Eric van Lustbader - Nicholas Linnear 02 - Miko.pdf - Eric van Lustbader - widez2

Eric Van Lustbader - The Miko FOR VICTORIA with love... in all lands of

weather FOR MY FATHER with love to the human

encyclopedia ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 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

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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 to-night 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.

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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 woman—a 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

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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. "Muhon-nin" Kusunoki said,

leaning forward, "this is all I ask." The word traitor had only begun to

looking down, saw the sensei's hand gripping him just below the collarbone. It

was not a strike he had yet mastered and, staring bewil-deredly 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. On the rice-paper scroll a Zen master of the eighteenth century had

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written in flowing characters: "Rock and wind/only they remain/through

generations." "But you allowed him to get so close to you." Kusunoki smiled

up at her and said, "I allowed him the luxury of cutting his own throat. That

is all." He watched her as she sank down on her knees. He was conscious of the

fact that she chose a spot near his right hand and not directly in front of

him. "Often, times dictate that one becomes more intimate with one's enemies

than with friends. This is a necessary lesson of life; 1 urge you to listen

well. Friends engender obligations and obligations entangle life. Always

remember: complication breeds desperation." "But what is life without

obligation?" Kusunoki smiled. "That is an enigma even sensei may not

unravel." He nodded toward the fallen form. "Now we must find the source from

which this muhon-nin sprang." "Is that so important?" Her head turned

slightly so that the flat curve of her cheek was outlined in the soft light

filtered by the shoji. "He has been neutralized. We should return to our

work." "You are not yet privileged to all that goes on here," Kusunoki said

seriously. "The martial and the military arts are but two. It is essential

that we discover the source of the infiltration." "You should not have

destroyed him so quickly then." The sensei closed his eyes. "Ah, rash youth!"

The voice was soft, almost gentle, but when the eyes snapped open the female

felt her insides fluttering involuntarily, drilled by that basilisk gaze. "He

was professional. You will learn someday not to waste valuable time on men

like him. They must be dispatched as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

They are dangerous—highly volatile. And they will not talk. "Therefore we go

onward." His hands folded into his lap. "You must return to the source... his

source. The people who sent him, who trained him, represent a very great

threat to Japan." He paused, his nostrils quivering as if he sensed some

telltale vibration. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its hard edge; his

eyelids drooped. "There is more hot water. Tea is waiting." Obediently she

went past him, grasping the tea pot and pouring while the light went out of

the sky and purple clouds obscured the terraced mountains. Carefully she

brought the tiny cups toward him on a black lacquered tray; a small flock of

golden herons lifting off from racing water painted there. Delicately, she set

the tray down, began to use the whisk with practiced strokes. Her wa—her

harmony— was very strong, and this was what Kusunoki felt engulfing him. At

that moment he was very proud of what he had helped to create. Six, seven,

eight, the female turned the whisk, creating the pale green froth. On the

tenth stroke her delicate fingers dropped the whisk and in the same motion

were inside the wide sleeve of her kimono. Reversing the motion the short,

perfectly honed steel blade flashed upward, biting into the back of Kusunoki's

neck. Either her strength was at such a level or the blade was so superb that,

seemingly without effort, the steel bit through flesh and bone, severing the

spinal column. In a grotesque gesture, the head came forward and down, hanging

only by the thin length of skin at the neck, as if the sensei was deep in

meditational prayer. Then crimson blood spurted upward from the severed

arteries, fountaining the room, spattering the tatami where they both knelt.

The sensei's torso jerked spasmodically, its legs tangling beneath it as it

tried to leap forward like a frog. The female knelt rooted to the spot. Her

eyes never left the body of her teacher. Once, when he lay on his side and one

leg spasmed a last time, she felt something inside herself trembling like a

leaf before a rising wind and she felt one tear lying hotly along the arch of

her cheek. Then she hardened her heart, strengthened her will, and dammed up

her emotions. With that, elation filled her. It works, she thought, feeling

her heart thundering within her rib cage. Jahd. Without it, she would never

have been able to mask her intent from him, she understood that quite

clearly. As she stared down at her handiwork, she thought, It's nothing

personal; nothing like what that bastard muhon-nin Tsutsumu had in mind. I am

no traitor. But I had to prove myself. I had to know. And therefore I had to

take on the best. She got up and, moving like a wraith across the tatami,

avoiding the spattered stains that had already begun to seep away across the

floor onto other tatami, went to him. You were the best, she thought, staring

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Eric van Lustbader - Nicholas Linnear 02 - Miko.pdf

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