Black Wind by F. Paul Wilson
"Why is it good?"
"Sit," Nagata said, and Matsuo sat. "Look out across my sea of raked stones. Feel the tranquillity of the surface while you sense the currents below. Count the large stones."
Matsuo counted. "Eight."
"Move somewhere else. Anywhere." When Matsuo chose another spot, Nagata said, "Count the large stones again."
Matsuo shrugged and counted. "Eight."
"Are they the same stones?"
"Of course . . ." Matsuo caught himself. No, they weren't the same eight. "Wait." He stood. "The stone at the far edge there—I could see it before, but now it is hidden behind this big one here. And that crooked one over there on the left is visible now but I didn't see it the first time."
Nagata nodded with pleasure. "Move around. Sit anywhere along the edge. Tell me what you see."
Matsuo tried viewing the rocks from every conceivable angle. Nine rocks dwelled in the stony sea, but no matter where he sat, only eight were visible. Each of the nine had its turn in view as he changed position, but never more than eight were visible at any one time, no matter where he sat.
"What does this tell you, son of the baron?"
Matsuo thought a moment, then, "That wherever one goes in life, no matter how hard one searches and how clear one imagines the view, something is always hidden."
"Excellent. I am truly proud of you."
Matsuo watched Nagata as he stood with his arms folded atop his potbelly and surveyed his latest addition to the Slater property.
And I am proud of you, sensei.
"Nagata-san," he said after a moment. "Why do you work so hard in Frankie's father's garden?"
Nagata looked at him and smiled serenely. "Has Slater-san picked out a single shrub or turned a single spade of earth here? Has he contributed the smallest shred of himself to the garden? Oh, yes, certainly it resides on his land. And he said to me, ‘Do something with the west corner.' But that was all. No more. He may call this his ‘Japanese garden,' and he may show it to all his friends. But Matsuo, there is nothing of him here. This is my garden."
"You don't like Slater-san?"
"In truth, I do not think of Slater-san. He is wealthy but he is empty. Like a hollow shell on the shore. Shake him and nothing falls out. Hold him up to your ear and you will hear only the whisper of the blood rushing through your head."
"But you work for him."
Matsuo instantly recognized his error and wished the words back in his mouth, but it was too late. Nagata's face clouded and his voice grew stern.
"I serve only your father, the baron. He and no one else is my master. I use Slater-san as a means of raising you among Americans as your father commanded. Nothing more."
"Forgive my thoughtless words, sensei. Like the Westerners around us, my tongue flies ahead of my thoughts."
"Perhaps you should meditate on that while you weed."
"Weed? But you promised to practice with the bokken with me today."
"Your spirit needs honing more than your skills with the wooden sword. I sometimes feel I am failing your father in his command to raise you here yet keep you Japanese." He swept a hand out over the expanse of his work. "Consider my garden. It is like Japanese life. It is ordered, it is clean, it has a design. Each rock, each plant, each tree has its place; each was removed from its nursery or from nature and assumes its proper station in the garden. American life is a weed patch where every member must find its place; some spend their entire lives searching and never find their place. In Japan there is no need to look for one's proper station—one is born into it. I was born into mine, you were born into yours. Mine is to be Baron Okumo's samurai retainer; yours is to fill the special role he has planned for you, known only to him.
"The garden tells you all this. Watch the garden as you work here. It can teach you much. It is life, the life you must lead. And there are always surprises." He pointed to the base of the cedar fence. "Look there, for instance. See that bit of green poking between the wooden slats?"
Matsuo scanned the base of the fence until he saw it: A tiny branch had wormed its way between the apparently flush border of two cedar boards and had sprouted a single leaf.
"I see."
"What does it say to you?"
Matsuo would have given two fingers from his left hand to be able to compose a haiku on the spot. But the words would not fall into the proper places.
Finally, he said, "The tiny plant has persevered where others failed, finding a passage where seemingly none existed, and has won a place in the sun from the land of shadow."
Nagata's face lighted with pleasure, and that in turn warmed Matsuo. Whatever pleased his sensei, pleased him.
"Excellent. You see? Even in the simple fence around a garden one can find courage and victory over seemingly insurmountable odds."
"Can we practice with the bokken now?"
Nagata laughed from deep in his belly. "Yes. When the Slaters make their Sunday trip to church, we will practice. Now weed and do not mention the bokken again."
* * *
The clacking sound drew me around to the rear of the garage.
I hadn't been feeling too good that morning, so Mom and Dad left me behind when they went to church. I felt better after a roll and some juice, so I went out looking for Matsuo. I found him when I found the source of the noise.
They were using wooden swords—lengths of oak the exact size and shape of the big katana of Nagata's daisho. I had always known Matsuo to be quick and agile, but I had never seen him like this. He moved like a tiger, aiming vicious two-handed thrusts and slashes at Nagata with his wooden sword while the older, heavier man, who by all appearances should have been at a disadvantage, kept him at bay with parries and dodges that seemed to require no more than a bend of the wrist or a simple sidestep. Matsuo was soaked with perspiration. Nagata was cool and dry.
Fascinated, I hunkered down in a clump of bushes and watched.
* * *
Matsuo called on every ounce of speed and agility he had to penetrate Nagata's defense, but to no avail. With an effort, he bottled his frustration, knowing that emotions would only betray his sword. He had to remember what Nagata had taught him—to send his essence along the wooden blade and make himself one with it.
Control the breath, control all thought, control every movement.
He stepped back. Holding his bokken at the ready, its long handle gripped with both hands while its blade was aligned vertically with his right shoulder, he paused to compose himself. Nagata waited for him. Matsuo let himself flow into his sword, making it an extension of his hands. But as he did, a movement at the shaded corner of the garage caught his eye and he looked.
Frankie's face peered out from the bushes.
But that couldn't be. Frankie was at church with his parents. That was why he and Nagata had waited until the big car had gone. They never practiced when anyone was home.
An idea suddenly exploded in Matsuo's brain, a plan that was beautiful in its simplicity, yet it might solve so many problems. As he stood there, contemplating it, he felt a sudden, stinging pain on the left side of his neck.
"Your head rolls serenely downhill," Nagata said
He stepped back and wiped imaginary blood from his wooden blade before he thrust it into his belt.
Frankie's face disappeared into the bush as Matsuo rubbed his neck.
"What happened to you?" Nagata said. "You were doing very well. That last was perhaps your best attack yet. And then you let your guard down completely."
Matsuo bowed to Nagata. "I was distracted by a thought."
"You should be far beyond that point." Nagata said with annoyance. "In battle, too much thought is death. You must act. And you must train until the action becomes part of your very nature."
"I am truly sorry, sensei. But it was such a wonderful thought."
Nagata did not ask him the nature of the thought, and Matsuo did not volunteer it. But it had been truly ingenious. It would satisfy giri in the matter of M
He smiled. Yes, a most wonderful thought.
(From Mystical Japan by François Fallon):
As we have seen, religion in Japan has virtually nothing to do with ancestor worship, despite that prevailing misconception. They merely recognize their on—their debt or obligation—to what has gone before. There is no Good or Evil in their religion, only the various levels of on. Unlike so many of its Western counterparts, Japanese religion is a joyous, colorful, festive part of everyday life.
There is, however, a notable exception to this rule: The Kakureta Kao—the Order of the Hidden Face.
This mystical sect gained its place in the history of Japan in the sixteenth century during the days of the Nobunaga Shogun-ate. The Shoguns had wrested the reins of government from the Emperor and kept Him secluded in Kyoto while they ruled with an iron fist. After Nobunaga took control of Kyoto and the Shogunate in 1568, he set about the task of consolidating his hold by ridding the land of all traces of the Emperor's temporal power. He accomplished this by destroying not only those who opposed him, but also those who would not join him. Nobunaga wanted no challenges from without or within. He began a program of burning all the Buddhist monasteries in the land. His armies, however, did not limit themselves to the Buddhists. After destroying the great Enryakuji Temple of Mount Hiei and slaughtering every living soul within, they attacked every Kakureta Kao temple in their path as they fanned out north, west, and south of Kyoto in their sweep of Honshu. It soon became apparent that the Buddhists were not Nobunaga's real target—it was the Kakureta Kao.
And with good reason. The order was the most ancient of all, predating Buddhism and Shintoism. As legend has it, Susanoo, the Sword God, the direct ancestor of the Emperor, brought the Hidden Face order into existence in the time of Jimmu, the first Emperor, and charged it with the mission of protecting the Son of Heaven, and preserving His power in the world. The various temples of the Kakureta Kao had been agitating for the Restoration of the Imperial Line and so the Shogun had, in effect, declared war on the order along with the Buddhists.
Unlike the Buddhists, however, the Hidden Face fought back. The few fighters of their number battled fiercely, but their zeal and determination could not overcome the overwhelming numbers arrayed against them, nor make up for the fact that their monasteries were not designed to withstand full-scale military assaults. Nobunaga's armies took a terrible toll, razing each monastery to the ground after slaughtering any monks who might have survived the siege.
Finally, only one monastery remained, the oldest, largest, and best fortified, near Nanao on the thumblike peninsula that juts off Honshu's west coast into the Sea of Japan. The monks asked the people of Japan, daimyo and peasant alike, to rise up and restore the Emperor to power in Edo. Their call to arms fell upon deaf ears. And so, as legend has it, the monks delved into the cache of ancient lore that was their legacy from the God of Swords, and found a means to defend themselves.
As the Shogun's armies neared the gates of the monastery, something happened. Folklore is vague about the exact nature of the event, but most tales agree that darkness descended and some sort of mystical wind rose up around the last temple. Some sources call it The-Wind-That-Bends-Not-The-Trees, others refer to it as another Kamikaze, or "Divine Wind" like the one that saved Japan by sinking Kubla Khan's invading fleet at the end of the thirteenth century. But the most commonly accepted name appears to be Kuroikaze—the "Black Wind." The Kuroikaze was apparently far more devastating than a mere storm of air. The legends are unclear as to exactly what havoc it wrought, but the historical records of the Shogunate reveal that less than half the army returned to Edo alive.
Nobunaga left the Kakureta Kao alone after that and was eventually slain by his own generals in 1582.
The Hidden Face sect limped through the following centuries, never regaining its power or prominence. It is reduced today to a single temple, a five-storied pagoda in Tokyo not far from the Imperial Palace. The members of the Inner Circles of the sect never leave the temple and no one is allowed inside other than the select children who are educated there as acolytes. What goes on within is completely shrouded in mystery.
(© 1926, Presses Henri, Paris)
AUGUST
TOKYO
Under the spell of the drugs, the monk lay on the stained futon and moaned. Hiroki watched with dry mouth and dripping armpits. Throughout his childhood and adolescence he had heard rumors of this room on the top floor of the temple, but this was the first time he had ever seen it. Its ceiling seemed to stretch into limitless empty black space. The darkness around him was relieved only by the four candles placed at the corners of the futon, and these illuminated only the fronts of the two dozen or so robed and hooded figures—some standing, some sitting, some lying on the floor—encircling their fellow monk,.
Rare to see so many members of the Inner Circles together in one room. All were robed uniformly in dark blue. Their silk masks were the only part of their apparel that distinguished one from the other. But Hiroki knew many of them by the shapes of their bodies. Those without hands or feet, or legs or arms were easily recognized. So were the eyeless ones. The tongueless, earless, and noseless monks were more difficult. He wondered how he would feel standing here now in this dark room with these deformed, mutilated holy men if he had not been coming to the temple on an almost daily basis for as long as he could remember.
Hiroki turned his attention to the monk on the futon. This one, a Seer, lay naked but for his mask and fundoshi. He writhed in seeming agony. His scrawny limbs flexed and straightened with spasmodic jerks. As he turned this way and that, the candlelight flickered into the recesses of his empty eye sockets. Suddenly, he stopped and fell limp. Even his breathing stopped. The room became silent as a tomb.
Hiroki glanced at Yajima standing next to him. His fellow acolyte's full face was pale, his lips drawn into a tight line. He searched the hooded figures for the eyes of Shimazu, his sensei, found them through the eyeholes of a red silk mask across from him, and with his own eyes asked a silent, frightened, question. Shimazu's green eyes blinked as he nodded reassuringly. And then Hiroki's attention was drawn to the futon again as the Seer's lungs filled with a great, whistling gasp.
Hiroki backed up half a step as the Seer levered up to a sitting position and stared around the room with those empty sockets. He seemed to be looking elsewhere, elsewhen.
"Death!" he cried. "The Son of the Sun dies with the year. A quiet time follows as a new Emperor, a new Son of Heaven accedes the Throne of the Sun—then war. I see war! I see the Son of Heaven at war with all nations. I see fleets on the sea, fleets in the air, spanning the five continents and the seven seas. All nations feel the sting of Japan's lash. The Son of Heaven is everywhere." He smiled, showing crooked yellow teeth. "And everywhere victorious!"
The smile faded and his voice lowered in volume.
"No . . . not everywhere. There is defeat. There come many defeats. I see Tokyo burning once more. The future looks dark. Defeat follows defeat. The Empire's forces are driven back, yet the land remains unsullied. No gaijin foot trods our soil. The Emperor remains untouched. Yet even so, there is no hope." He sobbed. "All is lost. But wait! When all looks blackest, blackness will save us. The Kuroikaze, borne by a noble firstborn, shall return to strike down all who oppose the Imperial Will!"
Suddenly he screamed and flung himself backward with both arms shielding eyes he no longer possessed.
"The light! The light of the sun! It blinds!"
The Seer fainted, collapsing like an empty husk. Before he could react, Hiroki felt a hand on his shoulder. He and Yajima were guided away from the upper room and the rest of the monks. Shimazu led them down the steps to the tiny classroom on the third level where they had spent much of their acolyteship.
"What does it mean, sensei?" Hiroki said when they were alone. His heart was pounding in time with the whirling of
"Always it is the same," the master said, his voice slightly muffled as ever by the embroidered red silk mask he wore. Hiroki had wondered at times if he would recognize the voice if it spoke to him through clear air with no fabric to distort it. He knew, though, that he would never fail to recognize Shimazu's high, thin shoulders and his gaunt, long-fingered hands. "No matter which Seer has the vision, it is always the same."
Hiroki held his tongue, knowing that soon his master would explain all he thought they should know. Finally, he spoke.
"What is your dearest ambition?"
Hiroki didn't hesitate. The answer had been drilled into him since early childhood. He and Yajima answered in unison.
"To die for the Emperor!"
Hiroki paused, unsure whether to speak, but he had to ask. "A 'new Son of Heaven,' sensei?"
"Always you listen carefully." His voice was grave. "Too carefully, sometimes. Yes. A new Emperor. The Emperor Taisho will die within the year, and Crown Prince Hirohito will assume the Throne of Heaven."
Hiroki was truly speechless now.
"You two have been privileged tonight. You have been permitted to witness a rite that has been reserved only for the four Inner Circles of the Kakureta Kao. This has been allowed for two reasons. First, because you approach your twenty-first birthdays and have proved yourselves to be admirably discreet and worthy of continued presence in the Order. Second, because the Kakureta Kao has need of your services in the outside world where members such as I can rarely venture."
Shimazu paused for breath and Hiroki had to catch himself from falling as he leaned forward in anticipation of the monk's next words. The Order needed him? Ever since he could remember, his father had told him that he needed the Order.
"As you heard," the monk said, "there will be war. A war we shall win." Hiroki's puzzled expression must have mirrored Yajima's. Shimazu explained. "You heard it yourself. Initial victories followed by defeats, then the appearance of the Kuroikaze, then the all-pervasive blinding light of the sun, which can only mean the triumph of the Emperor, the God of the Sun, the Son of Heaven."