Chidori Learns about Loyalty

4: Calamity

One cold, blustery fall morning, Chidori dressed in her maidservant's clothing. She did not bother to tell the maidservant she was borrowing it. It was better that way. Chidori tucked her notes, pages and pages of them, into the breast of her simple kimono. It was shorter than the clothing Chidori was used to wearing, and it was easy to move in these simple clothes, to stride forward quickly and powerfully out into the world. Not that Chidori felt powerful. The notes tucked safe and warm against her body were full of the little details of Amari Katsushiro's life. Chidori was going to walk to the village, to meet with a messenger sent by her father. He was growing tired of receiving only the little hints that Chidori had included in her letters. He wanted to know everything, every little detail, and Chidori had stayed up long into the night for nearly half a month, now, writing down everything she could think of.

 It had been hard to keep the increasingly thick sheaf of papers hidden. Not so much from Lord Amari – he did not go through the chests where she stored her clothing – or even from Bennosuke, who could be distracted with sweets and stories and praise – but from the servants. She had been forced to refuse their assistance in selecting clothing, which made them extremely grumpy, but it was a necessary evil. Still, sometimes, when Lord Amari smiled at her, or when he lay asleep in her arms, placid as a child, Chidori wished that someone would find the notes. She supposed she would be killed, of course, and she didn't want to die. But she didn't want Amari to die either, not really. She felt she was disloyal. A bad child, because she did not wish to spy on her husband, and a bad wife, because she was spying on him nonetheless. But under the circumstances there was no way to be both a good child and a good wife, and she had known her duty before agreeing to marry Amari Katsushiro.

 The road winding through the rice fields was surprisingly busy that morning – peasants and merchants going about their business, travelling to or from town. The wind was cold, but Chidori was warm in her clothes, and her sense of purpose was strong. Unfortunately, a sense of purpose is not enough to prevent calamity. Chidori had tucked the papers into the breast of her kimono. This was a good spot, but slightly uncomfortable, and Chidori kept shifting the weight of the papers, trying to get as comfortable as possible. One such shift occurred at the same time as a prodigious gust of wind. The wind caught at Chidori's kimono, and at the papers within. In an instant, the sheets of paper were torn from Chidori's grasp. They floated out over the rice fields, dozens of them. The peasants did not notice, not at first – one was in pursuit of a wayward hat, and that was more amusing – but the papers began to fall like snow, and Chidori burst into tears.

 Desperately, she tried to collect the sheets of paper, stuffing them haphazardly back into her kimono. Many of them were wet now, or muddy, and Chidori herself grew wet and muddy as she ploughed into the rice paddies, trying to grab the sheets before the wind caught them again. One of the peasants on the road laughed. One picked up a sheet and looked at it thoughtfully. Chidori felt sick to her stomach; if the man could read, or went to Lord Amari with what he had found, her life was sure to be forfeit. And then, her sick feeling grew even worse. A familiar-looking child, half-covered in mud, was climbing out of the fields and onto the road, and in his hand he clutched one of the sheets of paper.

 Chidori ran to Bennosuke, and tore the paper out of his hand. He looked up at her in shocked surprise. Chidori's mind was filled with a single thought. Bennosuke was old enough to know how to read. He knew what she had written. She sunk to her knees on the stony path, buried her head in her hands, and cried.

 Bennosuke stood awkwardly beside Chidori for a long time. Travellers on the road passed them by, sparing only the slightest of glances. The few remaining wayward sheets of paper floated lazily in the air, or skittered along the roadway when the wind blew. Chidori cried. And then, finally, she stood up.

 “What did you read?” she hissed at the boy.

 Bennosuke shrugged. “Things about my father. About his horses. And about me.”

“Will you – will you tell him I wrote them?”

“I don't know. Should I?”

 It was too late to be the good daughter, Chidori realised. Even if the boy didn't tell his father, there were sheets of paper out there which she hadn't managed to collect. There was the possibility that some of the peasants who had seen her lose the the papers, or some traveller who would walk down the path today, could read them. Inevitably, someone would read the papers, and tell her husband what she had written. It was only a matter of time. And the messenger who had been waiting for Chidori in the village had most likely already despaired of her arrival, and left. No, she could not live up to her duty as her father's daughter, but she could still try to be a good wife, or at least, a good stepmother.

 With a deep sigh, Chidori nodded, “Probably, yes. You should tell him.”

 Chidori looked longingly towards the village. She could run, she realised, and go home, to her parents' house. They would protect her. But by protecting her, her father would not be able to deny that he was complicit in her crime. Lord Amari would feel he had to attack her family holdings, and people - innocent people who had nothing to do with the intrigues of the samurai class - would die. Instead, she would return to Lord Amari's house. She had a dagger in her chambers. Death would perhaps allow her to atone for her disloyalty. She held out a hand to Bennosuke, and allowed him to walk her home.