout in the local fire-watch tower. Hirata figured that the man wouldn’t dare interfere.