Post by Steve on Feb 22, 2006 7:47:17 GMT -5
The paper suddenly felt very heavy in Takeda's hands. He had painted beautiful works of art and written many poems. He had swung his grandfather's sword for the emperor in the Boshin War, but this simple paper seemed awkward and unfamiliar to him somehow. With as much grace as he could muster, he put the letter down on the table.
He rose and turned to face the window. He caught his face in the looking-glass brought across the sea from some distant land he would never see, by people he never knew. His father had hated the thing as an object of vanity, but it made his mother happy. So it had stayed.
How he resembed his father now in his last days. A man of barely 40 summers, advanced to the threshhold of death's doorstep by the clarity of the mirror. His eyes looked exhausted and distant. His hair had long begun to show the grey of his age. His frame did not fill the kimono the way it used to. Inhaling and drawing himself up, he caught a glimpse of the young, proud man he had been in his prime. But such illusions only made him feel older once the day had again settled into the dusky room. He understood then why his father had hated the mirror.
From the window of Fujisaki Castle, he looked out at the city below. When had the tendrils of black smoke begun spoiling the horizon? Not in his childhood. In the bay, strange vessels from lands with strange names chugged across the harbour. So much had changed.
"Master?" the call from the hallway beyond the door.
"Enter." Takeda replied, absently.
"I have brought your tea."
"Indeed, Yasuo."
Wordlessly, the servant shuffled into the room, placed the tray on the table and retreated quietly to kneel in a corner. In a few moments, the room was filled with the gentle aroma.
Takeda glanced opprobriously over his shoulder. The letter lay open on the table beside the tray. It bore Emperor Meiji's impotent seal. At one time, the very sight of that seal would have commanded unquestioning obedience from it's reader. At one time, it would have bowed the highest head. At one time, the words had meant something. But not in this time.
No.
He would not think such things. Though the days of the samurai were quickly fading into the texts of history, his heart would always belong there. Still, that he should be forwarded such a request seemed utterly unorthodox to him. It was a bitter irony to him that he should restore some measure of respectability to his family at a time when it was a commercial virtue.
Murderers.
His father had been a pragmatic man. Pragmatic. A gaijin word Takeda associated with meaning 'without honour'. His father had retained, in his employ, a family of assassins used to dispatch his enemies when no other alternative presented itself. Takeda himself had done well enough without such duplicitous measures, and he was certain that his father could have too. But he had not, and the family lounged like fat, languid cats in Akabashi now, declawed and ineffective, living off their stipend and whatever other clandestine opportunities they were surely involved in. Takeda doubted they could even accomplish what he had been ordered to ask of them.
But he could not ignore that seal. Something in his blood would not let him. That the 'living god' could be so easily swayed so far from the ancient philosophies by the lure of foreign gold left Takeda with little left to hold on to but his own sense of honour. He would carry out his lord's bizarre request, not out of loyalty, but because his honour demanded that he not question his lord's orders. He was a good servant.
"Yasuo."
"Master." The servant too, had difficulty breaking with tradition. He bowed at every opportunity, though by law it was no longer required of him.
"These are strange times." Takeda mused. His voice was low.
"Master."
"Bring me Keiji, Yasuo. Quietly."
"Hai, Master." He bowed and left the room. If the request had phased Yasuo, it didn't show.
He was a good servant.
He rose and turned to face the window. He caught his face in the looking-glass brought across the sea from some distant land he would never see, by people he never knew. His father had hated the thing as an object of vanity, but it made his mother happy. So it had stayed.
How he resembed his father now in his last days. A man of barely 40 summers, advanced to the threshhold of death's doorstep by the clarity of the mirror. His eyes looked exhausted and distant. His hair had long begun to show the grey of his age. His frame did not fill the kimono the way it used to. Inhaling and drawing himself up, he caught a glimpse of the young, proud man he had been in his prime. But such illusions only made him feel older once the day had again settled into the dusky room. He understood then why his father had hated the mirror.
From the window of Fujisaki Castle, he looked out at the city below. When had the tendrils of black smoke begun spoiling the horizon? Not in his childhood. In the bay, strange vessels from lands with strange names chugged across the harbour. So much had changed.
"Master?" the call from the hallway beyond the door.
"Enter." Takeda replied, absently.
"I have brought your tea."
"Indeed, Yasuo."
Wordlessly, the servant shuffled into the room, placed the tray on the table and retreated quietly to kneel in a corner. In a few moments, the room was filled with the gentle aroma.
Takeda glanced opprobriously over his shoulder. The letter lay open on the table beside the tray. It bore Emperor Meiji's impotent seal. At one time, the very sight of that seal would have commanded unquestioning obedience from it's reader. At one time, it would have bowed the highest head. At one time, the words had meant something. But not in this time.
No.
He would not think such things. Though the days of the samurai were quickly fading into the texts of history, his heart would always belong there. Still, that he should be forwarded such a request seemed utterly unorthodox to him. It was a bitter irony to him that he should restore some measure of respectability to his family at a time when it was a commercial virtue.
Murderers.
His father had been a pragmatic man. Pragmatic. A gaijin word Takeda associated with meaning 'without honour'. His father had retained, in his employ, a family of assassins used to dispatch his enemies when no other alternative presented itself. Takeda himself had done well enough without such duplicitous measures, and he was certain that his father could have too. But he had not, and the family lounged like fat, languid cats in Akabashi now, declawed and ineffective, living off their stipend and whatever other clandestine opportunities they were surely involved in. Takeda doubted they could even accomplish what he had been ordered to ask of them.
But he could not ignore that seal. Something in his blood would not let him. That the 'living god' could be so easily swayed so far from the ancient philosophies by the lure of foreign gold left Takeda with little left to hold on to but his own sense of honour. He would carry out his lord's bizarre request, not out of loyalty, but because his honour demanded that he not question his lord's orders. He was a good servant.
"Yasuo."
"Master." The servant too, had difficulty breaking with tradition. He bowed at every opportunity, though by law it was no longer required of him.
"These are strange times." Takeda mused. His voice was low.
"Master."
"Bring me Keiji, Yasuo. Quietly."
"Hai, Master." He bowed and left the room. If the request had phased Yasuo, it didn't show.
He was a good servant.