Song of the samurai, p.1
Song of the Samurai, page 1
SONG OF THE SAMURAI
C. A. PARKER
Song of the Samurai
text copyright © Reserved by C.A. Parker
Edited by Lisa Diane Kastner
Interior map by J Marquez-Simanca, i.design.nyc
All rights reserved.
Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running
Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com Educators, librarians, book clubs
(as well as the eternally curious), go to www.runningwildpress.com.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-960018-00-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-955062-99-2
To my late wife, Jeannine, and our wonderful children, Julia and Joshua: for all their patience in listening to years of shakuhachi practice and their enthusiasm and encouragement as I birthed this story.
I write in my notebook with the intention of stimulating good conversation, hoping that it will also be of use to some fellow traveler. —Basho (1644-1694)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Map
Land of Fire and Water
Prologue
The Komusō
The Summons
An Evening in Nagasaki
Calling Bamboo
Homecoming
Passage To Honshu
The Sunny Side of the Mountains
Lights in a Graveyard
Swords in the Moonlight
Rōnin
Dancing by Lantern Light
Lightning from a Clear Sky
Unexpected Company
Temple of Light and Darkness
A Night Among Foxes
Snow on a Distant Peak
The Road South
House of a Thousand Lamps
Misogi
The Tengu
City of the Dead
The Sound of Enlightenment
Awaiting Cherry Blossoms
Temple of Music
Unexpected Company, Redux
The Center of the World
A New Home
Restoration
Kintsugi
Afterword
Glossary
Discussion Questions
Notes
About Running Wild Press
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While most novels have a single author, they are never the product of one person. In writing this novel, I am profoundly grateful to many, many people who have supported and cheered me on. There is no way to adequately express my thanks.
In many ways this novel is the product of many years of shakuhachi practice under extraordinary teachers: Alcvin Ryuzen Ramos, James Nyoraku Schlefer, Yodo Kurahachi II, and, finally, the late Ronnie Nyogetsu Reishin Seldin, my first teacher and first guide to Japan. I also owe a profound debt of gratitude to Mitsugi Saotome, Aikido Shihan, and all the amazing teachers and students of the Aikido Shobukan Dojo in Washington, DC. They have taught me the meaning of budo.
This book could also not have come into being without the aid of four amazing early readers and friends. Christopher Yohmei Blasdel, Sensei (shakuhachi master and ethnomusicologist), Prof. Miyuki Yoshikami (koto master and specialist in the Japanese Performing Arts), Dr. Laura Lauth (poet and creative writing instructor), and John Taylor, IV (attorney and Aikido instructor). Each of them provided me with incredibly valuable feedback on the historical and musical content, as well as the technical crafting, of the story. Any mistakes are my own and these readers are the reason there are not far more.
One lesson from writing my first novel is that the actual writing is only the first (and, in many ways, easiest) stage of the journey. My deep thanks go to my literary agent Natalie Kimber of The Rights Factory for guiding me through this labyrinth and helping me craft a better text; and to Lisa Kastner, Founder and Executive Editor of Running Wild Press for taking a risk on a first-time author and shepherding this work to publication.
Lastly, my precious family has made all this work possible. In addition to plowing through this text multiple times and giving me invaluable advice, my late wife Jeannine supported our family financially all during the writing process, and gifted me with the space to create this story. It brightened her last days to know that the book would be published. Our wondrous children, Julia and Joshua, have been my primary cheering section throughout the journey.
A map of Kurosawa’s journey from Nagasaki to Edo
LAND OF FIRE AND WATER
PROLOGUE
JAPAN, 1745.
Only the steady beat of the horse’s hooves broke the silent, pre-dawn darkness. The messenger had been riding swiftly for hours, with an intensity that carried him successfully through several official post-stations, despite his forged travel documents. The dead, joyless heat of summer made even his light armor stifling. Setting many hours earlier, the moon had abandoned the otherwise black and hollow night.
As he approached the Okayama station, he could see the sleepy guards rise to bar his way. Throwing his leg over the saddle with well-practiced ease, he slid off the horse even before it came to a halt. He tossed the reins to one of the guards, shouting—to no one in particular—“Quick, I need a fresh horse for the next stage. On the shogun’s business!” This far west of Kyoto, the guards were used to a slower pace and were easily cowed.
The sentries looked at each other in some confusion, as a groom emerged to claim the tired horse and take it to the stables, whence—the messenger hoped—he would return with a fresh mount. Deliberately, and with an air of great importance, the messenger drew out his travel papers, saying, “Who is in charge here? I need food and water and must be on my way at once.”
One of the guards took his travel documents, while the messenger endeavored to look imperious and put-upon. As the soldier unfolded the papers, an officer—wearing his armored cuirass and gauntlets, but no helmet—emerged from the wooden barrack inside the gate and walked with a studied indifference towards the commotion. Wordlessly, he held out his hand as the guard passed him the messenger’s documents.
“I bear an important notice to the Shogun and require the utmost haste,” the messenger insisted. The officer did not appear to find this compelling. He slowly unfolded the papers and examined them meticulously.
“The seal appears authentic, but this is not the accustomed signature from Kokura castle,” he said, looking suspiciously over the paper at its bearer. “I need to check this with my superior.”
“I am very short on time,” the messenger repeated. “The usual officer was unavailable when the papers were drawn up, and his assistant signed them. Everything is clearly in order. Let me be on my way, or you will bear the consequences.”
“I will also bear the consequences if I let someone pass through my post-station without proper papers,” the officer replied. “Please follow me.” He turned to walk back towards the building from which he had emerged.
“There is no time for this,” the messenger persisted, stamping his foot as he raised his voice. The officer slowly turned and looked meaningfully at the two guards, who retreated a step from the messenger, leveling their spears.
Across the road, the messenger saw the groom emerge from the stable with a fresh horse. On an impulse, he ran towards it, grabbing the reins from the startled stable hand.
“Stop him!” bellowed the officer as the two guards rushed forward. The messenger threw his leg over the horse and wheeled it around to his right, away from the guards. As the first guard grabbed hold of the horse’s harness, the messenger drew his katana and slashed at the soldier, who dropped the harness and backed away, pointing his spear at the horse. The second guard lunged with his spear, while the horse reared, and the messenger slid off its back, managing to land on his feet before the horse fell.
He turned and fled between the stable and the adjacent building, hoping to escape in the darkness. Slivers of light shone through the slats of the ill-made barn; the air was heavy with the scent of wet hay and horse dung. On the far side of the building, he could see the ground slope sharply downwards towards a stream. If he could find a place to hide for a few hours, it would not be too difficult to steal a horse and continue his journey.
But the officer had already sped past his subordinates and lunged at the messenger with his katana, who parried the thrust on his left while stepping to the right and swinging his katana overhead to strike at the officer. At the apex of his stroke, however, a spear point tore through the exposed skin under his arm, twirling him around and throwing him off balance.
Before he could recover, the second guard’s spear caught him in the side, under his chest armor. The spear point punctured his abdomen, and he fell, dropping his sword. Immediately, he felt the point of the officer’s katana at his throat. It was over; his mission had failed. Raising his face, he locked eyes with his captor. Seeing the look of triumph and wishing to avoid the dishonor of capture, he thrust his head forward, impaling himself on the extended sword point. Everything went black.
The officer stood watching the dead man’s blood pool on the dark ground. He wiped his sword carefully and re-sheathed it. Leaning over, he searched the dead man for any papers he might be carrying. Lifting a bundle wrapped in waxed rice paper, he sliced open the seal and read the first page. He then quickly refolded it, turned to the wondering guard, and said,
“Prepare a messenger for Edo.”
THE KOMUSŌ
The deep magenta rays of the rising sun broke over the walls of Kuzaki Temple, reflecting off the tip of a raised katana, as it cut down through the still, morn
The man wielding this particular katana was of moderate height, whose thin build belied surprising strength. His face was open and engaging, not exactly handsome but pleasing, and more youthful than his 35 years merited. The primary sign of his age was a receding hairline, about which he was more sensitive than he thought appropriate for a Zen priest. Fortunately, he wore the shaved hairstyle typical of most samurai, hiding his approaching baldness. He also benefitted—when he traveled outside the temple—by wearing a large, woven basket that covered his head.
This basket, called a tengai, was the sign of his Zen monastic order: the Fuke. The members of the Fuke-shu were known as komusō or “monks of nothingness,” and they wore the basket as a sign of their humility and renunciation of the world. In the front of the basket, a more open weave allowed the monks to see out—if somewhat imperfectly—while not being seen. This alleviated the embarrassment that was a natural component of begging for alms—particularly among the proud samurai.
Just now, as Kinko Kurosawa1 practiced his suburi—its gentle rhythm always calmed his troubled spirit—the rest of the temple residents were still asleep, awaiting the early bell that would wake them for their first session of meditation. In most Rinzai Temples, the monks would have been up for at least an hour by now, and probably beginning their first round of work. But, while Fuke temples technically fell under the umbrella of Rinzai Buddhism, their daily zazen meditation sessions were shorter, and the work requirements less demanding.
However, the Fuke had added one spiritual discipline to that of their Rinzai brethren: the practice of playing a flute called the shakuhachi, the hallmark of their order. This discipline was not simply musical; it was understood primarily as a meditative practice called sui-zen—“blowing meditation.” From the first time he held the instrument—a nearly two-foot-long, heavy, end-blown piece of bamboo—Kurosawa fell in love with the shakuhachi and the music of the komusō. The music’s long, melancholy phrasing and plaintive sound touched a place deep within him and resonated with the movement of his spirit.
Hard work supplemented his unusual talent, resulting in Kurosawa’s speedy rise through the ranks of the temple’s monks. Five years earlier, at the age of thirty, he became the senior musical instructor of the temple and the youngest priest on the abbot’s council. This was an unheard-of honor for one so young and caused no small amount of grumbling among the older temple residents. Knowing himself to be talented and engaging, Kurosawa would have been dismayed at the resentment his swift rise provoked. In his more grandiloquent moments, he even imagined being elected abbot himself…. someday.
His coveted position, and—he feared—its imminent loss, had impelled Kurosawa to rise early that morning, take his katana, and go out in the predawn darkness of the temple garden to practice his suburi. All night, he had thrashed on his futon, unable to force his manic mind into stillness. Finally, he surrendered, arose, and gave himself up to the physical rigor of practicing a thousand sword strokes, clearing his mind and exhausting his body.
He knew better; he expected better from himself.
She had first visited the temple on a cool, autumn morning nearly two years earlier, with red and golden leaves chasing each other playfully across the central courtyard. Her family—her fleshy, arrogant husband, and her flower-like daughter—arrived to make a contribution to the temple in thanksgiving for a safe and successful family journey. At twenty-eight, she was no longer a child, but the glow of youth still clung to her skin, as if loath to relinquish a much-treasured favorite.
Although appropriately lowered, her sharp, intelligent eyes unobtrusively scanned the temple grounds, absorbing every detail. Observing Kinko leading the monks in their afternoon shakuhachi practice outdoors, those perceptive eyes gave him a rapid—and, he fancied, approving—appraisal. Likewise, watching her cross the temple yard caused him to lose his place in the music he was teaching, and—flustered—forced him to start from the beginning.
Within the week, she was back with only her daughter, ostensibly bringing flowers to decorate the butsuden, the main temple sanctuary. The morning was cold, with winter’s first incursion on autumn’s gentle beauty. His breath clouded as he exited the priests’ dorm and recognized the woman and her daughter in the main courtyard as they looked around.
“Can I help you find anything, little sisters?” he asked companionably, as he approached them.
“I am looking for the abbot’s office,” she responded, as her face brightened with recognition.
“Let me walk you over,” he volunteered. “My name is Kinko Kurosawa.”
“And I am Matsu Ekken.” She bowed. “Was that your beautiful playing I heard last week?”
“Group shakuhachi lessons are rarely beautiful,” he laughed. “But, yes, that was me teaching.”
“Well, I thought it very beautiful. It’s quite a difficult instrument to play, is it not?”
“Oh, like anything else, it’s just a matter of practice,” he said, blushing slightly. Bowing as he left them at the temple’s administrative building, he said, “I will look forward to seeing you again.”
She smiled back, looking directly into his eyes.
The family visits to the temple—always now without the husband—became quite regular. The reasons for the trips varied from week to week, but gradually—and to Kinko’s unacknowledged delight—Matsu’s interest became more and more apparent. She always found some pretext to run across his path; and he found himself watching for her, fabricating excuses to engage her. Their talks became longer and longer, strolling in the temple garden, while her daughter played with a ball beneath the umbrella of manicured Cyprus trees.
Her family, he learned over time, were minor samurai from the Hizen Prefecture around Nagasaki, vassals of the Nabeshima family who had ruled the prefecture since the Tokugawa became shoguns a century and a half earlier. Her husband’s family had its roots in Kurosawa’s home province of Kuroda on the northern end of Kyushu island and claimed a near relation to the famous scholar Kaibara Ekken.
One morning, as early spring took an undeniable hold, they strolled among the carefully sculpted plants as Matsu’s daughter chased an errant butterfly.
“How I envy your life here, Kurosawa-san! The freedom to practice your art, to meditate, to teach.”
“What would you do if you could choose, Ekken-san?”
“Oh, I would paint!” There was no hesitation, with an unmistakable finality at the end of the sentence. As an afterthought, she added, “My parents obtained lessons for me with the famous Shiseki Sō when he visited Nagasaki from Edo several years ago. The experience was world-shaking. The powerful way that he drew trees—it was like a sword-master doing calligraphy: dynamic and flawlessly precise. I asked my parents to let me return to Edo to study with him. It was all I wanted in life.”
“And what did they say?” he ventured. She was silent for a moment, and he thought he could see her eyes well with tears, although not one fell.
“They stopped my lessons immediately,” she spat out, as if expelling venom. “Painting professionally is for the lower classes—the artisans,” she warbled, mimicking her mother’s patrician voice. “Not at all suitable for a samurai daughter, who was to enhance her family’s reputation through a good marriage and raise obedient children.” Now the tears flowed down her cheeks. He reached out to comfort her, but caught himself before he crossed that invisible—yet obvious—line.
