Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ XXXII. My neighbor ( Chapter 32 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don’t own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos. Neither do I own the haiku of Matsuo Basho (translation by R.H. Blyth, this chapter).

A/N: Many thanks as always to FarStrider, without whom, to be very honest, this fic would be dreadful. Seriously, you’re fantastic, sweetpea. :)

Nenju

Jin had always been a light sleeper.

Even at the dojo, he’d never been so deeply asleep that he’d failed to wake before another person entered his room, and for the most part it had served him well. It had saved his life (and ended that of his shishou) when he’d been hardly old enough to need to shave, and on the first journey to Nagasaki, he’d been able to sleep easily in the knowledge that he would wake before Mugen could make another try at killing him. It was, he knew, a very useful habit.

Of course, the one drawback of being a light sleeper was that he was a light sleeper. It wasn’t a problem normally — even asleep, he knew the difference between the night sounds of cicada piping to each other and the sound of strange footsteps whispering through tall grass; Mugen slept as lightly as he did, so he could sleep, he knew. Normally.

The one exception to Mugen’s ability to sleep like a cat came on hot, muggy nights, when the Ryukyuan began snoring, loudly, the moment he made contact with his unrolled sleeping mat; his snoring could even wake Fuu, on nights like that.

On nights like this one, as a matter of fact.

There was a deep liquid rattling, as Mugen breathed in; there would be a pause — there it was — and then a . . . something, like what Jin imagined a bear would sound like, if it was a bear that was concerned about catching a cold and had taken up gargling seawater. The Ryukyuan would deny it, of course, the next morning, no matter how much Fuu complained or pointed out the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes.

The ronin rolled onto his back and resigned himself to a sleepless night.

Mugen was probably right about trusting the foreigner who would get them out of Nagasaki — now that they’d seen Deshima, it was easier to think of the Europeans as capable of crossing vast distances; those crates were proof of where they had been — though he hadn’t mentioned the real reason why they would trust the man, which was that they had no other choice but to trust him. If they wanted to leave, they had to use what was available to them.

But Jouji . . . granted, it was difficult to tell when the man was acting strangely, but his reluctance to send them to the port south of Ryukyu was odd.

It was certain that the man was keeping something from them — but what, exactly? The foreigners depended upon the shogun’s good will, yes, but Jin would have bet every ryu that had been sewn into his clothes, that their friend the trader wouldn’t send them somewhere where they would be worse off than Nagasaki; if Jouji was being guided by the shogun, with the firefly assassin or someone else pulling his strings, he was the best actor Jin had ever met in his life.

That left one alternative: Jouji was trying to keep them from the southern port for what he thought was their good — or, rather, Fuu’s, the ronin thought. The man made no secret of his regard for her. If he hadn’t so obviously been interested in men, it might have been a problem — and if Ryukyu was the better option, then there was something worse than giant snakes.

Although he hadn’t known Fuu was afraid of them . . . Jin closed his eyes and thought of the girl, a lightness filling his chest. It would be too soon to talk to her, now, but maybe —

“Jin.” Her voice was quiet, though it needn’t have been; if his own snoring failed to wake him, the sound of her voice would hardly be enough to jolt Mugen out of sleep.

“Mm?”

“Do you have anything over there we could put over his face to shut him up?”

The ronin stifled a laugh. “I haven’t found anything yet.”

“Mmrhm.” She rolled over impatiently. “He’d probably take it the wrong way, too, if he woke up and found us trying to smother him.”

“Probably.”

“Jin?”

“Hn?”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to go to Ryukyu?”

The ronin breathed out before answering. Even if Jouji was keeping something from them, it would serve no purpose to make her worry. “We’ll be traveling in that direction, so there would be no difficulty in stopping,” he told her instead. “Whether Ryukyu is the best choice, I don’t know.”

She was quiet a moment, then: “It’s closer than Batavia.”
“Ah.”

“Ikitsuki was the furthest I’ve ever been from Edo, and even then you and Mugen were there,” she told him. “I don’t know if I’m as brave as I was then, Jin. What if we’re making a mistake?”

He sat up and looked over at her; she was curled onto her side, her knees drawn up as she stared at the Ryukyuan as he slept. “We won’t. And we’ll be there with you.”

Her eyes came up to meet his. “You can’t be there all the time.”


In the end, it was Mugen who came up with the solution for the problem of Jouji.


The ronin realized he had fallen asleep only when he woke; Jin blinked — why was there suddenly so much more light? — before he understood that there was someone just outside the door and that it was morning, possibly even as late as midmorning. His hand was on the hilt of the katana as the door opened, and Jouji came in with a box in his arms.

The European smiled and nodded, tilting his head toward the still-sleeping girl, as Mugen turned onto his side; the Ryukyuan grunted, before lurching into a sitting position and scrubbing at his face with his palms. “Nnnnghh,” Mugen said coherently.

“You slept well?” Jouji opened the container and set out a still-steaming pot of tea.

“Yeah.” Mugen narrowed his eyes at the ronin. “And I don’t wanna hear it, fish face.”

The European looked at them both, then shrugged as he finished unpacking the box. On her pallet of silk, Fuu stretched out one of her arms, making a little whining noise in her throat as she woke up.

“Have you thought about where you want to go?” Jouji asked, handing a cup to Jin. “It went very well last night. I think Henrik was pleasantly surprised.”

“What went well?” Mugen rolled his head on his neck, the bones grating together. “The part where we heard enough about Batavia to keep us away, or the part where you were pushing Ryukyu?” He flexed his hands, hissing in satisfaction as the tendons pulled.

The European froze. “What?”

Jin sipped his tea. It was good — not strong enough to be overpowering — as he curled his hands around the warm cup. Fuu climbed down and came to sit near him, her hair sticking out on the side; he poured her a cup, keeping a careful eye on Jouji, who looked as if Mugen had just kicked him in the face.

Mugen finished working the stiffness out at last and glanced at Jouji. “Look. Stop screwing around,” the Ryukyuan said deliberately. “I don’t like it when people keep shit from me.”

The European ran a distracted hand over his hair, sending his rust-colored topknot into disarray. “We should not have become involved,” he said. “But we did. It was the price we paid, and are still paying; it may be that we can never pay enough for what we allowed.

“When we first came to this country, we were not the only Europeans here. The Portuguese and the Spaniards were here before us; not only that, but their priests had come with them. If it was a matter of trade only, it would have been one thing, but bringing their church — “ Jouji shook his head. “It’s happened before. First their ships, then their priests, then their government. You would have been Spain’s most eastern outpost and we would have been locked out.

“You have to understand that this was an uncomfortable time, for all of us; the Portuguese and the Spaniards have their own problems — the Portuguese hate Spain, have done ever since the Spaniards claimed Portugal. They haven’t forgotten that they only have their country back after going to war for it, and that Spain would be very pleased to have it back again. They’re greedy for land, the Spaniards — my own country belonged to Spain for a long time. We’ve only been independent from them for a hundred years, ourselves — and the Portuguese know they can’t be trusted. So, they divided the world up between them.”

Jin’s eyebrows drew together. “Their religion is a means to control land?” he asked.

Jouji exhaled. “Yes and no. It’s . . . complicated.”

“So, make it easy,” Mugen said. “And how’d they think they were gonna divide the world?”

“By treaty. They chose a point and agreed that everything west of that would belong to the Spaniards, and everything east would be Portuguese. Ryukyu, Japan — all three of you are Portuguese, according to this treaty.” The European smiled. “They do believe that what they’re doing is right, which makes it more difficult; how do you argue with someone who genuinely believes that what they’re doing is for your own good? When the Spaniards ruled my country, they wanted to bring us back to the Roman church, to burn away our heresy for the good of our souls — the riches of our cities and our trade may have been attractive to them as well, but it was only part of what was intended.
“The Spaniards were weakened for a short time, about the time this country was opened up to foreigners — their king sent his army to invade another kingdom, and lost the main part of his troops at sea; they never did make it to the other land — and for a while they were less involved in their colonies. They did still support the Roman church, though, and the church became their means of entry into other countries.” Jouji paused to drink some tea, his voice growing hoarse.

“So when the Christians came here, did they want to invade for this other country, or did they want to do it to help us?” Fuu looked genuinely confused, Jin saw; understandable, as he was having a difficult time following the European himself.

“Both, I think. The first ones were Jesuit priests, who wanted to turn Japan into a Catholic country. There are two main branches of Christianity,” the European said, seeing the girl’s confusion becoming outright incomprehension. “Catholics and Protestants, who believe in the same god, but who have different views on how to go about believing in him. My country is Protestant, for the most part, though we are very tolerant of others — not so Spain or Portugal. Jesuits are . . . a little different from the average priest. One of their goals is to convert nonbelievers; of course, all priests would be pleased to convert a nonbeliever, but the Jesuits are particularly militant. Warrior monks, of a sort.”

“Great, more pissed-off monks. What does that got to do with anything?” Mugen pulled his finger out of his ear, examining the ragged nail before flicking its contents away.

“Action follows thought,” Jin answered. “To control a land, start by controlling its people; to control its people, cause them to think what you wish them to think.”

“Exactly.” Jouji sighed. “When we first came to this country, the Jesuits were already a cause for concern to the shogun. They had been given Nagasaki for their very own, but seven years after they were given the city, Toyotomi Hideyoshi took it back. He believed that the Jesuits were preparing this country for an invasion, and he warned them not to continue as they were — as you probably would expect, they did not listen. That is when the shogunate began making public examples, of what would happen to Christians who were caught.”

“But it wasn’t a success,” the ronin said, remembering.

“No. For the Jesuits, it was like attempting to put out a fire by pouring oil on it; they gathered more converts, as the shogunate executed them. Finally, the shogun expelled or killed the Jesuits, banished the Portuguese and Spaniards, and the Christians were driven underground — the ones that could not hide were exiled, with a great many settling in Batavia. We became the only means of access to the west that the shogunate allowed, and even now we are very strictly regulated.” The European smiled slightly. “There is a reason Deshima is considered a portion of my country, rather than part of Japan.”

“I still don’t see what you did,” Fuu broke in, hiding a yawn with the back of her hand. “And how could we be both countries? You said we were Portuguese, but before that you said we’d be the Spains’ eastern outpost. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Jouji hesitated. “I think . . . no, that’s not it. I know that if the Jesuits had succeeded in converting this country to Christianity and that the Portuguese had used that to make Japan one of its colonies, the Spaniards would have broken the treaty. You’re close enough to their Filipinas Islands that the Portuguese presence would have made them nervous. Regardless of that, they would have coveted this land because of its location.”

“The mainland,” Jin said, understanding.

“The mainland.” Nodding, the other man took a swallow of the now-lukewarm tea and made a face. “Any trader would cheerfully sell his soul for a chance at the mainland; either Spain or Portugal — they’d do no less, certainly, but they’d prefer to use samurai to fight — but that’s neither here nor there. They’ve gone to war with each other over much less.

“When the shogun’s patience with the Christians began to run out, there was panic. For the most part, the Jesuits were gone, but there were a few who stayed and were hidden by those who practiced their Christianity in secret. An underground movement, direct government action to send it there, and increasing unhappiness with that government — the shogunate taxed with a heavy hand, by this point in time: you can’t protect your borders without money — in hindsight, it was a matter of time before there was outright rebellion.”

“Shimabara.” Fuu was watching Jouji with rapt eyes. The European gave her an uneasy look.

“When the rebels took over Hara, the shogun called for his artillery to lay siege to the rebels. It was not a success; they had entrenched themselves too deeply, and what artillery the government had was not enough. We were still at Hirado — trade was difficult, as it always is in uncertain times — and when the shogun called upon us . . . “ He shrugged. “We did not refuse him.”

“What happened? ‘S not like you got your own army here.” Mugen’s eyes were hard, alert as he followed the line of reasoning. “What’d he think you were gonna be able to do?”

Jouji looked at them unhappily. “When the shogun requested our assistance, we sent the one ship we had in the harbor at the time, the Rijp — the Rijp was only lightly armed, but she was used to fire on Hara from the sea — as well as a hundred men and about eighty pieces of field artillery. We besieged the rebels for fifteen days, and even then it wasn’t enough.”

“But the Christians lost,” Fuu said.

Jouji nodded. “In the end, they were starved out. The ones that surrendered were executed — some managed to get away in the confusion, but there weren’t many,” he said. “Understandably, the Christians of this land have very little love for us, and the shogun . . . as long as we are useful, we are tolerated. The current shogun has a little less tolerance for us than the one before him, and the one after him? Who knows? But he does know that one must grasp the useful tool carefully in order to avoid the sharp edge.”

“So why’d you say you shouldn’t have been involved?” Mugen rolled into a sitting position, resting his arms on his sharp knees. “Don’t see how you got any choice in it.”

“The ones who rebelled were ronin,” Jouji said heavily. “And women, and children. Can you tell me that a child, Christian or not, understands why another would choose to kill him? Or that women needed to be fought with artillery? There is nothing right about making war on the powerless. We must take our share of the blame for that, and make amends whenever we can.”

It was not lost on Jin, how the European’s troubled eyes sought out the girl in their midst.


By the time the big European left, light from the mid-afternoon sun was slanting in through the ventilation windows, pools of bright amber on the wooden floor. It was stifling inside; it would probably rain sometime soon, Jin thought — less than a week, depending on how long the misplaced summer’s days lasted, and when winter came, the warmth would be a pleasant memory, but for now it was just really hot.

Mugen was sprawled out on the floor, his nighttime snoring having subsided into a thin whistle as he slept. Jin watched him enviously for a moment — this was probably nothing to the Ryukyuan, undoubtedly it was like this there all the time — before going to find the one other person who’d been kept awake the night before.

Fuu was sitting, repacking her belongings, on the long bolts of silk where she’d taken to sleeping; as he came up, she was biting her lip in concentration, tying a last knot to keep her sleeping mat neatly rolled. She swiped at the loose hair tickling her cheek, the sleeve falling away from her arm, as she caught him watching her and made a face of mock dismay. “Do you think Mugen would cut my hair like his?” she asked lightly. “It would be so much easier.”

“You — “ He paused. What did he think he was going to say to her, Jin wondered. Now that he doesn’t want you, we could be together! was probably the last thing he should say to her, ever; even behind I made eel for you, just like Shino liked it and Mugen is being foolish — you’re certainly the prettiest former prostitute that he knows. The chances were extraordinarily good that saying any of those things to her would result in . . . well, she would never be skilled enough to injure him, but she could do something far worse.

She could, he thought, think poorly of him.

“ — would want to look like him?” Jin hazarded.

Fuu stopped in the middle of brushing off the cloth-wrapped bundle the twins had given her to look at him, her eyebrows raised slightly. “Look like him? No. I just meant that it would probably be easier. It wouldn’t be nearly as hot, either.”

“Ah.”

“You never thought about it?” She set the parcel — she had no intention of telling him what was inside, he saw with some disappointment — down alongside the Europeans’ other goods, where it looked like any of the rest of their things. “Jin, your hair’s even longer than mine. You never wanted just to cut it off?”

He considered. “No,” he said honestly. “I never thought of it. Shishou wore his in a topknot, but he had very little hair to begin with. Once I left the dojo, it wasn’t important to me, other than to make sure to tie it back.”

Fuu smiled. “For someone that looks like you do, you don’t think much about it, do you?” she asked.

Jin frowned. If he left it loose, there was the danger that it would obscure his sight when he fought . . . but it was unlikely that had been what she meant. “No?”

She laughed, pulling the loose tendrils of hair that were clinging to her neck away from the damp skin there. “No.” She let her hands fall against her thighs, giving him an affectionate look.

“Fuu.” The ronin sat next to her, careful not to disturb the bundle, and even more carefully schooling the impulse to lean in and lick the side of her neck; her skin would be salty there, part of him noted. “There is very little time left before we leave here, and I know that there has been — that you — “

”You’re talking about Mugen,” she said. “He told you?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Thank you for not saying ‘I told you so’.”

“Ah.” Jin kept his eyes fixed on her hands, as they rested in her lap. Her hands were so small, the size of a child’s hands; it was difficult to believe that those hands were capable of doing things like picking locks, or rolling dice. “You did what you thought was right. There is no shame in that.”

“Unless it goes wrong,” she said wryly. “He’s Mugen. I should’ve known that would happen, but . . . I feel like the biggest failure ever.”

He made a disparaging noise. “Being unable to keep Mugen from acting foolishly does not make you a failure,” he said. “The only thing that means is that you’re . . . breathing, perhaps.”

She glanced at him gratefully. “I suppose.”

“Ah,” he said. “What I was — we’ll leave here, soon.” Mariya-dono would have told him to grasp the moment with both hands, he thought.

Fuu’s eyebrows drew together. “ . . . yes?”

“And you are aware that I think of you as more than a friend.” He took one of those small hands in his, turning it over gently. Her hands were still calloused from hard work, the past few months having done little to erase its marks; he rubbed the hollow of her palm with his long fingers, her hand curving around his. “Properly speaking, I should ask your family, but — “

” — you are my family,” she finished, smiling. “You could always talk to Mugen?”

He chuckled.

“But you’re right. I know you do.” Fuu looked toward the window restlessly. “I wish we could stand outside, just for a little bit. This sort of thing is so much easier to think about outdoors.”

Jin looked up at the window. Late afternoon, and on a day this hot, it would be unlikely that they would see anyone, if they were careful; even the guard at the gate would be dozing — “Why not? We’ll use the other door,” he decided.

He stood and slid the daisho into place at his hip, before taking her hand again. She hesitated, her eyes unsure, but she let him pull her up from the silk. “Really?” she said. “We can go out?”

“We need to be careful,” he warned. “And we can’t go far.”

“I know, but . . . out.” Her face was alight with anticipation.

There was no one that he could see from the back entrance to the warehouse, as Jin cautiously brought her out into the narrow alley between the buildings. “Welcome to Deshima,” he murmured, smiling, into her ear; her good spirits were infectious, and the breeze coming off the water was deliciously cool, after the cooking-pot heat of the warehouse.

Fuu giggled quietly. “You know, I’d really like to see where you keep the things that come off the ships,” she said.

“Ah. If I — “ The ronin broke off speaking, looking down the alley toward the main street: there was someone coming — he put his hand to the door behind them, pulling at the handle as Jouji had.

The door stubbornly refused to budge, and now he could hear more than one set of footsteps, coming from the east toward . . . well. Where they were standing, to be precise.

“Jin?”

“Shh.” He gave the door a last shove — it stayed closed, but there was the possibility he’d woken Mugen, at least — before pulling her across the alley to the next building. There was no door, but there was a window left open; it was high off the ground . . . ignoring the surprised squeak she made as he picked her up, he lifted her to the opening. “Hurry.”

She obeyed without a question, he noted gratefully; she disappeared inside the building, as the steps came closer, closer — the ronin grasped the edges of the window and hauled himself up. It was dark inside, but they were almost there — he wedged himself through the opening and leaped into the darkness inside.

Appropriate, he thought wryly, as he fell forward.