Pathway to Japanese Literature

Younger Brother's Window・Older Brother's Window

I

At the dyer’s drying ground, the pale morning sunlight already cast its glow.

Countless white cloths, floral-patterned cloths, and crimson-patterned cloths hung like strips of dried gourd, swaying high in the autumn sky from behind the back alleys.

“In that attire, you’ll draw the neighbors’ eyes.—Okoma, enough now. I said to go back inside.”

Yagyū Matashirō Munefuyu said reproachfully to her as she followed from behind, but Okoma—

“Just this far.”

And with that—as was her habit—she hurriedly accompanied him out from the garden path of her mistress’s residence to the thoroughfare’s corner, still disheveled from last night’s sleep.

And to Matashirō’s back, hurrying away without so much as a glance—

“Is that alright?”
“I’ll be waiting—the day after tomorrow.”
“Come again the day after tomorrow.”

From the shadow of the roji, she called out twice.

_Disgraceful!_

At that moment, Yagyū Matashirō was overcome with such a repulsively unpleasant feeling that it made him shudder.
Just the thought of having to return to this roji house the day after tomorrow weighed heavily enough.

His feet quickened as if fleeing—
Still damp with evening dew, his ginkgo-leaf-shaped hat sat pulled low over his profile,

(I won't visit anymore.
I can't face Father—no, not just him—society itself.)

He kept repeating this remorse in his heart, so intensely it felt like gouging his own chest.

The world churned with frantic activity.
The Daikon-gashi Market clamored noisily.
Money, money, money—townspeople scurried about with necks craned forward, so consumed they seemed ready to stumble over themselves.
At every turn he encountered mounted samurai bound for Edo Castle and palanquin processions—each meeting more vexing than the last.

Matashirō chose back alley after back alley for his route. As he approached the Yayosu Riverbank estate, his father’s stern visage lodged itself in his chest. Though it was well past the hour when Munenori would have departed for Edo Castle and left the residence vacant—

(I hope he’s gone.)

—this single desperate wish consumed him, born from dread of that worst possible encounter.

At twenty-four winters old, his childhood terror of Father remained undiminished. No—since establishing Okoma the bathhouse woman in her own quarters and growing absentee from the family compound, those eyes—those brows—seemed to pierce him perpetually. As though judge stood eternally confronting accused.

Entangled in anguish as though escaping one prison only to return to another， he had at last reached Yayosu Field.
There， just ahead， stood the stern gate and white earthen wall of his family home.

“What’s this?”
What could this be?

Matashirō abruptly stopped walking.

A single ronin wearing an old woven hat stood arrogantly before the gate, clad in a dusty bat-winged haori over striped lined kimono, shoulders squared.
—and surrounding him, the gatekeepers and retainers were,

“Whether His Lordship be present or absent, he would never stoop to sparring with some chance-come visitor.”
“There’s no need for messages—your errand’s pointless.”
“Be off with you! Off!”

and they were loudly arguing about something.

II

"I am one wholly devoted to military strategy.
"I say this because I refuse to be equated with those who pursue mere duels, chase hollow fame, or wander begging for what they call travel alms—"

Thus did Ayabe Daiki, upon first standing before the Yagyū gate, proclaim boldly:

"Since Tajima-no-kami of the illustrious Shogunate school resides here, I humbly request a duel—that you might instruct this unworthy one for the salvation of all beings."
"This humble servant is Ayabe Daiki, a Hokuriku warrior connected to the Satake clan's armsmaster. Beyond my earnest wish [to cross blades], once granted an audience, I shall employ no forceful means."

And once more, he stated his purpose to the gatekeepers.

Of course, the gatekeepers did not relay his request.

“His Lordship is currently at the castle.”

they refused.

Daiki declared he would wait.
The gatekeepers explained the futility of this and endeavored to send him away.
For there was no end to such visitors.
Then Daiki seized upon the gatekeepers’ exact words,

“Without even attempting to ascertain your master’s will, you put on airs as if you were the master yourselves and try to send me away—how outrageous! By all means, I must hear Lord Tajima’s response directly from his own mouth.”
“If he has gone to the castle, he will surely return through this gate by evening.”
“Then until that time, I shall occupy this gatefront and wait here.”

The gatekeepers were out of their depth.
They informed the front samurai quarters and had four or five men come.
And now they were embroiled in this heated exchange.

Yagyū Matashirō Munefuyu, who had returned there, as if blessed with perfect timing, took advantage of the gatekeepers and retainers being embroiled in that commotion to swiftly dart through the side into the gate compound.

Ayabe Daiki, having keenly noticed,

“Who was that? The one who just went in.”

Ayabe Daiki was shouting from behind.

The gatekeepers and retainers who had been blocking the way turned around for the first time.

“It was Lord Munefuyu, the third son.”

When they blurted this out unthinkingly, Daiki—

“What? That one just now was... Lord Munefuyu, the third son?”
“Then I shall meet Lord Munefuyu.”
“You lot can’t resolve this.”
“Let me pass one word to Lord Munefuyu and I’ll withdraw.”

—tried to force his way through the gate.

“How dare you! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Damn you! Do you truly wish to be subdued?”

The man in front thrust at Daiki’s chest.
Others grabbed his dominant arm from both sides.
They tore off his woven hat.
—Yet Daiki still—

“What? You think you can subdue me?”
“Subdue me?”
“Very well—if you think you can subdue me with your own hands, then try it.”
“If you fail, this Hinoki Gate will become a red gate with your blood!”

And he kept pressing his case, showing no intention of leaving.

Three

On the morning he returned home after leaving the house unattended, Munefuyu felt ill at ease not only around his father but also toward the servants.

Even when sliding open the shoji to his own room, he did so stealthily, gently parting it without a sound.
He sat down in front of the cold desk.
The hibachi held no fire.
The desk and bookshelf too seemed to coldly regard their owner’s traces with disdain, as though alienated.

“Who the hell just went into that room?”

In a room across the courtyard, someone suddenly shouted like this. That window belonged to the room of the eldest son, Yagyū Jūbei Mitsuyoshi.

“Ah... It is I.”

“‘You mean “I”?’”

“It’s Matashirō.”

“If it’s Matashirō, that’s fine.”

With that, Jūbei's window fell silent.

The yellow autumn sun shone brightly upon the banana plant in the courtyard's small garden plot.
A small autumn butterfly grazed the bamboo by the window.
Matashirō was leaning on the desk with his elbows, face down, but before he knew it, he had become ensnared by thoughts of Okoma.—

Okoma—who upon leaving that roji garden path in the morning had resolved never to return, who had continued reproaching herself all along the way—now that she had settled here, her heart grew turbulent with desire to see him even now.

(That's right.
There's no need to torment my own love like this.
Let training be training, morals be morals, and love be love...
Even Father... has his.
...The fourth son Yagyū Umon Yoshiharu—doesn't he actually...share a different mother from us? Isn't he Father's child from a woman he loved?)

With a clatter, the window on the other side of the banana plant opened.

“Matashirō, Matashirō.”

It was the voice of his elder brother Jūbei.

“Yes?”
“What is it?”

Raising his face from the desk, Matashirō fully opened the window that had been partially ajar.
Elder Brother Jūbei was showing his face from the room across.
“Did you just return now?”

“Uh... uh, uh.”

“There’s quite a commotion at the gate—did you not notice anything?”

Matashirō sighed in relief and patted his chest. In truth, he hadn’t felt at ease even in his reply, wondering if now that Father wasn’t here to press him, he’d face the same from his brother instead.

Then abruptly, he brightened up:

“Oh, it’s nothing worth your concern. Just some shabby martial artist who comes around every time—one of those ambitious types who thinks defeating Yagyū will let him boast about being peerless under heaven.”

“Even so, this commotion has gone on long enough.”

“He’s being obstinate and won’t leave—the retainers are at their wits’ end.”

“Hmm… Matashirō.”

“Ah.”

“You go and take care of it.”
“Father is currently attending the shogun’s castle.”
“If Father were here, this couldn’t be done—but I permit it.”
“If he’s that stubbornly insistent, then grant his wish and let him into the training hall—strike him down with a single blow.”

“Understood.”

“Go quickly… No confidence?”

“Wh-what.”
“He’s nothing to worry about…”

“How old is this man?”

“He must be five or six years past forty by now.”

“What—he’s just some old swordsman?”
“Come quickly.”
“If it proves too much, I’ll go handle it.”

The One-Eyed

一

The place was north-facing, dimly lit, and cold.
It was a pillarless structure with plank walls and plank floors spanning several bays on all four sides.
The faint light filtering through the warrior window cast pale striped illumination there.

…………

…………

Within those bands of light, two wooden swords moved in rhythm, as if breathing together.

Matashirō’s breathing was slightly labored.
His face, its initial flush of blood having faded, had turned pale.
In contrast, Ayabe Daiki’s seasoned stance showed no signs of unease whatsoever.

At the gate he hadn’t noticed it, but here he could see that across Daiki’s profile—from beside his ear down to his jaw—ran the scar of a grievous wound.

The world still retained much of its warlike legacy.
It was the tenth year of Kanei - less than twenty years had passed since the Siege of Osaka.
A battlefield wound like that could secure a position with two or three hundred koku in no time.
No - not just that single scar, but his dignified countenance and overall imposing presence made it clear: this man was clearly no match for Yagyū Matashirō Munefuyu.

“Young Lord.”

Ayabe Daiki called out.

"—Shall we end this?"

“What?”

“Though I went to the trouble of standing here,” Ayabe Daiki said, “there’s no longer any need to proceed.”

“Shut up!” Matashirō snapped. “Where has this been decided? It’s not over yet—not yet!”

“Ah.” Ayabe’s voice dripped with mockery. “You don’t even grasp that much, young master. There’s no need to strike or parry—but as a way to pass the time until Lord Tajima returns—” The ronin’s wooden sword twitched. “Shall I show you? The duel.”

Matashirō’s gut churned once more. What?! What do you mean?! he tried to retort. Even among us four brothers—excluding Elder Brother Jūbei Mitsuyoshi—I do not lose to Second Brother Gyōbu Tomonori or Fourth Brother Umon Yoshiharu. I am not inferior.

Two

In childhood――

When he was about four or five years old—from his grandfather in their Yamato Yagyū village homeland, the man whom members of the school revered as the "Great Founder"—Sekishūsai Muneyoshi had trained him again and again with a staff.

(The makings in this grandson aren’t bad.)

Such was I—one who had often been told this about myself.

Later, at fourteen or fifteen, there had even been times when I surpassed Elder Brother Jūbei, reducing that one-eyed brother to frustrated tears.

Lately I’d grown somewhat negligent.—That said, I refused to believe I’d forgotten the sword so thoroughly as to be defeated by some nameless ronin.
I was the third son of the Yagyū clan—a house of swordsmen.
To lose would disgrace even these wooden floors that had honed me for over a decade.

He was so consumed by this conviction that his pores beaded with sweat, his focus frayed restlessly—yet his opponent’s presence remained an unfathomable cavern.

(He’s tough!)

His body stiffened unlike ever before.
The opponent steadily closed in.—Matashirō privately resented within his heart: that his elder brother had deliberately forced him into this futile duel was nothing but a malicious, wordless chastisement inflicted upon him—he concluded bitterly.
He even felt resentful.

Under the pressure of the advancing enemy, he felt compelled to say, "Don't come any closer."
In that instant, his wooden sword met the enemy’s blade with a resounding clang.
He did not let go.
His hands went numb, bereft of all sensation, but stomping the floorboards two, three steps at a time, he bellowed and struck back.

——It was a blunder.

Daiki deftly evaded, while Matashirō lurched forward so violently that he nearly exposed the soles of his feet to his opponent—it seemed he might crash straight into the wooden wall.

“Young master,”
“Did you see?”

Daiki laughed.
——But in that instant, like a shadow puppet switched mid-performance, a different figure stood before him, wooden sword in hand.

III

“Huh...?”

Daiki retreated.

He was a one-eyed man bearing no resemblance to Matashirō anywhere. Appearing around thirty yet with a prematurely aged countenance—perhaps intensified by the shadow from his ruined left eye—he carried a philosopher’s demeanor and stood slightly shorter than Matashirō. His complexion was swarthy, his build markedly sturdier.

“I am Jūbei Mitsuyoshi, eldest son of this house.”
“You’ve shown undue leniency toward my younger brother. Yet regardless of what rationale Father Tajima-no-kami may present, he shall never sanction this match.”
“……Thus I shall take his place.”
“Have you any objections?”

“Hmm. Lord Mitsuyoshi, then?”

“En garde.”

“No—!” Daiki suddenly shook his head. “I will not duel you.”

“Why?”

“I never came here seeking to face your sons in the first place.”

“The Yagyū-ryū maintains governance through the sword and statecraft through strategy as its fundamental tenets.”
“Hence it remains a discontinued school.”
“This bears repeating however many times I must say it.”

“Then why permit branch schools across the provinces? Why dispatch disciples sharing your tradition to every domain?”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“I won’t accept such interference from the likes of you.”
“Get out!”

“Provoking a fight?”

“You’re the one—”

“Where exactly?”

“Those eyes.”
“Those eyes fixed on taking a life.”
“By my judgment, you’re an assassin.”
“You came to murder Father.”

“—Guh—”

Daiki threw aside the wooden sword.
Drawing his dagger, he thrust toward Jūbei.
But Jūbei’s downward-swinging wooden sword smashed Daiki’s skull, turning it into something like a ripe pomegranate.

Daiki—as he crumbled—let out a “Gah—” that clung to the roof beams, lingering in his ears.
Jūbei remained rigidly upright, his face twitching as if blinking his single eye two or three times.
Clotted blood particles flung from Daiki’s shattered skull had struck his eyelashes and face.

“Matashirō.”

With that, Jūbei turned and said:

“Have the samurai dispose of the corpse. But first—thoroughly inspect this man’s belongings yourself for any writings or documents. Should you find anything noteworthy, bring it to my chambers afterward.”

Bodhi, Love, and Blossoms

I

Though Mid-Autumn had already passed，each night brought exquisite moonlight．
Even though it appeared considerably developed now，the majority of Edo Castle’s surroundings still retained scattered remnants of Musashino．
In summer，gentians and moonflowers；in autumn，the bush clover and bellflowers in the vacant lots vied with dew and blossoms so riotously it could be called dazzling．

The back and sides of the Yagyū residence were also such wide vacant lots．
Under the moon，insects cried，quails cried．
At night，no human figures passed through that path．

“Oh… Did someone passing by make an offering…？”

The youngest of four brothers, Yagyū Umon—the fourth son—stood amidst the dew. Bending down toward a patch where the grass had peeled away, leaving bare ground slightly raised like an earthen mound, he murmured.

A single stone lay placed.

Had incense and flowers not been offered before it, the mound would have appeared as nothing more than a minor undulation in the wild field—but someone had previously left offerings in a small Bizen sake flask there, and now Umon too had come bearing incense, crouching down at the site.

“…………”

Not quite morning and evening—but occasionally, Umon would come there and recite a single *nembutsu*.

That said, between the deceased beneath the earth and Umon, there existed no blood ties or connections whatsoever.
Beneath the earthen mound lay the corpse of the ronin Ayabe Daiki, who had been struck down with a single blow from his elder brother Jūbei’s wooden sword in the training hall exactly one month ago today.

—That time.

When Elder Brother Jūbei returned to his room, he sipped tea without even washing those hands; yet even as he watched the retainers carry the corpse out through the back gate, Umon shuddered—

(That’s why he ended up losing an eye.)

And he found his brother’s slaughter—his composed demeanor toward cruelty—both abhorrent and hateful.

(I hate this—I hate it—
Why was I born into a martial house like this?)

He chased after the retainers who seemed bound for the harbor to discard the mat-wrapped corpse and compelled them to bury Daiki's remains in a corner of this vacant lot.

But aside from him, there was no one who would offer so much as a single flower or cup of water there.

Umon himself rolled over a stone and placed it atop the mound—for stray dogs might dig it up or such. And occasionally he visited the stone.

…………

The retainers often saw Umon there chanting. He believed his actions served both as atonement for his elder brother’s sins and for the hereafter of their violent clan.

When a retainer reported this to Jūbei one day, Jūbei’s face—with its sunken eye—formed an oddly amused wrinkle,

(I see.
So Umon’s found himself a fine plaything.
He’s just like a gloomy cat—a man whose eyes are always empty—)

With that, he laughed.
After that, he continued to laugh to himself whenever he remembered.

II

The fact that he alone was an illegitimate child—perhaps the burden from childhood had naturally shaped him thus.—Umon’s eyes—just as Jūbei derided—always held timidity when facing others.

His body too lacked robustness—indeed inclined toward sickliness.

In this regard, he closely resembled the second son Kyōbe Tomonori.
In temperament as well, he found greatest accord with Tomonori.
Yet Tomonori had become Tokugawa Iemitsu’s favored page and ascended to the shogunate’s corps of young attendants.
He returned to the mansion scarcely more than a few times yearly.

我昔所造諸悪業

All arise from beginningless greed, anger, and ignorance

従身語意之所生

一切我今皆懺悔

—Umon now faced the unconnected stone, pressing his palms together as he chanted repeatedly under his breath.
Whether it was due to an innate Buddha-nature, his sutra-copying practice, or simply being in this meditative state—during such moments, he felt his soul resided most truly where it belonged.

“...?”

"Hm?" Umon opened his eyes from his meditative state to survey his surroundings, his face clouding with suspicion.

A sake fragrance wafted over from there.
He looked around, thinking perhaps a drunkard had collapsed nearby, but there was no such figure to be seen.

...Ah.
"This is it."

At last, he solved the mystery.
It was undoubtedly the fragrance rising like mist from the mouth of a small Bizen tokkuri that someone had placed before the stone.

Even so—who did this?

While harboring doubts, Umon sniffed the mouth of the flask.
The sake’s aroma was as fresh as if it had just been transferred from a cedar cask.

“Hmm?...”

By chance, from the thicket where his gaze had turned, a figure rose with a rustle, as if fleeing.
Behind pampas grass taller than his back.

“Who’s there?!”

The one who was frightened was not the other party but Umon himself.
Unintentionally, his voice turned shrill and high-pitched because of it.

“Y-yes.”

Surprisingly, it was a woman’s voice that answered.
Umon moved closer to investigate.
And once again, a shudder wracked his body.
For she—like a vixen disguised as an aged woman—was far too beautiful to behold in the wilds, trembling amidst the roots of the grass.

The whiteness of her nape, the faint trembling of her silver hairpin, the gleam of her obi—even under the moonlight, they pierced his vision with painful intensity.
Nineteen or twenty years old.
And it went without saying that she was from a respectable family.

“What were you doing here?”

“Please overlook this.”

“I’ve no intention of apprehending anyone.”
“I am Umon, fourth son of the Yagyū clan.”

“This humble one knows.”

“You know me?”

“Yes.
“From the shadows, I’ve always given thanks for your pious offerings to the Buddha beneath the springs.”

“Ah.”
“Then you... have some connection with this Daiki buried here...?”

“Wh—what?
“Well… I am someone connected to him, but...”

“Did Daiki like sake?”

“He was a man who found no joy elsewhere.
Today marks the anniversary of his departure from this world.
I had come to quietly offer the sake he cherished in life when, flustered by Your arrival, I concealed myself in this wretched place.”

“So, you must have been quite close.”
“Was he your father?”

“No… That’s unthinkable.”

“Then your uncle?”

“Please, I beg you not to inquire about that matter.”

Rising from her prostrated position, the woman suddenly emerged from the grass thicket’s shadow, and in the moment of wide-eyed astonishment, she fled toward the moat bank at Yaesu-gashi, piercing through the moonlit dew and insect sounds.

III

Jūbei’s room, Matashirō’s room, Umon’s room—the windows of these brothers residing under a single roof faced each other from three directions across a courtyard of banana plants.

However, because the walls were high, the vacant lot behind remained unseen from within the residence.

When dusk fell, Umon would go up to the small mezzanine room above the book repository.
From there, the field was visible.
On moonlit nights, that cold stone, wet with dew, made even the area around the earthen mound visible.

And,

“Tonight—”

Night after night, he kept vigil there with an expectant look.

The woman came to pay respects at the stone two or three times thereafter.

Each time, Umon would rush out through the back gate to the vacant lot, but when he reached the earthen mound’s side, the woman’s shadow had already vanished without trace.
Not even among the pampas grass shadows did she conceal herself anymore.

(Why hadn’t he at least asked her name?)

Beneath shallow remorse, something akin to fierce obsession lifted its head.
Like an unquenchable fire kindled since that encounter, it burned him ceaselessly.

A yellow lamplight flowed onto the banana plant in the courtyard.
With a clatter, the shoji slid open, and a figure stood on the dew-dampened veranda.
It was Yagyū Jūbei Mitsuyoshi.
Through the gap in the shoji screens, a desk strewn with military treatises and Zen texts could be seen.

“Tonight’s moon is lovely.
Is it already the later moon?”

Jūbei, who had been muttering to himself, looked toward the window on the opposite side,

“Matashirō. Matashirō.”

he called out.

The light was on, but there was no response.
Jūbei clicked his tongue,

“Bat’s out again… What a hopeless fool.”

He forced a wry smile and, this time,

“Umon.
“Is Umon there?”

he called out to his youngest brother.

Because he had seen his elder brother’s shadow, Umon was hurriedly descending from the mezzanine.

“Yes,” he responded. “Umon is here...”

“In the corridor? There’s no need to come,” Jūbei said. “Why don’t we go out to the back field and view the moon? Let’s view the moon.”

“That sounds most agreeable.”

“This afternoon, our companions cast nets and caught ten quails. Let’s have them grill taro dengaku with quail and share a drink.”

IV

He didn’t care for sake, but fearing to displease his elder brother,

“Then let us make preparations,” said Umon, stepping outside first to summon the retainers Sada Shōhei and Rokusuke.

“Are there quails caught today?”
“If there are any—lay mats in the back field, stoke charcoal in the dengaku brazier, and ready taro and skewered meats for roasting.”

“Who will be partaking?”

“Your elder brother.”

“Lord Jūbei?”
“This’ll be trouble.”

Shōhei and Rokusuke exchanged glances and scratched their heads.
They had intended to use them as a snack for their nightcap.

Beneath the moon, a single straw mat was spread.

Jūbei soon came to it and began drinking with his younger brother’s serving.

“How about it?
“You have a drink too.”

“I…”

“Useless fool. Still can’t hold your liquor?”

“I immediately start choking.”

“If split half-and-half with Matashirō, that’d be just right.
…Speaking of Matashirō, he uses the two-sword style.
I have but one eye and one thing I care for.”

“You jest.”

“When I drink with you, it feels like drinking with a stranger.
Sake is contact between souls—it gains its flavor where our blood mingles…”

When the matter of blood was mentioned, Umon bowed his head deeply, his eyes welling with tears.
Jūbei did not possess the delicate nerves prone to such sentimentality, while for Umon, it was only natural that all manner of anguish and resentment would come to weigh heavily on his heart.

“Ha ha ha ha.
“Umon, you weren’t much of a drinker.”
“Perhaps my words were too harsh.”
“But try to live your daily life more cheerfully.”
“Have ambition.”
“If you dislike kendo, then dislike it.”
“Like setting your heart on politics, practicing Zen, or devoting yourself to military strategy.”

“I have been thinking of entering the Zen gate.”

“Very well.”
“But Zen is great enlightenment.”
“With a coward like you, not only will you never attain great enlightenment—you won’t even experience doubt.”
“Well—the prospect of adoption, then.”
“Father also seems to be making efforts.”
“If you find a good adoptive family, you should go.”

Jūbei’s indifferent remarks were all matters that Umon would brood over daily as though clutching needles.
They scraped abrasively against them.
To him, the moonlit mat was a bed of needles.

V

Umon had been born in Edo and knew of this only through retainers’ accounts, but the cause of his eldest brother’s lost eye was said to trace back to an incident around age seven or eight, when he had been playing in the thickets of Yagyū Castle and pierced his eye with a sharpened bamboo stalk.
At that time, to Jūbei who had returned home crying, his grandfather Sekishūsai—

(For a samurai’s child to have his eye pierced by a sharpened bamboo stalk—he should consider it a disgrace; crying over such a thing is beyond consideration.
To think my own grandson could turn out to be such a coward…)

After being scolded and withdrawing, the young Jūbei eventually collapsed in his own room, having turned crimson.
When the retainers, startled, lifted him up to look, it is said he had gouged out the eye injured by the sharpened bamboo stalk with his own hand using a kodzuka.

Such was the eldest brother, who had possessed that temperament since childhood.
Even merely residing in the same building, Umon constantly felt a peculiar sense of oppression.
Even when it came to fear, with Father Tajima-no-kami, there was love one could sense, but with this eldest brother, there was only terror.

“Ah, I’m drunk.”
“Umon... fetch the drum.”
“You, perform Sarugaku.”
“...Hmph. Can’t you dance?”
“Then strike the drum—I shall dance.”

“Honorable Elder Brother.”
“If you deign to lie down in such a place as this, it would harm your health.”
“The mat lies damp with night dew.”

“Under trees and on rocks—both beggars and martial artists must grow accustomed.”
“...Ah, the moon at zenith.”
“When I gaze upon this moon, the realm seems at peace—no winds carry discontented souls...”

Rokusuke, the comrade who had gone to fetch sake, at that moment let out a loud cry in the distance.

“Ah!
To the site where they buried Daiki... that usual beautiful woman again...?”

Suddenly hearing this, Umon immediately—

“A woman?”

With that, he started to rise from the mat.
Jūbei, who had been lying down beside him, grabbed his younger brother’s hakama,
“Umon.
“Where are you going?”

And then he bellowed an order to the comrade standing in the distance: “Rokusuke! Go catch her. This area is frequented by vixens—don’t let her get away.”

Rokusuke set down the sake jug he had been carrying in the grass and dashed off toward the grave mound.

The woman immediately noticed. Before Rokusuke could approach, she cut diagonally across the field and fled into Daimyō Lane. Rokusuke changed course mid-pursuit and chased after her relentlessly.

Picked wild chrysanthemums.

I

“―Sit, Umon.”
“Umon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know you’ve grown close with that woman who keeps coming to offer prayers at Daiki’s grave.”

Jūbei sat back down on the mat and said.
Umon’s face was paler than the moon.

“Intimately—intimately or otherwise—I have no recollection of such a thing.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I swear—”

“Then that’s fine.”

With that, Jūbei lowered his voice and returned to his usual tone.

"The woman must be Daiki’s next of kin.—Well, that’s fine."
"Do you know who that Ayabe Daiki is?"

"I am not aware of the details."

"He claimed connections to retainers of the Satake clan and being from Hokuriku—all crimson lies. I had suspected as much from his Higo accent."
"As expected, when we examined the corpse, we found items such as a family lineage chart and suicide note in his breast pocket."

“A suicide note…?”

“Therefore he came to the Yagyū family’s gate resolved to die.”
“A man who cursed Father Tajima-no-kami as his lord’s enemy—determined by hook or crook to reach Father and cross blades.”

“Is this not incomprehensible…?”
“That a Higo ronin would deem Father his lord’s sworn enemy...”

“It is not beyond reason.
“Since Kanei 7 [1630], Father Tajima-no-kami has held the shogunate’s newly established post of Inspector General—a position of grave responsibility—while also serving as swordsmanship instructor.”

“I am aware.”
“As Lord Iemitsu reposed such profound trust in him, Father could scarcely refuse—they say he accepted the appointment with utmost resolve at the time...”

“It’s a detestable role. A role everyone would flee from—a target of hatred…The reason being, among daimyō who’ve served the Tokugawa since Osaka Castle fell, many did so without true devotion in their hearts. Moreover, by political necessity, major domains must be whittled down or abolished outright. That great aftermath lingers.”

“—So the Inspector General’s role was created for this purpose?”

“Whether outer lords or hereditary vassals—to uncover feudal secrets and governance flaws, investigate them, then administer harsh remedies…domain transfers, land reductions, abolishments—the immediate villain enforcing these must be the Inspector General. None but Father could bear it. When the shogunate decreed it, Father likely accepted resolved to die—since then, from Fukushima Masanori of Geishū to Katō Tadayoshi of Higo and even the Suruga Dainagon family—he rooted them out mercilessly, seized domains. Masanori exiled, Tadayoshi banished, the Dainagon house confined awaiting His Excellency’s judgment…All lords—great or small—who suffered reductions or transfers resent not the shogunate but curse the Inspector General’s severity—Ayabe Daiki numbered among them.”

“……Ah… So—”

“So.”

“Do you understand?”

“It is a terrifying matter.”

“There’s no need to fear. However, had Daiki approached Father, even Father might not have been safe. No matter how consummate a master he may be, one cannot prevail against a man who has perfected death.”

“Not knowing this… I took pity and buried his remains…”

“That reveals your kindness. When reduced to bones, we all share the same soul and nature… But those kin who approach that grave must be seen as bearing not mere resentment—but layered grudges.”

…………

“Umon.
“Be careful.”

“……Yes.”

Umon shuddered and bowed his head to his elder brother’s admonishment.

And.

At that moment, from the distant open space,

“Young Master!”
“Lord Jūbei. ...We’ve caught them.”
“We’ve caught them!”

Then, Rokusuke's distant shouting could be heard.

II

When he saw her brought before his eyes, Jūbei made a face that seemed surprised.
At her beauty and the pitiful delicacy of her movements, his eyes widened in astonishment.

Perhaps having resigned herself—unlike that night before—Oyuri answered Jūbei’s relentless questioning without faltering.

“There is absolutely no familial connection between my father’s kin and myself.”
“Lord Daiki and I are complete strangers.”
“We merely lived in the same tenement. When my father fell ill and passed away, Lord Daiki showed me kindness… When I heard he had gone to duel at Lord Yagyū’s residence and died, I recalled how he had always loved sake… On my way to and from the mansion, I would sometimes bring flowers or offer sake—that is all.”

The lovely young girl’s trembling voice aroused no suspicion. Precisely because he was single-minded, Jūbei was easily moved. Particularly because he himself enjoyed sake, the young girl’s gesture of offering liquor to a sake-loving deceased person struck him as profoundly delightful.

“Where is your house?”

“It is in Yagenbori.”
“In the back street of the Yakushi-sama temple—I reside in a tenement owned by a thread wholesaler.”

“You said ‘on your way to and from the mansion’—are you in samurai service?”

“I am employed as a seamstress in Lady Sakakibara’s inner quarters, so...”

“Were your parents ronin?”

“Father is already…”

“Hmm, you said he was ill.”

“Yes.

“When he was dying, he left a will saying ‘Do not become a samurai’s wife,’ but I detest townspeople—still I wish by any means to become a warrior’s wife. I secretly visit a town’s training hall when free from sewing duties, hiding it from my uncle and aunt.”

“Why did her father tell her not to become a samurai’s wife as he was dying?”

“Having seen both his lord’s fate and his own, that must be why he thought so.”

“So he was indeed a retainer of a dispossessed daimyo after all.”

“I was young and do not recall well, but I have heard he was a samurai on the fringes of Lord Fukushima’s household, receiving a stipend of a hundred koku or so.”

“Where is the house you’re staying at now?”

“I am at my aunt’s house. But my aunt is worldly—she says one must have money in this coming age no matter what. She tells me to learn the shamisen and cozy up to wealthy people... It’s so unbearable I could die. While Lord Daiki was alive, I would flee to his house and have my aunt counsel me, but now that he’s gone...”

Jūbei regretted. Probing too deeply into this futile talk had instead sobered him up. He found the young girl’s guilelessness unbearably endearing.

“Do you intend to enter service? If you wish to work at a mansion, I can arrange for your employment as a servant. Come again on another day.”

Before releasing her, Jūbei said this. Then, claiming the road would be lonely after dark, he ordered his young retainer Shōhei to escort her as far as the brightly lit crossroads in town.

Frosted Temples

I

It was invisible to the eye.
The world as seen by the eye could be described as nothing but peace.
But somehow, within people’s hearts, there was unease.
Drumbeats characteristic of the New Year period and Shinto flutes flowed through the town, yet somewhere within those sounds lingered a mournful tone.

“As year’s end approached, they say even Lord Suruga Dainagon was finally compelled to perform seppuku.”

Amidst the aroma of toso, such whispers were exchanged throughout the town.
Though bearing the reputation of tyrants, they were blood relatives of the current shogun—members of his own clan. Yet when commoners considered how even this Dainagon family might be sacrificed for the shogunate's consolidation, they secretly congratulated themselves for not being daimyō.

However, even among townspeople, they say it’s the third generation.
The Tokugawa were now in the reign of their third shogun.
Moreover, the time that had passed since Hidetada’s death and Iemitsu’s succession to the shogunate was still short.

If we consider the third generation of the shogunate as military hegemony's culmination, it was precisely at this point that it should have begun to falter.
The powerful domains across the provinces were by no means content with the present state of affairs.
Moreover—gazing at clouds as if hoping for another great upheaval—naginata-wielding warriors existed in countless numbers across mountains and fields; even within a single domain there were many.
Behind society's seemingly peaceful state lay a peace that amounted to nothing more than those people biding their time while maintaining silence.

The unease was not only among the general populace—the shogunate itself harbored it.
No—rather, the shogunate itself was practically brewing it.
For example, Senior Councillor Doi Toshikatsu—affecting the airs of being rebellion's ringleader himself—had reportedly sent seditious letters to feudal lords of various domains, using their responses to sound out their resolve—such bizarre rumors even seeped into the streets.

Before long, they issued an edict stating, "Daimyos' wives and children must not remain in their home provinces"—and brought their flesh and blood to Edo.

They also made the sankin-kōtai system more stringent.
Moreover, they had the Atakemaru and other large warships built.
Furthermore, they strictly proclaimed the Laws for the Military Houses.
Moreover—they newly established the office of Inspector General and dispatched countless covert agents throughout the provinces.

Under these circumstances, even the daimyos could not help but grow nervous.
The unrest and self-restraint among the various domains immediately impacted the common people.
On top of that, the downfall of major domains like Fukushima and Katō, and the self-destruction of the Dainagon—

Countless ronin emerged there.
Abandoning their stipends, leaving their lords’ households, everywhere—

(Bring rebellion, bring rebellion)

they fomented anti-shogunate sentiments as they roamed.

Especially on the white-plastered walls of the Yagyū household:

"Vulgar Sword Sycophant School"

and

"Sword-Defiling Sword Clan"

"Accumulating Stipends in a Dung Heap"

and,

"Headmaster of the Flatterer School"

"Against strong enemies: the Honorable Retreat School"

—along with curses like "Wealth Amassed from Public Resentment"—these scathing insults and maledictions kept being scrawled by someone, no matter how many times they were erased. From both the brushwork and wording, it was evident this wasn’t townspeople’s mischief.

II

Tajima-no-kami Munenori returned exhausted every night.

He was already over sixty years old. Even without that consideration, four years serving as Inspector General during these troubled times would naturally have left him exhausted from mental strain alone.

The New Year period had been its own ordeal—and once it passed, official duties consumed him again. He never returned to his residence while daylight still lingered.

“Welcome home.”

“Welcome home, my lord.”

Even as he passed through the retainers who came to greet him, he merely nodded, his words growing heavy of their own accord.—In silence, he moved to the innermost—to a building even further back than his sons’ quarters—and sat in the sitting room.

"It's cold...
Am I catching a cold?"

He muttered, then was wracked by violent coughing.

Before him, a young maid presented a bowl of yuzu tea and stepped behind his back.

As gentle hands kept stroking his shoulders, the coughing fit quieted.

Tajima-no-kami took up the yuzu tea while suddenly addressing the unfamiliar maid:

"Who are you?"

"Yes.
"I am called Oyuri."

"New here?"

"I entered your service last October's end, completed two months' probation in February, and since this New Year have been permitted duties in the inner quarters."

“How old are you?”

“I am nineteen.”

Tajima-no-kami remained silent for a time, but when the retainer Sasao Kinai,

“The young lords are all assembled in the study hall.”

When Sasao Kinai reported this, Yagyū Munenori nodded in acknowledgment, withdrew to the changing room, had his garments changed with the assistance of an old maidservant, and then proceeded to the inner study hall. Jūbei and Umon sat side by side.

“What has become of Matashirō?”

Tajima-no-kami sat down and immediately pressed Jūbei with displeasure.
Jūbei gave a wry chuckle,

“Who knows where he might have gone?”

he deflected,

“With no time for proper rest—you must be exhausted, Father.”

“Should it benefit the realm,” came the rasped reply, “let this aged body scatter like spent blossoms. The weariness means nothing.”

“Yet this Inspector General’s role—by its very nature—ill suits your true character, Father.”
“The Yagyū are swordsmen first.”
“That you might not squander your honorable twilight amidst these ugly stratagems and political squabbles—this Jūbei prays for nothing else.”

“I understand.
But this is not a time when one can afford to think of oneself.”

“If Father does not assume responsibility, someone else will emerge to confront this crisis.
Exceptional swordsmen do not appear in such numbers within a single generation, but political strategists capable of handling the Inspector General’s duties are as common as dirt swept by a winnowing basket.
Why don’t you retire while you still can?”

“If I could do that…”

“Why can you not?
Was it not you, Father, who received from Grandfather Sekishūsai Muneyoshi both the secret arts of the New Shadow and the Yagyū orthodoxy—and perfected them? Are you not the one and only sword patriarch of this age?
If you serve the shogunate through that very path, I believe there could be no greater service than this.”

“No—what you speak of is the sword of the Lesser Vehicle.”
“The Yagyū-ryū is not.”
“When I was thirteen, my father Sekishūsai Muneyoshi took me by the hand to my first audience with Lord Ieyasu at his encampment—it was then that Sekishūsai answered Lord Ieyasu’s inquiry, declaring: ‘The Yagyū-ryū takes the sword of the Greater Vehicle as its true purpose.’”

“Greater and Lesser Vehicles may depend on the situation.”
“Though countless schools and sects exist, I understand all swordsmanship to be a single path—”

“But you should have already realized that the ultimate secret of Yagyū-ryū lies in no-sword.”
“No-sword is the embodiment of peace.”
“The policy for peace lies in governance.”
“Therefore, our family’s military strategy perceives the pivotal moments of statecraft and serves as the sword of governance.”
“I have also imparted such instruction to the shogunate.”
“The reason Lord Ieyasu elevated our house to serve as instructors to Lord Hidetada was precisely because he placed his trust in that aspect of Yagyū-ryū.”
“Now that we have entered the reign of the third shogun, Lord Iemitsu, and signs of great turmoil once again loom over the realm—how could I, who preach the constancy of governance and serve as His Excellency’s instructor, view this crisis as someone else’s affair?”
“If I prove incapable of fulfilling my current duties, then the ultimate secret of Yagyū-ryū will become a lifeless relic.”

For the first time in a long while, Jūbei saw in his father’s complexion a ruddy hue like that of a man in his prime. But no sooner had he finished speaking than he erupted into violent coughing, his frosted sideburns bristling. When he beheld that figure once more—something tragic and resolute, like a dying lamp’s final flicker—Jūbei felt his heart stir.

III

……They remained like that for a time, silent.

Eventually, as his father’s coughing fit subsided, Jūbei changed tack,

“By the way—do you have some business?”
“For Umon and me?”

and urged his father to state the matter for which they had been summoned here.

“Indeed, this is not my personal affair.
“It concerns official duties—” said Tajima-no-kami, letting the paper he had held to his mouth fall into his sleeve.

“Matashirō isn’t here, but you can have him informed later from your side.”
“As I have stated before—the Way of our school lies in military strategy that takes governing the nation and pacifying its people as its path.”
“I want you all to cooperate with this father and assist in official duties.”

“When you say ‘assist’—”

“Matashirō and you—I want you both to become my limbs and set out for several years of warrior training in the regions I command you to go.”

“So… this mission carries covert purposes, then.”

“Ah, precisely.”

“Where are we to go?”

“Throughout Kyushu—particularly Hizen, Ōmura, Amakusa, and Shimabara.”

“Depending on how the flames spread, even Satsuma could be in danger.”

“So you had sensed it too.”
“Ronin from various provinces and remnants of the Toyotomi are using heretical sects as a pretext to gather local gentry and peasants.”
“According to reports from the Nagasaki Magistrate and others, they describe it as trivial—but should religious sects unite with military force, this would become a matter too grave to ignore.”
“How about it? Will you go?”

“I have no objections, but as for Matashirō—what will he say?”

“I will not permit refusal.”
“You must also insist on it without fail.”
“Matashirō’s circumstances—though he remains silent as usual—I am not a father who does not know of them.”

“I cannot help but think if Mother were still with us.”

“Nonsense,” Munenori coughed, his frosted sideburns trembling with each hack. “Matashirō is no child.”

“On the contrary,” Jūbei countered, “a training journey abroad might serve him well as a turning point.” He paused, calculating years like sword strokes. “Though should we depart, we must brace for five—nay, seven years of wandering. During that span, your own position—”

“Umon remains.” The patriarch’s voice brooked no debate, tissue falling forgotten from his sleeve. “We’ll leave Umon here.” His gaze softened imperceptibly. “The boy’s frail enough as it stands…”

Jūbei’s single eye shifted to the brother at his flank. Their father’s stare had already pinned Umon in place—that silent fourth son who sat lotus-folded, head bowed so low his forehead nearly kissed tatami. Not a protest whispered through paper-thin lips. Always this way since Mother’s passing; Umon the obedient shadow, Umon the living apology.

Father seemed unable to help feeling more pity for Umon than for any of his four brothers.
And he loved him most of all.
For unlike Jūbei and Matashirō，Umon never defied him or gave him cause for worry.

Amidst the Red Plum Blossoms

I

Because Matashirō hadn’t said “uh-huh,” the response to their father Tajima-no-kami had been delayed. However, Jūbei himself had resolved to embark on a warrior’s pilgrimage across the provinces, and he had steeled his resolve not to indulge Matashirō’s selfishness this time.

In the garden plot of the inner courtyard, the banana leaves had fallen, but the red plum blossoms were blooming.

In each of the three rooms with windows facing that inner courtyard, all three brothers were—unusually for today—leaning at their desks.

Through the eaves, the spring clouds were splendid.

The window of Matashirō’s room was half open.
The window of Jūbei’s room on the opposite side was opened wide.

The only room shut tight with someone inside was that of the fourth son, Umon.

(She must be angry—because I didn’t go the day before yesterday either.)

Matashirō, resting his cheek on his hand, fantasized about Okoma’s expressions and even her manner of speech—as though they were sitting face-to-face exchanging lovers’ banter.

(Perhaps I should make her angry, have a falling out, and sever ties—and close my eyes for five or six years as my brother said, setting out on a training journey around the provinces.)

Having thought that, he couldn’t bring himself to make a living by the sword. The Yagyū family would be inherited by my elder brother. Naturally, I would branch off from the family, be employed as a sword instructor or such by another domain, and go take up a post at that daimyo’s provincial seat—

(I can't stand seeing my whole life mapped out like this!)

Matashirō’s mutterings inevitably came back to that point.
It was a fairly liberal household, and he had been born the third son of a 10,000-koku family—making him the brother most steeped in urban amusements and trends among them.
He favored the stylish, rakish customs of the city—no matter how much his father and elder brother scolded him, he detested hakama and would always go out wearing an informal kimono.

To be sure, this was an era when even the currently popular Ryūtatsu-bushi songs—with their lyrics like "Shall I sleep with you? Or claim a 5,000-koku stipend..."—were sung vigorously among samurai. There might have been countless others in the streets besides Matashirō who shared similar thoughts.

“Huh? …Brother’s up to something.”

Matashirō suddenly turned his eyes toward Jūbei’s room on the other side, visible beyond the garden trees. And with a wry smile, he shifted his elbow from the desk to the windowsill, resting his cheek on his hand as he gazed intently.

II

Jūbei suddenly grabbed Oyuri’s hand and did not let go.

It was when she had brought tea and made to withdraw.

“Oh…You mustn’t play such games.”
“…The tea will boil over.”

“Why flee?”

“I do not flee.”

“Then sit closer—properly.”
“I have words for you.”

“But…
…But—”

“Let all know—it matters not.”
“I may love, but commit no transgression.”
“There’s naught to hide.”
“Jūbei cares for you.”

“Oh… You mustn’t—”

“Don’t tremble. Is it because I’m such a one-eyed ugly man that you’re afraid?”

“No… That is not the case, but—”

“Then let me hear your reply. Did you unravel the love poem I sent you the other day?”

“……”

“Do you like or dislike this Jūbei? If you like me, say ‘like’—if you dislike me, say ‘dislike’.”

“...Please forgive me. My hand has gone numb—it pains me.”

“I’ll release you… But until you give an honest answer, I won’t let you leave here. Though it’s not urgent yet, Jūbei will soon journey across the provinces—even briefly, I won’t return for five or six years. If you don’t dislike it, I would make a hundred-year vow and depart. And if you find it disagreeable—there’s no helping it.”

The shoji doors were wide open, and Jūbei’s voice was loud.
Red plum trees and forsythias—the garden foliage blocked that area, but from Matashirō’s room, it was a space within arm’s reach.

"...It's exactly like an ukiyo-e."
"...To think Brother had such cheerful aspects to him."

Matashirō wore a knowing grin.

—But.

In one room of the long horizontal building connecting the two rooms—its window shutters silently shut tight since earlier—the fourth son Umon had not made a single cough.

III

............

Umon pressed his slender-fingered hands to both temples and leaned over the vermilion desk.
On the crimson lacquer, tears had fallen.

He had been trying not to listen to his elder brother’s voice coming through the window since earlier—flipping through books, wiping the incense tray, lighting the incense burner—but the times when Jūbei’s voice did not reach his ears drove him into unbearable anxiety and agitation even more than when he could hear it.

This was not the first time.

The eldest brother’s display of affection toward Oyuri was far too blatant.
At times, even when he himself was present, the eldest brother would suddenly say something astonishing.

(Oyuri must know my feelings.)

Umon thought this and found slight comfort in heart that she made efforts not to approach the eldest brother—even putting on an air of disliking him.

But for Umon, once he came to understand his eldest brother’s heart, he could not bring himself to contend with that brother for love.
Even if there were no such rival in love, for him, to face her directly—

(Love—)

he couldn’t even bring himself to utter the word—

Now that he thought about it, Umon understood his own foolishness.
When Oyuri was first taken into the estate, for those half-month or so in his inexplicable joy, he had secretly blessed his own existence under the same roof as her—as though a child who had been given the small bird they so desired.

He had also read the love poem the eldest brother had sent to Oyuri.
Having glimpsed Oyuri crumpling it up and throwing it away, he later retrieved and read it.
—Like a dog, he wept at his own despicable behavior.

When he thought about it, the first happiness he had known since birth might have been entirely contained within those fifteen days after she came to the estate.
That would remain as the sole memory of his life.

"...Huh?"

From the direction of the eldest brother’s room came a somewhat loud voice and the sound of something moving.
Umon instinctively clung to the closed window shoji and tried to open it, but—

"...Wait—?"

But even that he lacked the courage for, leaving him alone in his torment.

Clattering footsteps echoed through the corridor as someone came hurrying.
Oyuri?
—Umon turned pale and strained his ears.
Then, outside the sliding door,

“Lord Matashirō, Lord Umon.
“Lord Kyōbe Tomonori, the Second Son, has arrived.”

It was the old retainer’s voice.
The “old retainer” referred to Sada Shōhei, the elderly steward, and to the brothers, he was a good-natured man who inspired not a shred of fear.
“Oh... So Elder Brother from the castle has arrived, I see.”

Umon stood up at once.
—but he pressed down the swelling of his eyelids with his fingers, adjusted his attire, then went out to greet the visitor.
For him, Kyōbe Tomonori was the brother he could feel closest to among them all—and the one whose temperament most aligned with his own.

IV

“Old man, you’re always so hale, I see.”

Retainers, pages, and a multitude of servants had gathered at the entrance steps to greet him, but Kyōbe Tomonori—head held high—paid them no heed.

He had spoken those words only to the old retainer Kinai.
In his childhood, Kyōbe Tomonori had suffered from a chronic illness akin to epilepsy, and this old man had come to know everything from having tended him through such trials down to his bedwetting habits.

But now he was Lord Iemitsu’s favored page who cut a splendid figure in resplendent robes among the page corps—his elegant features and lofty bearing honed through constant attendance at the shogunal court.
Having spent nearly all his time at Edo Castle like one of its inner palace attendants—forever stationed close to His Excellency’s person—he had grown accustomed to holding his head high even among daimyos.
Thus on those rare occasions when official business took him beyond castle walls—whether lodging elsewhere overnight or running errands—the common folk inevitably appeared wretched beyond endurance to his eyes.

"Oh, Elder Brother, what an unusual visit."

Umon, emerging belatedly, greeted him in the middle of the corridor.

"Hmm. Are the others present?"

Kyōbe Tomonori proceeded straight to the guest hall and took the seat of honor.

"Today, by His Excellency’s private orders, I stopped by on my way back from another errand. Next month, a pleasure boat excursion for His Excellency will be held at Hamashoin. On that occasion, His Excellency’s message is to invite all your brothers as well. Since informing Lord Tajima would likely result in his polite refusal, His Excellency’s most gracious command is for you to make the request. Is Matashirō here?"

“He is here.”

“What of Elder Brother Jūbei?”

“He is present.”

“Having conveyed the aforementioned matter, I would ask you to summon them here.”

Even upon returning home, Tomonori could not shed his shogunate-bred bureaucratic air.
To Umon, such an air was not bothersome.
He obediently went to summon them.
Matashirō arrived promptly, but the eldest brother Jūbei—

"If you have business, come to my room."

Such was his reply.

"That’s only natural.
As long as you don’t anger him, he’s a good-natured brother.
You should go and pay your respects properly."

Matashirō urged from beside them.
Tomonori had been making excuses about His Excellency’s private orders and such, but in the end, he went to Jūbei’s room on his way out and solemnly repeated the same message as before.

Jūbei also responded to Tomonori with stiff formality,

“I am humbled by His Excellency’s private orders.”
“But it is likely that I shall be absent.”
“On that occasion, I ask that you handle matters appropriately before His Excellency.”

Tomonori was flustered,

“No, that’s problematic.
Even regarding His Excellency’s consideration—choosing not to inform Father and going out of his way to have me stop by with this message…… Well, let’s not dwell on such matters. I implore you all to attend together on the day.
If Elder Brother does not come, would it not prove difficult for your younger brothers to present themselves?”

For the first time, he unbent his manner and spoke in appeasement.
Jūbei disliked his tone that seemed intent on claiming credit, but when Tomonori altered his attitude, he recovered his temper and,

“No—it’s not that I won’t attend,” he said. “If circumstances permit my presence—I shall come.”

Spring Breeze, Fierce Frost

I

At the waterfront of Shiodome River, the newly built warship Atakemaru was moored, decorated with curtains and banners like a bride.

Iemitsu held a banquet while surveying the spring sea in all directions.

It was indeed a grand event of peace.
Before long, they mustered the vassals' small boats, withdrew to Hamagoten for respite, and drank tea in the sukiya.
When the tea ceremony concluded, they reclined once more in Hiroshiba's beachside chamber.

Numerous sons of hatamoto had been invited to attend.
Their parents reckoned that presenting their children before the shogun on such occasions would forge lifelong prospects for advancement, going so far as to petition the senior councilors for a martial demonstration.

“An amusing diversion.
Let me see.”

Such was His Excellency’s command.

Iemitsu had a camp stool placed at Hiroshiba and watched several matches.
In the end, he wore a somewhat bored expression, but,

“Tajima. Your sons should also be present today. Which ones are they?”
“Which ones are they?”

He inquired of Tajima-no-kami, who stood among the retinue.

Then, before his father could answer,

"The one attending yonder is none other than my younger brother Matashirō."

Kyōbe Tomonori of the page corps guided Iemitsu's gaze.
The shogun seemed to immediately spot a crane among fowl within the crowd of young men,

"Have Matashirō step forth. Let any who deem themselves skilled face him."

he commanded.

Matashirō received the imperial order, made his preparations, and advanced.
He then proceeded to defeat four chosen opponents in succession.

“As expected of Lord Yagyū’s third son.”

A whisper flowed through the stirring commotion.
Iemitsu too, enveloped by the spectacle, appeared satisfied for the first time.
And still,

"Is there no one here who can defeat Matashirō?"

he said, looking around.

Kyōbe Tomonori, among the close attendants, tried to win Iemitsu’s favor as if it were his own honor,

“Those who could defeat your younger brother are likely not among today’s attendants.”
“Yet compared to Eldest Brother Jūbei’s skill, Matashirō remains little more than a milk-fed child—utterly out of his league.”

he said.

Iemitsu, intrigued by Tomonori’s words, immediately ordered Jūbei summoned.
However, Jūbei’s figure could not be seen among the spectators.
The retainers,

“They were certain they had seen him.”

And they abruptly began searching everywhere for him.

On a beach slightly withdrawn from Hiroshiba, Yagyū Jūbei had opened his bento and was drinking alone, disregarding the exhibition match.

“You are summoned.”

“Lord Jūbei, you are summoned!”

When the retainers who had spotted him came running over and pressed him thus, Yagyū Jūbei turned his face—already considerably flushed with drink—toward them.

“What business?”

and made no move to rise.

II

“It is His Excellency’s command that you duel your younger brother Lord Matashirō.”
“Please prepare yourself immediately and proceed yonder.”

Upon hearing the retainer’s words, Yagyū Jūbei shook his head and plopped down onto the beach grass.

“What ails you?
“...His Excellency awaits.”
“Lord Jūbei! His Excellency’s order demands your immediate presence!”

Yagyū Jūbei gave no answer but feigned sleep—yet was persistently shaken awake,

Jūbei did not answer and feigned sleep, but was persistently shaken awake,

“I must ask you to convey my refusal to His Excellency without giving offense."
"From both my grandfather Sekishūsai and my master Tajima-no-kami, I have been taught that the Yagyū-ryū is military strategy for governance."
“My sword cannot be made to serve as mere entertainment for outings.”
“As for one such as Matashirō, he at best possesses skills adequate for diversion. I would ask that you order others to face him as a training dummy.”

Having finished speaking, he lay down again and closed his eyes—languid from mild intoxication—letting them be teased by the spring breeze.

“…………”

The retainers stood frozen in bewilderment.
Their state was visible from where the shogun sat.
Particularly since Iemitsu was perched on a camp stool, he seemed to have a clear view and faced this direction.

The retainers had no choice but to run back and report Jūbei’s response verbatim to Iemitsu.

The chamberlains, daimyō lords, and those surrounding the hatamoto retainers turned pale.
This was because they considered it an affront worthy of seppuku.
Iemitsu twisted his lips as though tasting gall, and from the depths of his visage brimming with displeasure, it seemed some scathing words might erupt at any moment.

“Outrageous! — I shall go myself and bring him here!”

In a voice charged with fervor, Kyōbe Tomonori began to rise from among the page corps.
Then,
“Kyōbe, wait. That would itself constitute an offense. To drag such a raving drunk before His Excellency—”
Then, someone hastily restrained him.
It was their father, Tajima-no-kami.
Hunched like a flattened spider kettle, Tajima-no-kami had propped himself up on his hands beside Tokugawa Iemitsu’s camp stool.
Iemitsu glared sharply and cast his eyes,
“Tajima. Is that one-eyed fool drunk?”

he said bitterly.

“Yes. When he drinks even a little too much sake, he loses all sense of propriety, spouts grandiose words that hold no true conviction, and becomes an uncontrollable drunkard. As his father, I shall most certainly discipline him later for this impertinence. I humbly beg your gracious forgiveness.”

Iemitsu neither granted nor denied forgiveness, remaining silent for a time—but when he saw Tajima-no-kami’s aged white hair, perhaps moved by pity,

“He’s an eyesore. Someone, drive that one-eyed fool away to where he can’t be seen!”

Having said that, he turned his camp stool around,

“Right, let us resume the match.
Is there no one to face Matashirō in Jūbei’s stead?”

Tajima-no-kami raised his face as if relieved.
At the same time, he quietly stood up,

“In place of the drunken Jūbei, I shall face Matashirō.
As it has been long since I last held a wooden sword, I cannot help but feel uncertain about this duel—yet if it may serve as atonement for my son’s offense…”

The people gazed in breathless fascination at his composed bearing and austere demeanor.
They were struck by compassion, contemplating both a parent’s heart shielding their child and the hardship of serving one’s lord.

“Matashirō, are you ready?”

With that, Tajima-no-kami grasped his wooden sword and stepped into the center of the wide lawn.

III

Since it was a duel，even between father and son，there was not the slightest mercy.

In his normal state，Father was intimidating.
But when he took up the wooden sword，Matashirō’s state of mind naturally shifted.

(I am young)

Regrettably，I would have to strike my father’s aged frame.
Naturally，he prided himself on this.

(Father’s really aged.)
(If we duel next time，I’d probably take two out of three.)

Elder Brother Jūbei had once said something.
Even so，several years had passed since then.
Moreover，Father had hardly any days where he took up the wooden sword，having been consumed by his duties as Inspector General.
In daily life，even his mental approach had ceased to be that of a swordsman and had become that of a bureaucrat.
Painful as it was，this would not amount to a proper match.

—

Matashirō straightened his young, supple limbs.
His father’s wooden sword too was held in seigan stance.
He settled into position and fixed his gaze on his father.

Though he could see the wooden sword clearly, his father’s form seemed indistinct.
He realized—the Mist-Body technique.
One breath. Two breaths. His father’s exhalations reverberated through the air.
Ah, that aged frame.
Matashirō lunged to strike.
At that very instant, as if foreknowing the move, his father’s body swayed upward like moonlight rippling across waves—

—It comes!

The instant he perceived it—*crack*—Matashirō's wooden sword rang out.
The movement was not of consciousness but spirit.
He could not remember how he had fought.
But in that instant, Matashirō’s wooden sword had been struck down to the ground.
Just as he swiftly reached out to retrieve it, another strike slammed into his shoulder,

“I yield!”

The words had slipped out, and he found himself sitting on the ground.

He was filled with regret.
Matashirō, gasping through his shoulder, gripped the defeated wooden sword,

“It was too short.
“If this wooden sword had been just three sun longer… I wouldn’t have lost to Father.”

he muttered with lingering regret.

The grumbling, bitter demeanor of his sore loser’s excuses carried such genuine feeling that Iemitsu and the surrounding onlookers found it amusing.
A faint bitter smile spread across the people’s faces.

Then suddenly, Tajima-no-kami,

“Silence!” he rebuked with an ear-splitting bellow that overwhelmed all nearby.
His face flushed crimson with rage.

“Such words have no place coming from one of the Yagyū lineage.
Lingering complaints.
Ignorant lamentation.
Such disagreeable drivel.
It is precisely because of such a disposition that you cannot withstand even a single strike from this old man’s blade.
On this very day, I too have come to know for the first time—
the truth that people have long ridiculed Lord Tajima as being indulgent toward his children, doting on them.”

――he said, trembling with rage.
Startled, Matashirō ended up placing his hands on the ground.
He trembled at his father’s countenance—one he had never witnessed since birth.

The fearsome father he had always known derived that fear from paternal indulgence.
Not a trace of such leniency remained in the old man’s present visage.
Neither compassion nor vulnerability showed through.

“Should the world recognize a wretch of your disposition as a son of the Yagyū house—a practitioner of our school’s arts—it would not only corrupt our lineage but disgrace its very founder."
“All this stems from your complacency—gorging on His Excellency’s stipend while coddled by this foolish father. Proof you’ve abandoned all diligence in training.”
“From this day forth, such a man is neither my son nor I his father.”
“I have disowned you—before His Excellency’s very presence, I declared severance!”
“If this rankles you, train until you’ve beaten that disposition into proper shape.”
“Ah—this loathsome creature!”

Even as he spoke, the wooden sword in Tajima-no-kami’s hands continued striking—clang clang—hitting Matashirō’s body again and again.

“How cruel… Such obstinate severity!”

The shogun frowned and ordered Tomonori, who stood at his side, to stop them.
As Tomonori stepped forward, the others too swarmed closer, finally managing to separate and lead away Tajima-no-kami—still seething with unrelenting fury—and Matashirō, who lay prostrate on the ground without uttering a sound.

Poison

I

The fourth son, Umon, did not attend today’s Hama O-nari invitation, citing illness.
In fact, the time when his brothers were away had always been far more enjoyable for him.

But even that enjoyable half-day was already drawing to a close.
He had waited, certain Oyuri would come to speak with him, yet she never once showed her face.
When he called for tea, only other maids and pages came.

“What’s going on here?”

He finally left his room.
He casually peeked into every room of the mansion, but couldn't determine where she was working.
If he asked the servants he would find out immediately—yet he couldn't muster such courage.

He casually peeked into his father’s living room.
To reach it required passing through a locked doorway—one that even senior retainers couldn’t enter when Father was absent—yet now faint noises and traces of human presence emanated from within.

“...Huh?!”

From the dim edge of the cedar doorframe, he peered in—and as he did, the figure inside the room spun around with a start.
——A pale face, clear large eyes.
It was Oyuri.

“Oyuri? ...What are you doing here?”

As Umon spoke, Oyuri’s expression shifted from momentary surprise back to her usual smile.

“...I was cleaning.”

“Cleaning?”

“Yes. Since Lord Tajima ordered me this morning as he was departing to clean around the desk... I washed the inkstone and dusted it.”

“Ah, I see. Though this study remains forbidden to all others, it appears Father places particular trust in you alone... Have you finished?”

“Yes, I’ll be done shortly.”

“What’s this? White powder has spilled on the tatami—and on your knee as well.”

“The medicine for Lord Tajima’s cough—in moving aside the documents, I ended up spilling it.”

“Ah, the cough medicine... Oyuri, I have something to discuss—will you hear me out here?”

“That won’t do. The other servants have lately taken to looking upon me with envious eyes. In the evening…”

“In the evening…”

“Oh.”
“Quietly, at the mound in the vacant lot.”

“At the stone marker then?”
“……Well then, I’ll be going once eight bells toll.”

Umon, having made the promise, hurriedly exited beyond the locked entrance as though staying even a moment longer would be ill-advised.

After carefully wiping away the white powder that had settled between the tatami seams, Oyuri quietly emerged from behind, clutching several documents concealed in her robe, and snapped the locked entrance shut with a sharp click.

II

Jūbei did not return either.
Matashirō had not come back either.
Only Tajima-no-kami returned gloomily alone to the residence.
This too was when the amayukidō lanterns cast dim light in the corridors.

The retainers left behind already knew about the grave incident that had occurred at the Hama O-nari outpost.
Yet when they saw Tajima-no-kami's despondent figure, everyone felt their chests tighten and could not utter a single word.

The elderly retainer Sasao Kinai eventually entered Tajima-no-kami’s chamber, and for a while, they conversed in secret.
Kinai's sobs escaped.
The old man wrapped his tear-streaked face in kaishi paper and retreated.

“Do not trouble yourselves. No matter what may come, the lord father and son’s blood runs thick. Their intentions are profound.”

Old man Kinai came to the samurai room and spoke.
No matter what they asked him afterward, he kept silent.
The eight o'clock clapper rang out.

The lights in the residence were diminishing—as if unable to wait any longer, Umon slipped outside. He had dimly heard why his older brothers had not returned. But he could not believe things would remain like this. He had believed they would return soon. Around the earthen mound, young grasses sprouted, and it already looked like an old grave mound.

"What’s going on?"

Umon walked around the stone.
And suddenly recalled white bones lying beneath the earth.
With a shudder, Ayabe Daiki’s corpse surfaced from memory’s depths.

"Ah... Soon it will have been half a year."

III

“Hm?”

Tajima-no-kami took his own cough medicine powder into his mouth but remained with his face raised without swallowing, probing the taste of the medicine dissolving on his tongue.

“...What has your lordship done?”

Beside him, the old maidservant kneeling by his side looked up at his condition with a suspicious expression and inquired.

Tajima-no-kami, still holding a water bowl in one hand, suddenly stood,

“Open the shutters.”

With that, he stepped into the corridor.

Then along with the water, he gobbed—spat out the medicine he had been holding in his mouth into the darkness.

“Takajo,”

he called the old maidservant’s name.

“Yes.”

“This medicine—where did you bring it from?”

“I retrieved one tablet from your usual medicine case’s pouch.”

“Is it the one atop the study’s bookcase?”

“That is correct.”

“Light the hand lantern for me.”

Tajima-no-kami entered a room about two ken further ahead from there.
—and while inspecting every corner of the room that at first glance appeared unchanged, he suddenly bent his knee and lightly tapped the tatami with his fingertip.

From the tatami seams, a faint white powder floated up.
He nodded as if confirming his thoughts with tally sticks.

He opened the second bookcase.
In the small shelves, maps, diagrams, and documents were neatly organized.
Since only items from his time as Inspector General were stored there, he immediately noticed upon a glance that several documents that should have been present were missing.

“Summon Kinai. Without haste—calmly.”

The old woman nevertheless turned pale and found herself compelled to run.
Kinai came rushing over at once.

“My lord—what matter has transpired?”

“It’s no grave matter. I should have told you sooner—but single-mindedly devoted to public duties, I neglected household trifles. My failing.” Munenori’s cough interrupted him like punctuation. “That new maid Oyuri—she’s gone by now.”

“No, my lord. I believe she remains—”

“She cannot be here.” The old swordsman spat the words like bitter medicine. “Still—check for other irregularities. Inspect the residence quietly.”

IV

The threads of budding willows on the embankment at the bridge's approach hung low enough to reach the gentle stream.

Above the willows hung the moon.
At the water's edge lay the moonlight.
It was spring, but a chilly evening.
And so the shadows grew all the deeper.

As if possessed by love and the god of death, Umon staggered all the way there.
When he saw the characters "Shirauo Bridge" on the bridge pier, he jolted.

“Oyuri... where... where will we die?”

“The mansion’s pursuers weigh on me.”
“If caught, you and I would—”

“Shameful. Better to die than—”
“Better to die than—”

“We cannot reach Ōkawa.”
“Let us end it here.”

“Is it deep?”

The two peered into the water.
Oyuri silently took out two packets from her obi and handed one to Umon.

“……Poison?”

Umon's hand trembled. Oyuri smirked and had already opened the packet. Then, before she could even think "Ah—", she had swallowed it.

“Now… Lord Umon, let us go together.”

Without a moment to think, Umon also hastily swallowed the poison. The two embraced and stood at the edge of the cliff by the bridge approach.

“Ah, wait!”

“Umon! Is that you?”

Who was it? From behind came swift footsteps. At that voice, Umon—as if struck down—plunged *zabun*, shattering the moon’s reflection on the river surface, and threw himself into the water.

In that instant—Oyuri grasped a willow branch with one hand and kept her body on the shore. And along with the spray, she stumbled away in a panic.

Two samurai in travel attire arrived a moment too late. They were the brothers Jūbei and Matashirō.

“I’ll rescue Umon.”
“Matashirō! Pursue Oyuri! Get her!”

Jūbei jumped to the small boat tied downstream of the bridge. Though he had pulled him out, Umon had swallowed water. However, that very thing proved fortunate. At the boat’s edge, being struck on the back by his brother Jūbei, Umon vomited up not only a great amount of water but also expelled the poison completely.

Each and Every Heaven’s Will

I

“Elder Brother, I’ve captured her.”

On the shore, Matashirō said.
Oyuri had been captured by his hand.

“Tie her to the bridge railing.”

Holding the drenched Umon, Jūbei came up from the small boat.
Rather than finding himself still alive, Umon—upon seeing Oyuri’s figure untouched by the water—trembled and cried out as if beholding an impossibility that should not exist in this world.

“Brother.
“This... Umon...”
“You need feel no shame.”
“Of us four brothers, you’ve always been purest at heart.”
“But that very guilelessness made you vulnerable—which is why I deliberately took that bewitching creature from your grasp and drew her ever closer to my side.”
“...And still she nearly dragged you into death’s maw.”
“A hairsbreadth slower—”
“One breath later—”

With that, he turned to Matashirō,

“How about it? My counsel wasn’t false. Okoma is her older sister.”

“Understood,” Matashirō said. “Now that I’ve shaken off this delusion, every aspect of Okoma’s daily behavior falls into place.”

He bowed his head as if crushed by shame and knelt before his elder brother.

II

Today, at the plaza of Hamagoten where he had been beaten by father and subjected to extreme reprimands reaching disownment, Matashirō was recklessly gulping down sake at Okoma’s house.

Thereupon, Jūbei came chasing right after him.

(Fool—) his biological elder brother cursed inwardly.
(Today’s beating was a loving father’s sword-strike.)
(Can you not comprehend that wooden blade of paternal affection?)

With that, he spoke through flowing tears.

And turning toward Okoma—the former bathhouse attendant who had been serving sake at his side—

(You took Matashirō as your captive, yet having made him your lover too, found yourself unable to kill him.
Your sister Oyuri stands far more resolute than you—but to seek vengeance against House Yagyū oversteps your station beyond measure.
Abandon this futile enmity. Become nuns together and perform memorial rites for your fallen retainers instead.)

With his sharp eyes yet filled with kindness, he earnestly admonished her.

Matashirō had not understood his brother’s words at first, but as they were gradually explained to him, he awakened as if from a nightmare.

Okoma and Oyuri were daughters of a prestigious family.
Over the past several years—as one of the sacrificial daimyo households abolished during that time—they were the surviving children of Katō Awaji-no-kami, chief retainer to Katō Tadahiro. Ayabe Daiki, who had died earlier, had been that household’s peerlessly loyal retainer.

The sisters and Daiki, after the downfall of their lord’s house, had drifted to Edo and, harboring deep resentment toward the Yagyū family of Inspector Generals, had long been intent on carrying out their revenge.

And so Okoma, while working as a bathhouse attendant, subtly gathered internal information about the Yagyū family from Matashirō; then, changing methods in turn with Daiki—Oyuri—she plotted to sever the bloodline of all involved, starting with Tajima-no-kami Munenori’s life and moving through Jūbei, Matashirō, and Umon, thereby avenging their grudge.

(I had nearly discerned it.
But behind these sisters and Daiki lurk countless more enemies of the realm.
I had feigned ignorance and observed until I could see the full extent of those connections.
Father has likely already realized it.—Matashirō, you must abandon your indulgence with bathhouse women there and repay Father’s great love.
No—this is not your burden alone.
Before my own father turns to stone—) While Matashirō, repenting from the heart, knelt with shameful hands before his elder brother and vowed to undertake ascetic training, Okoma—who had unnoticed vanished from her seat—met her end through splendid seppuku in the back water house’s plank-floored room, using a dagger reminiscent of her former noble lineage.

The brothers immediately prepared for their journey and circled around to the outside of the residence at Yaesu Riverbank.
From outside the wall, they bid farewell to Father Tajima-no-kami, albeit from a distance.
As they tried to leave, Kinai came chasing after them and reported the commotion that had just occurred—and that Umon and Oyuri were nowhere to be seen.

(Damn it.
So that’s it—)

The elder brothers’ desperate pursuit and search finally bore fruit, and at the very last moment, Umon’s life was salvaged.

III

The moon was clear upon the water.
Even as the willow threads and current stirred in the wind, the moon had long since cleared.

“Umon, return quickly. …Take care of yourself.”
“The one who will protect Father—I’m counting on you alone as I go.”

Jūbei also said.
Matashirō also repeated.

“Whether we return in five years or ten—toward the peaks of a world whose path remains unknown—we depart for training.”
“Our filial duty to Father—this single path we resolve to follow as we go.”
“The rest… we entrust to you.”

“Yes…”
“Farewell.”

Umon had begun to take his leave when suddenly—

“Elder Brother, this woman—”

With that, he asked Oyuri—still bound to the bridge railing—with a pained expression, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

“Don’t touch her. A flower with thorns. Leave her be.”

When Jūbei spoke, Oyuri fixed her gaze intently and looked back at his face.
Umon finally realized at that moment—what she had swallowed was not poison.

“Young Master! Young Masters!”

Presumably Old Retainer Kinai—waving a lantern marked with the two-tiered hat crest from the riverbank—strained his tearful voice toward the brothers crossing the bridge and departing into the distance.

IV

The Amakusa Rebellion and the Shimabara Uprising, two years later, cast a temporary dark shadow over the realm.
The flames of war subsided, but Jūbei did not return for four years, and Matashirō remained absent for approximately nine.

Umon, thereafter holding the mortuary tablet of his father Tajima-no-kami, retreated to his ancestral estate in Yamato Yagyū no Sho. The first abbot of Hōtokuji Temple, Retsudō Oshō, was he. Moreover, a dozen or so springs and autumns later—Yagyū Jūbei Mitsuyoshi, who had succeeded Tajima-no-kami as sword instructor to the shogun, was in his hometown of Yagyū one year when, while falconing in the open fields, he suddenly succumbed to illness and died.

The third month of Keian 3.
He was only forty-four.
Some said he had been shot by a matchlock hidden in the grass; others claimed he had died from poisoned water—theories varied—but had Oyuri survived until around this time, there would have been room to imagine a different scenario.

The third-generation head of the Edo Yagyū clan was, needless to say, Matashirō—Hida-no-kami Munefuyu.
He was by no means a prodigious talent in his youth, but through dedicating himself to a single path of late-blooming mastery and a long life, he achieved comprehensive and seamless greatness.