The Samurai's Daughter Read online

  “Yes,” said the shogun when Father finished. “We had a full report from Hasekura Tsunenaga upon his return, and he did make mention of your special relationships, especially with the Spanish, and the favor shown to you by their king. We are pleased you have returned to us, and pleased you have decided to raise your child where she belongs. We are pleased as well to have you with us here today, to visit and honor the tomb of my father, the man most responsible for your adventures.”

  Father was relieved and took a deep breath. He chose that moment to mention the Dutchman’s letter, and an official took it from him, sticking it into his kimono before backing away. Then the shogun spoke again. “Tell me, Shiro-san, after such a long time away, do you still swear fealty to Date Masamune, you who have traveled so far while he has traveled so little?”

  “Travel and time have nothing to do with such a solemn duty,” Father replied. “I owe him the fealty a son owes a father. I have felt his protection and his spirit within me at all times, and I have striven to honor him with all of the foreigners that have crossed my path.”

  “And if I were to tell you that your lord has fallen into dishonor? Would you still revere him?” the shogun asked.

  “I would defend him with my life,” Father said without hesitation.

  Then he bowed, looking worried.

  It was then that Date Masamune stepped out from behind one of the screens. The shogun and his men all grinned and began to laugh. Father looked up. This was the first time I saw my great-uncle. His head was bare and his hair was streaked with gray. His stature emanated severity and authority. He had only one eye. Where the other had been, there was a scar. He scared me. He looked at Father and bowed to him. Father bowed back, fighting tears.

  “Welcome home, Shiro-san,” Date Masamune said. “My sister and I have missed you.”

  – XIII –

  When my Japanese grandmother, Mizuki, first saw me, she recited the following poem. It was composed in the Nara Period by Okura.

  Shirokane mo

  Kugane mo tama mo

  Nanisemu ni

  Masareru takara

  Koni shikame yamo

  What are they to me,

  Silver, or gold, or jewels?

  How could they ever

  Equal the greater treasure

  That is a child? They cannot.

  I remember how she took me to the baths that were reserved for noblewomen, holding my hand. She took me in the heavy heat of summer, in the briskness of autumn, in the snow-tinged cold of winter, and under the rains of spring. I remember the clip-clop sound of our wooden sandals, the caresses of the women, their smiles and comments as they examined me and watched me grow. Mizuki’s body was long and beautiful, and as I got older mine followed in suit. I remember the scrubbed kimonos stretched out to dry in the sun, and the garden snake that appeared one day, causing great squealing and laughter. I remember the different bodies, the young ones and the old.

  Mizuki taught me calligraphy and how to play the Satsuma Biwa lute. We wrote poetry together in the waka style that was beginning to fall out of fashion in those years. Father insisted I continue to learn Spanish and English. He imparted these lessons to me each day, no matter what else he did. He gained back the weight he had lost. It was good for me to see mother and son reunited. Mizuki smelled like new roses. Father smelled like hay and wood.

  I remember being picked up by Date Masamune, his deep bellow of amusement whenever I ran my fingers over the scar where his eye had been. I remember the immensity of his castle where we lived, the splendor of it. I was the pet of everyone then, the exotic niece of the daimyo. My cat was gray and white and named Aiko. Some of the women called me by this name as well. I was given a handmaiden, a young girl from a gōnō family in the countryside who had come to serve in our buke yashiki, the household of a samurai. Her name was Nobuko.

  Owing to my mixed parentage, Father and Mizuki feared I might be shunned. But the affection shown to me by Date Masamune, and then the young woman I grew into, even though my hair was a shade of chestnut and my eyes gray-green, assured acceptance. And as word spread of Father’s exploits in the West, our position rose higher still.

  Soon after our arrival, we visited Hasekura Tsunenaga. It was shortly before his death. Apart from the priest, Luis Sotelo, he was the only other person in Japan who had known my mother. Father and he had started out as enemies on the voyage to Spain, but over time they became friends. The Hasekura house was in a wood by a lake. They gave me rice cakes, and afterward I was encouraged to feed a family of ducks at the water’s edge with Nobuko, while the two men reminisced and drank sake. I heard them laughing, even though Hasekura Tsunenaga was short of breath. The Hasekura family line was old, and the women of the house severe. Some had blackened their teeth in the traditional way. None of them smiled at me.

  A month later, on a cold, rainy morning, I accompanied Father, Mizuki, and Date Masamune to Hasekura Tsunenaga’s funeral. Later that evening, I heard Father and my grandmother having a conversation that would, in one form or another, be repeated numerous times during the following years.

  “One day,” she said, “my brother will die, and I shall die.”

  “Even I shall die, Mother,” Father said.

  “My question is, what shall become of Masako?” she said. “She will be absorbed into Sendai life as a wife or a courtesan, and in old age, with luck, retire to a Buddhist nunnery.”

  Father had not told her of the promise he made to Soledad Medina, to bring me back to Spain.

  “Soon after we returned here,” Father said, “I felt regret. I felt torn and confused. I was home, had brought my daughter home. I had fulfilled my promise to you and to my uncle. I resolved to remain faithful to the warrior’s way. And yet …”

  “And yet?” she said.

  “In their mind and heart and spirit, none of the other samurai I traveled with to Spain—save for those few who stayed behind—truly left these shores,” he said. “Hasekura Tsunenaga was like that. What maintained his sanity while pretending to worship their crucified savior, while eating the food that never agreed with him, was his unbreakable connection with here. But it was different for me. I felt at home there too. It was only with the death of Masako’s mother that I truly decided to return here, to recapture something, something that was mine, and missing. I could not have lived with myself had I not seen you again, Mother, and placed Masako in your care.”

  “And yet?” she insisted.

  “And yet like you,” he said, “I wonder. I, too, think of Masako’s future.”

  He never told her, or anyone in Japan, about Caitríona. And he would only remind me about the other child he left inside her, something I had blocked from my childhood memory, ten years later.

  – XIV –

  One day, Father asked Date Masamune about a young woman he had known in the daimyo’s service before his journey to Spain. Her name was Yokiko. My grandmother told me Yokiko had been taken as a prize after a battle, that she was beautiful and came from a noble family, and that Date Masamune had kept her as an occasional mistress, for himself and his sons. She was the first woman Father had been with. Date Masamune told Father that Yokiko was living within the household of the daimyo’s eldest son, Date Tadamune.

  With the exception of the samurai in his immediate employ, Date Tadamune was not popular in Sendai. Whenever the daimyo traveled to Edo or Kyoto, Date Tadamune was left in charge. His mean character elicited embitterment from the citizens. It was a source of woe to his father, who struggled to alter his son’s spiteful ways. What made things more difficult was that the daimyo’s wife, Megohime, strongly supported their son. Father and Date Tadamune were educated and brought up together, but they grew apart as they grew older. Father’s intelligence and physical grace, his modesty and skill with the sword, were in stark contrast to Date Tadamune’s ill-shaped physique and lazy ways. That Date Masamune preferred his bastard nephew over his own son was a source of friction that was plain to all.<
br />
  When Father learned of Yokiko’s whereabouts he was unhappy, but he bowed to Date Masamune and said nothing. That would have been the end of it had Date Tadamune not ordered the young woman’s crucifixion less than a year later. The news spread quickly. Date Tadamune had tired of Yokiko because she repeatedly refused to please him as he wished. As punishment, he sent her to a common brothel, but she refused to participate. He then dictated her crucifixion on the grounds of adultery. She was tied to bamboo poles and hoisted up and two spears were left leaning against the poles so that anyone passing by might stab her if they wished.

  When word of this reached our apartments within the castle, Father left in a fury. He arrived at the execution ground just as a samurai in Date Tadamune’s service was preparing to pierce Yokiko’s flesh. A group of men were gathered round, cheering the warrior on. Father called out to them and the jeering stopped. The only thing that could be heard in the sudden silence was Yokiko’s moaning. Father challenged the samurai holding the spear, slicing it in half with his sword. The warrior slinked away, muttering threats of revenge, and the crowd dissipated. Father cut Yokiko down and carried her back to us. Mizuki said nothing and took her in as Father demanded and tended to her. I sat with her until she fell asleep. Father and Mizuki waited to see what would happen.

  Date Tadamune complained to his father, demanding justice. The violence of the argument that ensued between them was heard throughout the castle grounds. The sniveling son put Date Masamune in a difficult position. The daimyo decided that, instead of summoning Father to be rebuked in the presence of the furious heir, he would send his closest advisor to come to our quarters and settle things. This man was Katakura Kojuro, Grandmother’s former lover and, presumably, Father’s real father.

  They invited him in. Mizuki prepared tea. They sat in the traditional way, facing each other. It was the first time the three of them had ever been alone together. Katakura Kojuro and Mizuki had not seen each other in twenty years.

  “Shiro-san,” Katakura Kojuro said to my father, feigning great gravity. “You have committed a grave offense against your cousin, the heir apparent.”

  “What have I done?” Father asked.

  “You know very well what you have done,” Katakura Kojuro replied. “You have freed of your own accord a prisoner condemned to death.”

  “Condemned unjustly,” Father said. “Only the daimyo can level such a sentence. What does my uncle say?”

  “He says you must relinquish the woman and return her to Date Tadamune.”

  “I suggest a third way,” Father said. “I propose she be sent to live out her days in Edo, in a temple as a nun, where she can atone for her acts of disobedience.”

  Katakura Kojuro sighed and drank his tea. Then he looked at Mizuki. She sensed his gaze and raised her head to meet it. Once they had spent years seeing each other clandestinely. They had conceived Father, who grew into a man, the man sitting there with them. But no one said anything about this.

  “I will pass on your suggestion to the daimyo,” Katakura Kojuro said.

  During this conversation, I sat next to the sleeping Yokiko. Aiko, my cat, had settled into a circle upon the covers at the foot of the mattress. Yokiko looked tired and thin. She was still very beautiful, with a small mole on the right side over her upper lip. I held her hand. From where I sat, I could see my handmaiden in the garden pulling weeds. Within the hour, Katakura Kojuro returned, looking even more beleaguered. Once again, the three of them sat facing each other.

  “Your suggestion is not acceptable,” he declared.

  “Can you do me the honor of explaining the decision?” Father asked.

  “The daimyo was in agreement at first, but the heir apparent refused, and insists that such a choice would set a bad precedent. The daimyo came around to that opinion as well.”

  “Then there is another solution I shall take upon myself,” Father said.

  “Whatever it is, I do not recommend it, Shiro-san,” Katakura Kojuro replied.

  “I shall marry her,” Father said.

  All of us heard this; Katakura Kojuro and Mizuki who raised their heads in alarm, Yokiko who was then awake, Nobuko, and me. Even the cat was roused out of its slumber.

  “Tell my uncle and my cousin I am prepared to beg at their feet for her absolution, so that I might take her as my wife,” Father continued.

  Father was forced to beg for Yokiko’s pardon numerous times before it was granted. No one outside of our immediate family attended the wedding. Mizuki did not look at the bride. But I was pleased by the food and a new kimono that was pink with little white flowers embroidered into it. Yokiko had recovered by then and looked very beautiful, and she wept throughout the ceremony. Father wore his best robes and comported himself with great dignity.

  Yokiko and Mizuki vied to be my mother. Though they often fought, both were kind to me over the years that followed, and they taught me many things. Most of the time Yokiko did her best to please Mizuki, consenting to her smallest whim. But Mizuki never accepted her, and this made Father angry, and the household was never the same.

  Mizuki taught me how to dress and walk properly. She taught me how to arrange my hair. She taught me how to cut and arrange flowers and how to make rice, serve tea and sake. She taught me how to bow in a way that was modest but not subservient, the way she bowed. She taught me how and when to use a fan. She took me to Nogaku and Kyogen plays, and explained the meaning of the different masks, the gestures, and the costumes I would later try to copy. Back home in the castle I would force Nobuko to act the plays out with me in front of Mizuki and Yokiko and Father.

  As I grew older, Yokiko taught me more intimate things, things that Mizuki never talked about in front of me. She taught me about men and how to tell the good ones from the bad. When my breasts began to form and when I began to bleed each month, she told me not to worry. She told me why it happened, how to clean myself properly, and what to take for the pains. She took Nobuko and me to puppet and kabuki shows.

  On the occasion of my twelfth birthday, both Date Masamune and Date Tadamune came with gifts. Yokiko hid herself. One of the gifts from Date Tadamune was a kaiken, a small dagger traditionally given to girls upon entering womanhood. It was a very valuable one, and deadly. It is kept close to a woman’s bosom to be used to either defend her honor or, failing that, to kill herself with afterward. The heir apparent lingered longer than the rest, and just before leaving he told Father that when I came of age in three years’ time, he would grant us the privilege of taking me as one of his consorts. They almost came to blows. On the following day, Father made a decision.

  – XV –

  When Father began to learn to use a sword, the katana, he was ten years old. The man who taught him had fought in many battles waged by Date Masamune. Though there did exist a rare but real tradition of female warriors, most notably during the Heian Period, this master of the sword had never seen one. Father spent many days convincing him to take me on. A noble warrior once wrote, “The idea most central to the samurai is death. Life is such an ephemeral thing, especially for the samurai.” This concept did not sit well with the way Mizuki and Yokiko and Nobuko were raised to live and think about their lives as women.

  My teacher was over sixty years old on the day I met him. He lived a half an hour’s ride from the castle. He was short—shorter than I—bald, and had a round belly. He brooked no concessions. He insisted I use a real sword from the very beginning. The drills he put me through, for months, were boring and relentless. He never smiled. He watched me keenly. He hit me on my hands with a rod whenever I made a mistake. Often, I would return home in tears. Mizuki and Yokiko protested to Father, but he was not perturbed and he did all he could to humor and encourage me.

  My lessons began early in the morning. In the afternoons we would switch to the short sword or tanto, or to the spear-like weapon, the naginata. My teacher was graceful, and this taught me something. It taught me never to trust my first impressions of people. Th
at such a heavy, elderly man, so severe in demeanor, could turn into a dancer, a swordsman with rapid, precise movements, and then laugh sometimes until he cried, was a revelation to me.

  For hours at a time I would “slice the reed.” This was a short section of green bamboo placed at eye level on a narrow platform. The idea was to cut through it at a very exact angle, again and again. If it fell to the ground it was incorrect. If the angle was off the slightest bit, it meant that, had it been a person, great and unnecessary pain would be caused. It took months before I got it right, so that I could do it with my eyes shut. I had never known such satisfaction.

  After a year, he put me up against a young samurai in training. I won. When he thought me too pleased with myself, he went at me, and I lost. Until one day, I didn’t. On that day I did not smile or express any excitement. I simply bowed to him. On that day he said to me, “You are your father’s daughter.” On that day I realized I was no longer learning to please my father, but to please myself.

  Another man taught me the art of the bow and arrow. Still another taught me to ride like a samurai. Mizuki was vexed. She felt as if all the training she gave me in feminine comportment, music and poetry, would be for naught. She thought that no nobleman would wish to marry a girl so adept in the arts of war. But Father was content. Date Masamune was regularly informed about my progress and pretended to ignore it. Date Tadamune was kept in the dark.

  While learning to wield the long sword and the short sword, the bow and the spear, I also took classes in kyusho-jitsu with a master who was related to the defeated Takeda clan. In addition, I became skilled at atemi, vital point striking and joint locking, arts designed for samurai who lost their weapons, arts that Father largely ignored.

  One day, when all of my teachers agreed I was ready, Father and I went with them deep into the countryside. I could not be made a samurai officially, but they treated me that day as if it were so. Each of them gave me a bracelet to remember them by, and we celebrated by drinking sake. I heard many war stories that night. On the following day they left me alone in the woods. I was instructed to remain there for three nights, to meditate, and to hunt my own food.