“What is a kami, Mariko-san?”
“Kami is inexplicable, Anjin-san. It is like a spirit but not, like a soul but not. Perhaps it is the insubstantial essence of a thing or person . . . you should know a human becomes a kami after death but a tree or rock or plant or painting is equally a kami. Kami are venerated, never worshiped. They exist between heaven and earth and visit this Land of the Gods or leave it, all at the same time.”
“And Shinto? What’s Shinto?”
“Ah, that is inexplicable too, so sorry. It’s like a religion, but isn’t. At first it even had no name—we only called it Shinto, the Way of the Kami, a thousand years ago, to distinguish it from Butsudo, the Way of Buddha. But though it’s indefinable Shinto is the essence of Japan and the Japanese, and though it possesses neither theology nor godhead nor faith nor system of ethics, it is our justification for existence. Shinto is a nature cult of myths and legends in which no one believes wholeheartedly, yet everyone venerates totally. A person is Shinto in the same way he is born Japanese.”
“Are you Shinto too—as well as Christian?”
“Oh yes, oh very yes, of course. . . .”
Blackthorne touched the stone again. “Please, kami of Ueki-ya, please stay in my garden.”
Then, careless of the rain, he let his eyes take him into the rock, past the lush valleys and serene lake and to the greening horizon, darkness gathering there.
His ears told him to come back. He looked up. Omi was watching him, squatting patiently on his haunches. It was still raining and Omi wore a newly pressed kimono under his rice-straw raincoat, and a wide, conical bamboo hat. His hair was freshly shampooed.
“Karma, Anjin-san,” he said, motioning at the smoldering ruins.
“Hai. Ikaga desu ka?” Blackthorne wiped the rain off his face.
“Yoi.” Omi pointed up at his house. “Watakushi no yuya wa hakaisarete imasen ostukai ni narimasen-ka?” My bath wasn’t damaged. Would you care to use it?
“Ah so desu! Domo, Omi-san, hai, domo.” Gratefully Blackthorne followed Omi up the winding path, into his courtyard. Servants and village artisans under Mura’s supervision were already hammering and sawing and repairing. The central posts were already back in place and the roof almost resettled.
With signs and simple words and much patience, Omi explained that his servants had managed to douse the fires in time. Within a day or two, he told Blackthorne, the house would be up again, as good as it was, so not to worry. Yours will take longer, a week, Anjin-san. Don’t worry, Fujiko-san is a fine manager. She’ll have all costs arranged with Mura in no time and your house’ll be better than ever. I hear she was burned? Well, this happens sometimes, but not to worry, our doctors are very expert with burns—they have to be, neh? Yes, Anjin-san, it was a bad quake, but not that bad. The rice fields were hardly touched and the so essential irrigation system was undamaged. And the boats weren’t damaged and that’s very important too. Only a hundred and fifty-four samurai were killed in the avalanche, that’s not many, neh? As to the village, a week and you’ll hardly know there was a quake. Five peasants were killed and a few children—nothing! Anjiro was very lucky, neh? I hear you pulled Toranaga-sama out of a death trap. We’re all grateful to you, Anjin-san. Very. If we’d lost him . . . Lord Toranaga said he accepted your sword—you’re lucky, that’s a great honor. Yes. Your karma’s strong, very good, very rich. Yes, we thank you very much. Listen, we’ll talk more after you’ve bathed. I’m glad to have you as a friend.
Omi called out for the bath attendants. “Isogi!” Hurry up!
The servants escorted Blackthorne to the bath house, which was set within a tiny maple grove and joined to the main house by a neat winding walk, usually roofed. The bath was much more luxurious than his own. One wall was cracked badly but villagers were already replastering it. The roof was sound although a few tiles were missing and rain leaked in here and there, but that did not matter.
Blackthorne stripped and sat on the tiny seat. The servants lathered him and shampooed him in the rain. When he was cleansed he went inside and immersed himself in the steaming bath. All his troubles melted away.
Fujiko’s going to be all right. I’m a lucky man—lucky I was there to pull Toranaga out, lucky to save Mariko, and lucky he was there to pull us out.
Suwo’s magic renewed him as usual. Later he let Suwo dress his bruises and cuts and put on the clean loincloth and kimono and tabi that had been left for him, and went out. The rain had stopped.
A temporary lean-to had been erected in one corner of the garden. It had a neat raised floor and was furnished with clean futons and a little vase with a flower arrangement. Omi was waiting for him and in attendance was a toothless, hard-faced old woman.
“Please sit down, Anjin-san,” Omi said.
“Thank you, and thanks for the clothes,” he replied in halting Japanese.
“Please don’t mention it. Would you like cha or saké?”
“Cha,” Blackthorne decided, thinking that he had better keep his head clear for his interview with Toranaga. “Thank you.”
“This is my mother,” Omi said formally, clearly idolizing her.
Blackthorne bowed. The old woman simpered and sucked in her breath.
“It’s my honor, Anjin-san,” she said.
“Thank you, but I’m honored.” Blackthorne repeated automatically the succession of formal politenesses that Mariko had taught him.
“Anjin-san, we were so sorry to see your house in flames.”
“What could one do? That’s karma, neh?”
“Yes, karma.” The old woman looked away and scowled. “Hurry up! The Anjin-san wants his cha warm!”
The girl standing beside the maid who carried the tray took Blackthorne’s breath away. Then he remembered her. Wasn’t this the girl he’d seen with Omi, the first time, when he was passing through the village square on his way to the galley?
“This is my wife,” Omi said tersely.
“I’m honored,” Blackthorne said as she took her place, knelt, and bowed.
“You must forgive her slowness,” Omi’s mother said. “Is the cha warm enough for you?”
“Thank you, it’s very good.” Blackthorne had noted that the old woman had not used the wife’s name as she should have. But then, he was not surprised because Mariko had told him already about the dominating position of a girl’s mother-in-law in Japanese society.
“Thank God it’s not the same in Europe,” he had told her.
“A wife’s mother-in-law can do no wrong—after all, Anjin-san, the parents choose the wife in the first place and what father would choose without first consulting his own wife? Of course, the daughter-in-law has to obey, and the son always does what his mother and father want.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“What if the son refuses?”
“That’s not possible. Everyone has to obey the head of the house. A son’s first duty is to his parents. Of course. Sons are given everything by their mothers—life, food, tenderness, protection. She succors them all their lives. So of course it’s right that a son should heed his mother’s wishes. The daughter-in-law—she has to obey. That’s her duty.”