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The Black Dragon
The Black Dragon
The Black Dragon
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The Black Dragon

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John Mung inherits the title of Black Dragon, thereby becoming the eyes and ears of the Emperor of Japan. It's a world of change for the feudal country. Mung must work through betrayal and dangerous intrigue to open the borders to foreign trade and bring feudal Japan into the modern age.

"A sweeping novel in the James Michener genre which will attract the same legions of readers who read James Clavell's SHOGUN. Clavell wrote how the Shogun came to power. Dov Silverman writes of the period 240 years later and THE FALL OF THE SHOGUN planned by THE BLACK DRAGON." - London Times, bestseller list

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDov Silverman
Release dateOct 24, 2012
ISBN9781301414819
The Black Dragon
Author

Dov Silverman

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Dov Silverman has served as a U.S. Marine in the Korean War, worked as a Long Island railroad conductor, been an auctioneer, and even established the Autar Microfilm Service. While working so hard on the railroad, he earned his high school diploma and went on to graduate from Stony Brook University, Long Island, New York, cum laude, at the age of 39. He and his family settled in Safed, Israel in 1972. He credits a spiritual meeting with God and a Tzaddik (righteous man), Jules Rubinstein, in the Brentwood (New York) Jewish Center, with setting him on the path of study, religious involvement and settlement in Israel. His novel, FALL OF THE SHOGUN, appeared on the London Times Best-Seller List and has been published in multiple languages. He also won a 1988 Suntory Mystery Fiction Award, Japan, for REVENGE OF THE GOOD SHEPHERDS.

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    The Black Dragon - Dov Silverman

    PROLOGUE

    In Heaven, after the Dragon Islands were formed, eighty deities met on the banks of the Tranquil River. They delegated Ninigi-no-Mikoto, grandson of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu-o-mi-Kami, to the island of Kyushu.

    Ninigi-no-Mikoto went to Kyushu bearing three treasures—a jewel, a sword and a mirror. With these symbols of divine authority, he established the imperial line that will forever guide Japan.

    CHAPTER 1

    March 1854

    On Japan’s southernmost island of Kyushu, the ocean breeze ceased to blow. Fishermen lowered sail and sculled their boats for home. The countryside lay hushed.

    A man stood in the shadow of a split, weathered rock overlooking the port city of Kagoshima. John Mung, also known as Moryiama Ishikawa, wore rough, peasant clothes. From under his bamboo hat, the samurai and Senior Scholar of the fiefdom of Satsuma scanned the horizon of the Pacific Ocean. The Americans would be returning soon to negotiate a treaty or impose one on Japan. He had received news that the Pacific Squadron, commanded by Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry, had sailed from China a month before.

    Unconsciously Mung hefted a dirt-stained purse, balancing it in the palm of his hand as if weighing the dilemma—how to influence the leaders of America, the country that had adopted him, and Japan, the country of his birth. He squeezed the purse, clinching the decision. Japan’s two and a half centuries of self-imposed isolation had to be ended. To this he would dedicate his life, for failure meant famine, civil war and eventual domination by the Europeans.

    He searched the horizon again for the dark smudge that would signal the return of the Black Ships, then studied the rice paddies below. No one was working this area so late in the season. He turned his attention to a stand of ancient pine near the edge of the forest. The sign was there. One of the boughs of an old tree had been pinned to the ground by a stone.

    Mung stepped from the shadows into the sunlight and made his way down a dry gully. He entered the stand of long-armed pine on a little-used path to a Shinto Shrine covered with lichen and moss. A thin, thirty-foot waterfall dropped down the face of the mountain into a large pool.

    Another man, dressed in the same peasant clothing, stepped from behind a tree and bowed.

    How goes it, Yaka? Mung asked.

    Very well, thank you, sire.

    And your sons?

    They are alert and fit.

    Good, the young samurai said. He flipped the purse to Yaka and stripped. Hold on to that and hide these clothes in the usual place.

    Yaka hefted the purse. It felt like a sachet of rice and river sand. You have to be wealthy to have odd hobbies, he thought. An ashigara (foot soldier) like me would be called crazy if I went digging all alone in the hills.

    He picked up the clothes and watched the tall, lithe samurai walk naked to the pool. By Japanese standards, at five foot eight, Mung was a giant. Only the stump at the end of his muscular left arm violated nature’s symmetry. His sinewy body was covered with sweat-streaked dust. He mounted a rock ledge and dived into the water.

    Yaka shivered. How can anyone enjoy cold bathing, he wondered. It is unnatural.

    Mung swam back and forth, refreshed by the clear mountain water. He dived to retrieve colored stones from the bottom for his wife, Saiyo, and son, Yoshida.

    Throwing the stones to Yaka, Mung said, Call your boys. It is time for their swimming lesson.

    Yaka cupped his hands over his mouth and cawed like a crow. From their lookout positions above the waterfall, Uraga and Udo scrambled down the mountainside, taking off their clothes as they came.

    At the pool’s edge the boys bowed to Mung, then to their father. Uraga, the elder, reminded Mung of his own brother, Jakato. He watched the short bandy-legged youth with the muscular torso hop on to the ledge.

    Now remember, Mung said, bend forward from your hips, flex your knees and as you start to fall, push off keeping your head down. When you enter the water, hold your breath and allow the dive to carry you across the pool.

    Uraga bent too deeply and his leg muscles uncoiled too soon. His body hurtled up and out over the water, coming down flat on his stomach. The splat echoed off the mountain wall.

    Mung winced and laughed, thinking that had he tried to teach his brother, the same thing would probably have happened. But the gods had decreed otherwise. Jakato was dead and Mung had long since stopped wondering why fate had chosen him to live and his brother to die. Whichever it was, karma or the will of Christ, he had no living blood relatives other than his son.

    Mung noticed a difference in Yaka’s stance on the shore. The eyes of his younger son seemed about to pop from his head. The father and son gaped at the figure of Uraga floating face down in the water. In three powerful strokes, Mung was at the young man’s side. He pulled his head up.

    Uraga choked, gasping for air. I did not cross the pool, he sputtered.

    Mung sighed. The boy had done exactly as he was told and might have drowned because of it. Japan’s greatest strength and weakness, he thought, is our people’s unquestioning obedience. Somehow this blind submission to orders must be modified.

    He waved the younger brother to dive. Udo sprang from the rock, cut the water smoothly and surfaced close by.

    You have learned well, Mung said.

    Thank you. I have been practicing diving into a pile of hay.

    Mung turned to Uraga. You too should be diving into a hay-pile. Another belly-flop like that and you will never father children.

    The young men tried to cover their laughter with both hands and sank into the water, gurgling and snorting. Mung’s laughter was different—un-Japanese. It came from his stomach and burst through his lips, revealing his straight white teeth. When he laughed, Japanese, such as Yaka, cringed. To them, samurai or not, when Mung laughed he looked ugly. Saiyo was always cautioning him to cover his mouth with a fan or the palms of his hands, and to giggle like everyone else.

    He motioned the boys to the shallowest part of the pool. Come. It is time to continue your lessons in swimming face-down like the Hawaiians. This may be our last opportunity.

    As they practiced under his guidance, both boys thought of questions to ask Mung about Hawaii, America and other barbarian places he had seen. They burned to know what those lands were like. To their knowledge, Mung was the only living Japanese in the empire to have been outside. But Mung was a samurai. A breach of etiquette could cost them their lives. Even worse, they might be forbidden the honor of serving the Satsuma Scholar, and their family would lose face. They did not question.

    Refreshed from his swim, Mung dressed in the clothes laid out by Yaka. His samurai robe with the wide pointed shoulders carried the Satsuma crest over his heart. With Yaka’s help, he bound the robe with a wide black obi around his waist, and tucked in the long and short swords. In the small of his back, he placed a six-shot Colt revolver under the obi.

    Then, without a word, he set off for his house on the side of the mountain overlooking Kagoshima. Yaka and his sons followed, their eyes scrutinizing the nearby forest and trail ahead. At a place where a path branched off, Mung stopped and looked seawards again. He saw no dark smudge.

    Who has the first watch tonight?

    I, Yaka answered. He motioned at his sons. These two have lessons this evening.

    Mung nodded his approval. He knew he could depend on Yaka. In the Hakusar Valley where the shogun had been defeated a year before, the ashigara, single-handed, attacked a mounted Minimoto samurai. Yaka pulled the shogun’s samurai from his horse, fought off his retainers, then killed him with a bamboo knife. Mung had rewarded the father by allowing the sons to enter his special school in Satsuma.

    Study well this evening, he told the young men. Someday you will perform important deeds for the Emperor, your Lord Nariakira and Japan.

    Uraga and Udo answered, Our only wish is to be worthy and so honored. They bowed in the direction of the Imperial Court in Kyoto, a thousand miles away. Then to the Satsuma Castle three days' travel beyond the mountains, and to the Satsuma Scholar standing before them.

    Mung smiled at Yaka and said, Keep a sharp watch. The signal will come soon.

    The older man bowed and Mung turned into the path. Neither one saw the shadowy figures watching from the forest. The spies blended into the background of lush green foliage. Only their wolfish eyes followed the tall samurai to his home.

    Mung found his wife and son at the side of the pond he and Yaka had built. He watched as she reached out with an ivory wand and tapped the surface. Fatted carp of all colors darted through the water, answering her call. Yoshida, lying on his belly, tried to touch the exotic fish. He splashed his little hands in the water. Saiyo’s pets had become accustomed to her son and his squeals of delight. They glided out of his reach and nearer to her. With the wand, she rubbed the fishes' backs, and scattered crumbs of sweet rice cakes on the water’s surface.

    Mung came up quietly behind her. Oh, to be a fish. To be fed and have my back scratched at the same time.

    Saiyo blushed and beamed with happiness at the sight of her husband. She gathered her kimono, stood and bowed. Mung returned the bow. She bent her tall, reed-like body to pick up their chubby son. Yoshida’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of his father. He pointed and gurgled, his red cheeks balling into a smile.

    Saiyo tipped the child’s head and said, Your son greets his honorable father and asks how he may serve him.

    Mung bowed to the boy. My honorable little one could serve me best if he would sleep well and long so as not to disturb his honorable parents at their meal and when they have pillow talk tonight.

    It is too early for this little samurai to hear of pillow talk, Saiyo said.

    Mung feigned an incredulous look. You showed me his erection when you dressed him the other day.

    Saiyo hugged the child and giggled. Yes. In that way he is much like his father. Mung laughed and she said, Cover your mouth or your son will think he is the main course for your dinner.

    Mung took Yoshida and held him at arm’s length over his head. He felt the child laugh deep in his belly, and ducked away from a gob of dribble slipping over the pink lips. Bringing Yoshida down, Mung nuzzled him and said, I want to eat something but it is not my little boy. Him I will save to serve me in my old age. He gazed at his wife. I am hungry for food and for you.

    I hope to satisfy both your appetites, Saiyo said. My sister, Ukiko, is here. She will tend Yoshida. We can eat, bathe and go to the pillow without interruption. She called to her sister.

    A younger, more petite version of Saiyo stepped from the porch carrying a paper lantern and a book. She bowed and said, How are you, honored brother-in-law?

    Mung returned the bow and answered, Fine, thank you. What book is that?

    The latest pillow book.

    Young women should wait to be married before reading those books, Mung said.

    Ukiko’s eyes flashed mischievously. And that is why I come here to read them. I do not take them home. I am certain my future husband will forgive me, whoever he is. I will bring much joy to his bed.

    Ukiko handed the book to Saiyo, put down the lantern and took Yoshida from Mung. She bowed with the boy in her arms and said, Say goodnight to your father, Yoshida. Through closed lips, she mimicked a child’s voice. Goodnight, honorable Scholar of Satsuma.

    The women giggled and Mung laughed. He returned the bow and asked, Are you going to put an abacus under his pillow again?

    Ukiko straightened her back and said, It is to make him wise in calculations when he grows up.

    It will probably leave him with a permanently dented head, Mung said.

    Ukiko glanced to that part of the cottage which housed the indoor toilet Mung had built. You may change some of the customs in my sister’s house, but others we shall keep in spite of you. She turned and, with mincing steps, carried Yoshida back to the house.

    Mung and Saiyo exchanged glances. You must not tease her, she said.

    He moved close to his wife, touched the book and asked, Have you read it?

    Twice, from cover to cover.

    Is there something new?

    She leaned close to him. Was the old not pleasurable?

    The smell of her was jasmine and it filled his lungs. Yes, it was, he whispered.

    Then my husband’s pleasure in the new shall prove even greater.

    She took his hand and they went to the house. Ukiko had disappeared with Yoshida but the food set on the low table in the dining-room was her work.

    At the end of the meal, Mung took the soiled pouch from his obi. He pulled open the drawstring and withdrew several colored stones.

    Saiyo was delighted. She held the stones up to the light, then arranged them in different patterns on the table top. When she looked up, Mung was holding out his hand.

    A shiny, yellow pebble, the size of a grain of rice, nestled in his palm. This is for you, he said. It may change the course of Japanese history.

    What is it?

    Gold.

    Saiyo reached out to take the yellow pebble. I have never held gold before. It is not very large. Is it valuable?

    No, but this is. Mung poured the contents of the pouch on the table. In the centre of a sparkling pile of yellow dust lay a nugget the size of a pigeon’s egg—misshapen and smooth from tumbling in a river bed for ages. If there is enough gold like this nugget, it might prove the most effective means of modernizing Japan. We need something besides rice to trade with other nations. Only through trade can we stabilize our economy.

    I worry what people will do if they think you want to replace the Emperor, Saiyo said.

    We do not want to replace the Emperor. We want him to have real power. To change him from being just a figurehead. We have to eliminate the Bakufu (feudal government) and put the Emperor in charge of a parliamentary government as in England and other modern monarchies.

    But most of the people do not know that. For us the Emperor is God, and we obey him.

    Then we will have to educate them. Saiyo, you are a teacher. How would you go about it?

    You do not have to convince the people. Influence their leaders and the people will do as they are told. Most of us in Kagoshima think that since the shogun was defeated last year, the Emperor in Kyoto rules supreme.

    We may have defeated the shogun, but Lord Takai in Yedo now rules Japan with the Bakufu under his thumb. Until we can establish Yedo as the new capital of the Emperor, he will not have real power. Saiyo picked up the gold nugget and watched it glitter in the lamplight. Have you really found the lost mine of Izo?

    Not yet, but I am convinced it is somewhere up in the mountains behind Kagoshima.

    Then where did you get this?

    For months I have been panning rivers and streams as I did in California. Working my way further up into the mountains. Getting a little bit of dust now and then. I found this nugget today. It is a sign there may be a vein nearby. How much it is worth will take experts to evaluate.

    What will you do next?

    He smiled. Next I would like to go to the pillow with you. In the morning I leave for Satsuma to show Lord Nariakira this nugget and ask him to send out experienced people to look for the mine. I will be gone at least a week.

    Saiyo thumbed the pages of the pillow book and said, Then let us make this night one to suffice seven days of our passions.

    Holding hands, they entered the tub-room. Mung watched as Saiyo removed her powder-blue outer kimono with the silk lining. On the sleeve of the rust-colored inner kimono, words were embroidered in classical script. To be with thee under the stars and be covered by thy love.

    She raised her naked arms, pulling the combs from her jet black hair. From the nape of her neck to her soft curving buttocks was one graceful, unblemished contour. Mung watched her ribs expand and contract, her tiny breasts rise and fall. She pulled the last comb free and the hair cascaded down her shoulders to the arch of her back like black fire.

    Saiyo glided to the steaming tub and slowly immersed herself. He undressed and followed. They faced each other in the water, knees touching. Beads of perspiration stood out on their faces as the vapor spiraled around them. She reached out of the tub, swished a sponge in a bucket of fragrant soap and lathered Mung’s neck and shoulders. He stood up and she bathed his body.

    Taking the sponge from her, Mung slowly soaped Saiyo’s arms, shoulders, breasts and thighs.

    It is time to go to the pillow, she said, nodding down to Mung’s erection just below the surface of the water.

    They rinsed in a second tub and stepped out. Steam rose from their glistening bodies. He held his arms wide and she came to him. He lifted her and she raised her legs, enclosing his torso. He lowered her on to his erection and began walking towards the bedroom.

    Oh! Oh, she gasped. This is not in the book. She hugged him and whispered in his ear, It is wonderful. Walk slowly. Walk very slowly for my sake.

    He did, and she held him tightly behind the neck with both hands. Oh! Oh, she gasped. Keep walking.

    Mung was constantly amazed at the strength of such a fragile creature in the act of love. He reached out and opened the shoji screen to their bedroom. She buried her head in his neck and wept.

    Have I hurt you? he asked.

    No.

    Then why do you cry?

    I am such a bad wife. This should be your night. I studied the book just to pleasure you and... Oh! Oh! Her grip tightened and she whispered, It is happening again. Aiii! Aiii! Spasms racked her body. I am a disgraceful wife, she panted. Put me down and let me pleasure you.

    No, my love, Mung whispered. There is no greater pleasure for me than yours.

    Between ecstatic moans, Saiyo whispered of the joys she would bring to him when he released her. It was far into the night before she fulfilled every promise.

    CHAPTER 2

    The following day at 11 A.M. Mung, appropriately dressed according to his rank, entered the official residence of his father-in-law, the governor. Five minutes later he left, clothed as a messenger.

    At the sentry post on the main road to Satsuma, his turban, pouch and credentials identified him as a second-class mounted courier, entitled to horses, food and lodging along the way. The order Mung handed the samurai at the barrier held his own seal of Senior Scholar of Satsuma. It closed the road behind him for forty-eight hours.

    After galloping the first twenty miles of his journey, he brought his lathered mount to a spraddle-legged halt at the crest of a wooded knoll. From among the trees, Yaka appeared leading fresh horses. Uraga and Udo followed, each carrying a wicker cage.

    Is anyone trailing me? Mung asked.

    No one, Yaka said. We can see two miles down the road and nothing comes after you.

    Good. Uraga, you keep a sharp watch! If I am followed by road, release the pigeon! Its message will alert General Ryochi Okuda to send out a force to protect me. Mung pointed to the sky. I have banned all carrier pigeons for three days. If you see anything flying in the direction of Satsuma, let the Arrow loose! Your father’s pet will know what to do.

    Uraga bowed. The button eyes of the caged falcon gleamed in the hope of a kill.

    Udo, Mung turned to the younger of the two brothers, you are to start for home now! I want you well rested for a full night’s vigil. If there is a signal from the sea, answer as I have instructed you! Wait until your brother returns home before sending word by pigeon to Satsuma!

    Mung swung into the saddle and trotted down the post road, with Yaka riding at his side. Thus far, he thought, everything has gone according to plan. The remainder of the journey can be made in a more leisurely manner.

    On the way, he thought of Saiyo. She still found it difficult to understand why he was travelling as a messenger, although he had explained that since the Americans landed in Yedo last July, any meeting between the three most powerful men in Satsuma province—Lord Shimatzu Nariakira, General Ryochi Okuda, and himself—would be suspect by Lord Takai’s spies. She understood the necessity of deceiving Lord Takai’s agents, but still felt Mung should be carried in a closed palanquin and given the respect and comforts of his rank. He unconsciously shook his head. There were certain things about him, because of his American upbringing, she would never understand. He disliked the pomp and ceremony that went with his rank. Just stopping along the road for a cup of tea would take hours of formalities. Law and custom made it mandatory for the people to honor him. He would be required to greet the innkeeper, the local headman, priests and anyone of rank in the area. All secrecy would be nullified.

    Mung also detested the cramped palanquin and the idea of other men having to carry him on their shoulders. He knew this too was the influence of Harvard High School and its teachings of the equality of man. He enjoyed travelling as he was, and staying the night in public houses. It was his opportunity to speak with the people and listen to them talk freely without fear of offending a superior.

    Yaka’s grunt brought his attention to a steep part of the road where steps had been carved from solid granite. As the horses clopped up the incline, Mung noticed a rice-paper sign tacked to a tree.

    Inner peace is more distant than the stars when taxes force a man into eternal darkness!

    Tengu.

    Who is this Tengu? Mung asked.

    Tengu can be a long-beaked bird or a feathered gnome with the large head of a human, Yaka replied.

    No hobgoblin wrote that sign.

    Yaka bit his lip to keep from smiling. He knew palanquin bearers usually managed to tear down or screen Tengu signs from persons of high rank. Tengu is the farmers, he said, or ronin (unemployed samurai), and sometimes even merchants. He spat to clear his mouth of the last word. Some of the Tengu sayings are quite interesting. They help pass time on the trail.

    A short while later Mung and Yaka both laughed at the sign,

    It is difficult to philosophize when one has diarrhea!

    The next saying pointed again to the economic situation of the peasants. Tengu says the honorable price of eggs is too honorable for most persons to afford. Chickens with silver arseholes are useless to arseholes without silver!

    Yaka drew his sword and grabbed the reins of Mung’s horse. A group of men in red and white uniforms blocked the road ahead. The ashigara galloped forward and talked to them, then waved Mung on. The group parted to allow the Satsuma messenger by.

    Who are they? Mung asked.

    A company of baggage-men playing the old porters' game. They divide into two groups and each time they meet a priest on the road, they switch loads. A robber priest and his band stole their lightest valuables about an hour ago. Now none of them wants to carry anything.

    Mung made a mental note to arrange for a mounted force of samurai to patrol this section of the road. He and Yaka pressed on.

    Before dark, on the reverse slope of the mountains, they emerged from the clouds. The fertile Satsuma valley spread below in the soft light of the setting sun.

    A little further down the road, nestled among tall mountain pines, was the honjin (rest house) they sought. They were greeted warmly by the owner who directed stable boys to care for their horses. He accepted the official letter entitling Mung and Yaka to second-class accommodation, then led them to a long, low building of many rooms. In theirs were two sleeping pallets with blankets, towels and robes. An arrangement of wild grass and forsythia in a delicate, ceramic vase gave the spotless room a quiet touch of elegance.

    Dinner will be served in an hour, the owner said. The hot springs are most refreshing after a long day on the road. If you require a person for your pleasure, it is included in your accommodation without cost.

    Mung bowed and said, Not for me.

    The owner raised his eyebrows. The ladies of our honjin are noted for their skill at pleasuring. They will be disappointed.

    Yaka squared his shoulders and said, I will be delighted to test their talents.

    The hosteller bowed out of the room, giving Mung a curious glance.

    Mung’s attitude towards extramarital sex was another influence of his Christian training. Saiyo had urged him to go to the Willow World when she was pregnant with Yoshida, but he also knew it pleased her that he had not.

    I am going to bathe, eat, then sleep, Mung said. I want to leave early. After your pleasure, tell the host to pack a breakfast for us! We shall eat in the saddle.

    Yaka started to bow but Mung raised a finger of caution. Remember, I am only a messenger.

    The scarlet edge of the sun rose over the earth’s surface as Mung and Yaka cantered down the mountainside to the verdant Satsuma valley. Traffic soon appeared on the road. Porters, holiday-makers, pilgrims, samurai, farmers, priests and merchants moved in both directions on the wide Kagoshima-Satsuma highway.

    At noon, Mung and Yaka changed horses at an official checkpoint. On the recommendation of the guards, they took their afternoon meal at a nearby honjin—soup, boiled rice flavored with chestnuts, and baked trout freshly taken from a passing stream. Sweet bean-cakes with almonds were washed down with green tea, and the two men were soon back on the road.

    They passed between well-tended fields, orchards and small villages. Here and there at the intersection of feeder roads, expanding villages boasted new shops on either side of the thoroughfare. At one large crossroads, Mung read a sign proclaiming the town’s eighteen avenues and three thousand houses. He compared the freshly swept streets, tidy homes and neat shops with his memories of the refuse and litter found along the highways and on the outskirts of American towns.

    Mung was brought up short by a line of men pulled by a striding samurai, their right hands tied to a rope he held. On their heads they wore straw baskets with cut-out eyeholes.

    Yaka grumbled under his breath, Damned two-bladed fish-cutter!

    Mung ignored the remark aimed at the samurai. Why are they wearing those baskets? he asked.

    They are on the way to debtors' prison and do not want to disgrace their families. They will probably wear the baskets until their debts are paid or they finish their sentences.

    How long do they usually serve?

    There is no set time. It depends on how crowded the jail is. It is not more than a year or two. The conditions are so bad, most of them die first. Yaka spat into the dust. A curse on merchants and tax collectors! May the golden spheres between their legs be stomped on morning, noon and night!

    Further down the road, Mung was again reminded of the heavy taxes borne by the people. A Tengu sign at a rickety bridge read, Tengu was here but fell through this miserable excuse for a bridge. He was swept away by the river.

    At the opposite end of the duckboard span was a second sign. Tengu was saved by the magnificent dam downstream and has returned to say there is no need to rebuild this wonderful structure. Therefore it will not be necessary to raise taxes again!

    Yaka observed the silent Satsuma Scholar. He had heard his master speak of tax reform, but felt it was just another of Mung’s quirks, like disappearing into the mountains to look for rocks. Taxes had always been collected by the rich, and the poor always suffered. It was the way of life.

    The two men continued at a steady pace long after most people had left the road. Enveloping darkness reined them to a halt at a less reputable honjin set back from the highway between villages.

    After stabling their horses, they bathed, changed clothes and went directly to the crowded, boisterous dining-room. It reminded Mung of the inns along the Boston Post Road whose atmosphere he had enjoyed. Tobacco smoke clung to the low ceiling in hazy layers illuminated by paper lanterns. At one table, twenty pilgrims sang and clapped between courses. A group of holiday-makers tried to match them song for song. Travelers from all walks of life sat at the low, oblong tables, eating and talking.

    Over here, Messenger. There is room for you with us. Come. Bring your friend.

    The hearty greeting came from a Buddhist fighting priest. The man’s nose was flattened into his face, spreading down to wide, thin lips. He had neither eyebrows nor lashes. His shaven skull gleamed and his close-cropped ears were hidden behind massive jaws. He smiled and the skin mask was transformed into a jolly face, making everything around him appear happier and brighter.

    Mung bowed and returned the broad smile. We are honored to be invited to your table.

    Ah, but this is not only my table, the priest said. I share it with Naja, the sword-maker. A small man with muscular forearms nodded without taking the rice bowl from his mouth. The priest pointed to another man. This is Oda, a farmer from Miyazaki, and the brothers Jimmu and Kano, fishermen from Sazebo. Lastly, at the end of the table, we have Watabi, a merchant from Ashikubo.

    The finely dressed merchant bowed lower than anyone else. Yaka looked scornfully at the man and searched for a clear space to spit. He turned to leave rather than sit with a merchant.

    The steel in Mung’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Yaka and I are from Kagoshima. We are honored by your invitation.

    Yaka distanced himself from the merchant and fell into conversation with the farmer from Miyazaki.

    Is the food good? Mung asked the priest.

    If you are hungry and hold your nose, the priest said. Now take our sword-maker friend here. He does not care what he eats. He possesses the fastest chopsticks in southern Japan, and his stomach is like the bellows of a forge.

    Mung smiled at the sword-maker, but the man’s attention remained in his rice bowl.

    The priest closed his eyes and chanted a prayer. His face was one smooth sheet of skin until he opened his eyes and smiled. Mung was encompassed by a feeling of good will. He was not disturbed when the priest said, Please do not consider it impolite of me to ask, but how was your nose broken?

    Mung drained his soup bowl and answered, I was having an argument with a big fellow. He said shut up and I thought he said stand up. So he bent my nose.

    The priest giggled behind cupped hands, as did everyone but Yaka. How did they fix it so you can breathe? the priest asked, touching his own flattened nose.

    A doctor put smooth sticks up my nostrils and manipulated most of the bone back into place. Mung avoided mentioning that the doctor was a Christian missionary in Honolulu or that he, Mung, was only sixteen when the French navy-man hit him because the Frenchman considered him a yellow heathen.

    Well, Messenger, your doctor was much better than mine. Did the fellow who broke your nose also cut off your hand?

    Everything at the table stopped. Yaka’s shoulder muscles bunched, his hands flexed. He glared at the priest.

    Mung smiled. No, he said. I lost my hand in the battle of the Hakusar Valley.

    The priest nodded, as if saying yes to some unasked question. His bald head shone in the lamplight.

    Where did you have your nose flattened? Mung asked.

    Also in the Hakusar Valley. Several of the shogun’s horses stepped on it. He beamed his beatific smile on everyone. Some of my friends consider the facial alteration a marked improvement.

    Yaka’s anger changed to unfeigned respect.

    Mung sat straighter. Using the poetic form of Japanese, he intoned,

    "I saw two thousand fighting priests with seven-foot bows and steel-tipped arrows,

    March down into the valley of Hakusar.

    Shaven heads shone in the morning sun.

    Their saffron robes rippled like a field of flowers on the valley floor.

    Trampled were the saffron blossoms

    Whose scent drew the shogun’s horse to the mouth of the Satsuma cannon.

    The day was won for the Emperor and Japan.

    They who fought are immortals."

    A tear ran down the priest’s cheek. Messenger, you are a good poet but a poor judge of events. We may have won a battle for the Emperor that day, but the people of Japan remain without land or tax reforms. And the bodies of 30,000 men fertilize the valley where we fought.

    Change takes time, Mung said.

    Yaka pointed his chopsticks at the well-dressed merchant. If the likes of him had to pay taxes, it would make the burden easier on people who earn their money honestly.

    The sword-maker grunted his approval. Others around the table tapped their chopsticks in agreement.

    The merchant bowed and said, "I would be honored to pay taxes.

    My humble contribution to our Emperor would then be officially recognized. My family and I would be considered human beings with the same rights and privileges as farmers, fishermen and sword-makers."

    Never! Yaka said.

    Why vent your anger only at me? the merchant replied. Buddhist and Shinto priests are exempt from land and rice tax. Many are businessmen remitting nothing to the Bakufu. He looked at the priest. I have never cheated nor charged excess interest. I perform a necessary service to the community. Why should people like myself be vilified for trading? Tell me, what service does a priest perform? He officiates at births and funerals, for neither of which we need his help.

    A warm smile crossed the priest’s flat face. I no longer birth nor bury. You are correct. Merchants do have a place in our society. You and your family should be given full rights. However, until such laws are enacted, you are not officially taxed. He pressed the palms of his hands together in front of his face. So I have decided to collect your taxes until the government comes to its senses.

    The sword-maker looked up from his rice bowl. You, a tax collector!

    No, nothing so low as that, the priest answered. I am a robber.

    Ha, the sword-maker said, you make a joke.

    Mung watched the priest’s face. His smile did not reach the eyes that settled on the merchant. Until people like you are taxed legally, I will collect your taxes, the priest repeated.

    Everyone at the table waited for his giggle. But he only nodded his head up and down. Yes, it is true. I will collect! I am Gompachi! The men around the table inhaled so sharply, the wind whistled through their teeth.

    Yaka said to Mung, Yesterday on the road those porters in the red and white uniforms told me Gompachi, the robber priest, stole from them.

    You two have travelled a long way, Gompachi said. I am ahead of my men and here you are. But let me correct you. I took nothing belonging to the porters. I requisitioned a percentage of the goods they carried for a merchant like our friend here.

    The merchant’s face paled; his hands trembled.

    Are those your goods he speaks of? Mung asked.

    The man nodded. Red and white are the colors my porters wear. They are due here tomorrow.

    Yaka slapped his knees and giggled. Why so upset, Merchant? Your wish has been answered by this benevolent priest. You have paid your taxes.

    Just then, five poorly-dressed, disheveled ronin barged into the dining-room. Songs, conversation and the clatter of plates ceased. The deposed samurai warriors gazed angrily around the room. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords. No one stirred, but Mung saw the merchant’s eyes lose their sadness as they darted from the ronin to the robber priest and back again.

    Gompachi read the merchant’s thoughts as quickly as Mung. I never intentionally harm my clients, the priest said, but if you attempt to hire those ronin to regain your losses, you will die! Balanced on the tips of his extended fingers was a flat, steel throwing knife.

    The merchant bit his lip and lowered his head. Gompachi stood up, bowed and was gone.

    Mung recalled reports of a robber priest and his band; the last communiqué was from Choshu. He would inform the prefect of Satsuma that the self-appointed tax collector was working the Kagoshima road.

    That night, as he had done so often before on the road, Mung rolled up his clothes and distributed them under the cover of the sleeping pallet. Wrapped in a blanket, he curled up in the corner of the room. In this way, since his return to Japan three years before, he had survived two assassination attempts.

    Sometime after midnight, he suddenly awoke. Willing his body to remain relaxed, he continued the regular breathing of a sound sleeper and watched the shoji screen door slide open. A bulky figure slipped into the room. Mung drew out his six-shot Colt revolver and curled his finger around the trigger. The silent trespasser glided across the room and bent over Yaka’s sleeping form. Mung reached out and pressed the gun muzzle against the intruder’s back. The figure whirled. Before Mung could pull the trigger, his arm was numbed by a sharp blow and the weapon taken from his limp hand.

    Yaka rolled over to clear his short sword from its scabbard. The intruder reached out and touched a pressure point on his spine. Yaka’s body arched and the sword slipped from his hand.

    Shh, the figure whispered, it is I, Gompachi. Do not make a sound. He pressed the revolver back into Mung’s hand. You may have use of this. Those five ronin who entered the dining-room were part of a band sent to kill you. There were ten of them altogether. The supposed sword-maker was one. No glutton like that could fashion a soul into the steel of a samurai blade. He rests now with his dishonorable ancestors.

    I carry no message worthy of such attention, Mung said. He flexed his fingers around the pistol butt, again bringing the barrel to bear on the robber priest.

    The Satsuma Scholar is important enough to attract assassins, Gompachi said as he massaged Yaka’s back. I was in the tent at the Hakusar Valley when they amputated your hand. He growled at Yaka, Your master is in danger! Take up your sword! Both of you, follow me.

    Gompachi started for the half-open door. At the creaking sound from the porch outside, he froze. The sand he had sprinkled behind him into the cracks of the wooden floor warned he was followed.

    There are nine of them to cover the front and back of this room, Gompachi said.

    If we make a bold attack, the most we three will have to face is five, Mung whispered. With surprise in our favor, we can win through.

    Your strategy is good, but you failed to check the ground beyond the rear of this building. Eleven steps from your back door is a fifty-foot drop to the rocks below.

    Another creaking sound from the porch was closer. Mung hefted his pistol and Yaka gripped his sword. Gompachi signaled them to follow him. He moved to the rear door, slid it open and stepped out into the darkness.

    Mung heard Gompachi softly count ten steps and stop. Watch out. One more and over the edge we go, he whispered. Kneel down so we will not be silhouetted against the stars. We will force them to ^ come to us.

    Yaka wrapped his shirt around his left hand and held his sword in his right. They will pay dearly! he said.

    What they pay is no concern of mine or yours, Gompachi snapped. Your master’s life is your first priority! He must arrive safely in Satsuma!

    Ear-splitting battle cries rent the darkness. There was crashing and banging inside the room.

    They must be out at the back! a voice shouted.

    Two men in chest armor bulled through the paper walls, splintering the frail wooden-frame doors. Legs planted wide, they held their two-handed, long swords out in front of them. Polished steel tips caught the starlight and wavered in the air like cobra heads about to strike.

    Two more ronin kicked their way through the paper walls. Look sharp, one of them said, they must be out...

    Mung felt the priest move forward. Yaaagggghhh! A ronin died with the throwing knife sticking from his Adam’s apple.

    The three others on the porch bellowed war cries, leaping forward with raised swords. Mung pulled the trigger on his Colt, stunning the attackers with the flash and roar of the weapon. One ronin fell dead with a bullet in his chest. Yaka ducked under the upraised sword of another, driving his short blade into the groin and up through the stomach. Gompachi avoided the sweeping cut of the third man. He caught him by the neck and crotch, lifted him up and flung him over the cliff. The long, shrill scream was cut short by a dull thud from the darkness below.

    There were shouts of anger on the other side of the building.

    Let them come to us, Gompachi said.

    Why have you risked your life for us? Mung asked.

    Let us say I agree with the reforms Lord Nariakira wishes to implement.

    You, a robber, want law?

    I only anticipate your concept of equal taxation by taking from wealthy merchants and over-zealous tax collectors. Believe me, I also collect from rich priests without regard to religion or sect.

    Very democratic, Mung said. But how do you know so much about my concepts?

    Look what the scum are doing, Yaka cried.

    Torches were being thrown into the building. The frail, old structure of paper and wood swiftly ignited. Flames bolted right and left.

    The entire honjin will burn, Mung gasped. Fire! Fire, he cried.

    The flames raced through the long building. For some it was already too late. Others fled screaming from their rooms, only to fall on to the jagged rocks below.

    The intensity of the heat drove Mung back. One foot slipped over the ledge but he threw himself forward to the ground. Yaka and Gompachi were already on their stomachs, squirming backwards until their legs hung off the cliff. Mung let go of the Colt. He dug into the earth with the fingers of his one hand and covered his head with the other arm to shield himself from the heat.

    Suddenly there was a loud crash. The tiled roof had fallen in on the building, followed by a gigantic spray of sparks, then a cool breeze. Mung looked up. The tiles had smothered most of the flames directly in front of them. He struggled to pull himself forward. His hand clawed the ground and he kicked his feet in the air, inching ahead.

    Five ronin came charging over the roof tiles and through the flames, emitting bone-chilling war cries. Mung’s fingers raked the ground for his weapon. He saw Yaka and Gompachi rush to meet the charge, trying to protect him. By the ruddy light of the glowing embers, he watched the priest dodge a whirlwind sword cut and drive a dagger into a ronin’s armpit. In the same motion, Gompachi withdrew the knife and threw it into the arm of one of two ronin attacking Yaka. The wounded man broke off his attack but the second ronin struck Yaka’s short sword away with his long, two-handed blade. Unarmed, Yaka threw his shirt into his opponent’s face and backed to the edge of the precipice. The ronin laughed in anticipation of the kill. He flexed his knees and drew back his blade for the final cut.

    Mung’s groping fingers touched the hard metal barrel of the Colt. He flipped it in the air, the butt fell into his palm and he pulled the trigger twice. Two .44 bullets punctured the chest armor of the ronin, dropping him dead at Yaka’s feet. Mung heard a snap of bone and turned in time to see the eighth ronin die of a broken neck snapped by Gompachi’s bare hands. The last attacker turned and fled over the smoldering ruins.

    Let us get away from this place, Mung called to the priest and the ashigara. He led them to the stables.

    The three saddled their horses but Mung stopped the others from mounting. It is best to hike a mile or two through the woods paralleling the Satsuma road. There could be an ambush waiting for us.

    Walking their horses through the forest, Gompachi moved abreast

    of Mung. You are a quick thinker, he said. If ever you decide to become a robber, I would be pleased to have you in my band.

    I owe you my life, priest, but when I reach Satsuma I will send out a picked squad of mounted samurai to patrol this road.

    Thank you for the warning. But tell me, is it true what I have heard, that you remember everything you hear and see?

    Yes, Mung said.

    I would like to improve my memory. Could you teach me?

    It is not learned. I was born with the ability.

    Ai! It is too bad you will always remember the ugliness of my face.

    Not so. It is the beauty of your soul that I will be reminded of. It is Bushido, the warrior code pure and true. I shall not forget.

    Then remember this...

    Mung waited, but the priest had disappeared.

    His voice came from the darkness of the trees. Do not trust anyone, he called.

    Where are you? Yaka called back.

    Silence was his answer.

    May the Great Buddha shower his blessings upon you, Gompachi, Mung called. Then he turned and stepped out for Satsuma.

    CHAPTER 3

    The ancient stone wall encompassing the city of Satsuma was built more than two thousand years ago. Over the centuries it was widened, extended and rebuilt until, in its present form, it encompassed two square miles and 65,000 people. Outside the walls, homes, fields, orchards and rice paddies radiated in all directions.

    Inside, at Mung’s official residence, Ryochi Okuda, general of the Satsuma army, lowered his squat, powerful frame on to a tatami mat. Mung, he said, I am glad you arrived safely. We have come a long way since I found you on the beach in Ryuku (Okinawa). You have been lucky for me.

    Mung smiled as he slipped into his robe. I have not forgotten how you greeted me.

    You mean by throwing you in prison? I was the prefect of that village and should have killed you. The Exclusion Edict is still in effect. Any Japanese who sets foot on foreign soil or ship and returns to the Dragon Islands will have his head lopped off.

    I thought you were going to do that when you made me dance the crucifix into the dung heap. My brother John carved that cross for me the day I was baptized.

    Ryochi’s face screwed up. I told you never to mention that subject! Anything to do with outside religions could mean death! Even for us. Rank is no protection. Finish dressing and you will see what I mean.

    Are we going directly to our meeting with Lord Nariakira?

    All senior samurai within the city walls are ordered to assemble in the palace courtyard before that. Hurry up!

    I will be ready in a minute. Mung finished wrapping the obi around his waist.

    Do you still carry that pistol under there? Ryochi asked.

    Of course. I never learned to use a sword and it makes up for my missing hand. By the way, did you get those Ryukun karate instructors for my school in Kagoshima?

    Again Ryochi grimaced. I sent the two pigs to Kagoshima the other day. The scum must have passed you on the road. How did you miss the smell?

    Why do you hate the Ryukuns?

    They are turds, like all foreigners.

    You never said that about John.

    Ryochi puzzled over his feelings, then answered, Your brother may be an American, but he has the soul of a Japanese. That happens now and then. It was karma that his father adopted you and karma that Lord Nariakira made John a Satsuma samurai. He spread his powerful hands. Who am I to deny fate?

    Mung smoothed his robe, deciding not to argue again with his friend’s unyielding view of foreigners. I am ready, he said.

    Ryochi led the way out of the house. They were immediately surrounded by six of his personal guards. The block-shaped general, several inches shorter than Mung, with bowed legs and a rolling gait, headed towards the seven-tiered, multi-roofed pagoda palace that dominated all of Satsuma. Travelers could see its brilliant gold cornices and sparkling white-tiled roof long before the city walls came into view. The structure was seven hundred years old, built by the tenth Lord of Satsuma.

    Ryochi and Mung strode into the large rectangular palace yard lined by rank on rank

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