Feudal Pacific

12

Mochitame rode off toward the rising sun, my response to Yasuke in his hand as he gave us a small wave.

Yasuo and I spent the rest of the morning loading our horses with the supplies we would need for the journey, and I couldn't help but smile inwardly at the sight of us both. We had each faced such great challenges in our lives and had come out the other side stronger and more resilient than before. I had no doubt that we could handle whatever the shōgun had in store for us. Yasuo mounted his horse, his eyes twinkling with anticipation, and his luggage filled with books.

"You're bringing enough books to last a year," I told him, climbing up into my saddle. "I don't think we'll have much time for reading after we get to Edo."

"You never know," said Yasuo with a shrug. "It's always best to be prepared."

With the sun still in the eastern sky, we set off. I glanced up at the clear sky and said a silent prayer for our safe return.

We rode our way along the dusty roads of Awaji, the rhythmic clip-clop of our horse's hooves providing a pleasant accompaniment to the sunshine and salty sea air. Birds wheeled in the sky above while wildflowers of every color bloomed in the meadows we passed. Before long we emerged on the northeastern corner of the island—the Akashi Strait stretching wide before us, a parade of ferries crossing back and forth, taking passengers and goods from Ōsaka through Awaji to Shikoku on the western side.

Our crossing was peaceful and short, the shore of Awaji growing ever farther as our ferry moved steadily over the glossy waters of the Strait. On the other side of the water lay the bustling metropolis that was Ōsaka. The sight was breathtaking, though I had seen it a hundred times already.

The ancient castle, perched atop a hill, overlooked the streets teeming with merchants and artisans. As we rode through the winding streets, I took in the city—the sweet smells of steaming rice cakes and candied yams; the laughter and playing of children, who ran about engaged in games; the puppet shows and acrobatics of street performers, entertaining passersby with their tricks. Temples and shrines, bustling sake-houses and old shop-fronts lined every street, each one unique in its own way.

We rode until we reached the edge of town, where a vibrant blue sky stretched out ahead of us as far as the eye could see, meeting with the green horizon. The countryside was a vivid, living painting of thick, emerald forests and undulating hillsides with winding rivers reflecting the bright sunlight of the clear sky. We traveled for hours each day, only stopping for food and a night's stay in small inns along the way.

We had been making good progress until we reached the foothills of the Akaishi mountains. As we slowly drove our horses up a steep road in Tōtōmi han, a group of men blocked the way. They knelt together, their eyes locked to the ground.

Yasuo tightened up on his reins and turned to me. "Sensei? That one—"

I had seen it already: one of the men carried a sword. According to law, only samurai were allowed to carry them, and anyone else found with a sword would be considered a criminal. That is, unless this man happened to be a rōnin—a samurai without a daimyō. Such people were often dangerous to happen upon, because they had little to lose when it came to survival.

The men looked up at the sound of our horses' hooves against the dirt road. All four of them were dressed in tattered robes and had long, greasy hair that hung to their shoulders. They had intense, almost feral stares, and the one with the sword stepped toward us, his eyes darting between our two horses.

"Who are you, then?" he asked. The stranger's voice was low and gruff, with an accent that marked him as a man from Chōshū—a han on the other side of Japan.