Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ XXVII. Moon in a field of clover ( Chapter 27 )

[ 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 (I believe the translation of the haiku this chapter’s title is taken from was done by R.H. Blyth, but if anyone can tell me differently, please, please do let me know so I can credit the proper source).

A/N: Squee! Eh? What’s that? Chief factors only held terms of about a year and then returned to Europe, you say? And none of the ones who were at Deshima for more than one year were named Isaac? Well, not in the Nenjuverse, baby. Also, a reminder: that M rating is there for a reason.


Nenju


In the end, they’d run from the festival like demons were at their heels, stopping only when Fuu had collapsed in a quivering heap at the side of the road. His legs had been shaking at that point as well, and the ronin’s face was drawn and tired; they’d slept that night in a pine forest, not even bothering to unroll their mats. Jin had had them up and back on the road as the sun rose — he’d pushed them, hard, to get to this place.

As usual, they’d been expecting their arrival in Nagasaki to solve their problems, when — again as usual — they’d managed to land themselves in the shit.

Mugen sucked his teeth thoughtfully. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the big foreigner — what was the man’s name again? Yoshi? Uji? — wasn’t the first person they saw at the foreigners’ settlement in Deshima, but before now, it hadn’t occurred to any of them that finding the man once they reached Nagasaki could be a problem in itself. Stupid: of course he wouldn’t be waiting for them. They’d be lucky if he remembered who they were, now that Jin no longer wore glasses, and his own face had been scarred. He might recognize Fuu, but the way that their luck was going these days, it was best not to count on it. Although —

He smiled. Maybe there was something.

“Oi. Fish face,” he said. “Gimme your wakizashi.”

The ronin’s eyebrows drew together as he put his hand protectively over his daisho. “No. Why?”

“Come on. Just do it, all right?”

“What are you going to do with it?”
Mugen gestured impatiently. “You’ll get it back. Just gimme.”

His eyes narrowed, Jin drew the wakizashi slowly and handed it over.

Mugen leaned over and plucked the scabbard out of its place at the ronin’s hip, ignoring the sharp exclamation Jin made. The guard at the door relaxed slightly from the tensed position he had taken when the blade had been drawn, but gaped as the Ryukyuan sheathed the sword and offered it to him. “Here. Take this in to . . . “ He looked inquiringly back at Fuu and Jin.

The girl recovered from her surprise first, a moment before comprehension washed across the ronin’s face. “Jouji,” she supplied.

“Right. Take this in to Jouji — huge guy, red hair, blue eyes, talks kinda funny.” Mugen wiggled the wakizashi encouragingly at the guard.

The man took it gingerly, looking at it as if it was about to bite him. “Wait here.” The door shut with a snap, leaving them to stand outside.

Mugen yawned, stretching. The water lapped against the stone of the island’s foundation pleasantly, the sunshine a warm tide over his shoulders — even if the foreigner had gone back home, the afternoon could be redeemed by a good nap, he thought. After that, they could make a decision about what to do next.

Preferably, the decision would involve food of some sort.

“You never had any castella, did you,” he said to Fuu.

The corner of her mouth quirked, a smile threatening to come out. “. . . no. Who got it?”

“Jin,” Mugen lied. “Greedy bastard.”

The ronin made a small disgruntled noise, as she laughed.

“He’s not here, we’ll go buy some, figure out what to do.”

“How was it?” she asked.

Mugen shrugged, answering, “Eh, too sweet,” as Jin said, “Delicious.”

Fuu made an unladylike snort of amusement, covering her mouth with her hands; the sound was so unexpected that the Ryukyuan laughed out loud, and the ronin broke into a little smile. How long had it been since she’d forgotten herself enough to sound like . . . well, Fuu, Mugen wondered. Maybe once they got to wherever they were going (his mind stubbornly persisted in throwing out a memory of the beach in Ryukyu he’d liked, especially on clear nights) and she’d settled into some kind of life, she’d be the girl who carried squirrels around and nearly won eating contests —

A clatter at the door broke into his daydreaming, as the guard returned.

With someone.

“Little ninja girl!” Laughing, the European swept Fuu up into a fierce embrace, squashing her in his arms as her feet dangled far above the ground; his lips were against her cheek — Mugen frowned. Was the guy trying to kiss her? True, he was at least a couple handsbreadths taller, and outweighed him by . . . well, a lot, but he was sure he could still kick the guy’s ass for him. Weird, though, he could’ve sworn Jouji preferred guys —

The European set a wheezing Fuu down, his face brightening as he caught sight of the men. “And Mugen, and Jin, too! You are all here!” Pale eyes shining, Jouji hugged the Ryukyuan tightly as well; Mugen froze — oh, man, Jouji was gonna try to kiss him! — but before he could reach for the longsword, the man whispered, “We must be careful. Along the shore, a short walk north from here will bring you to a stand of four willow trees. A boat will meet you there at moonrise that will bring you back and we’ll talk then.” Mugen grunted, and the man set him back on the ground, the Ryukyuan’s ribs complaining.

“Jin!“ Jouji advanced on the ronin, his arms outstretched.

The ronin lifted an eyebrow, folding his hands into his sleeves.

“— uh.” The European stopped, directing a broad sunny smile at the ronin instead. “Well. Are you in Nagasaki long? Please, we will have tea, and you will tell me what has happened since we met. I am glad to see you again,” he said, gesturing them ahead of him, past the guard.

Slowly, they filed past the guard, a cheerful Jouji chattering to Fuu about the Deshima vegetable gardens and how he’d been unable to grow wasabi there. Jin slipped in next to Mugen, hand resting on the katana hilt for comfort, as the Ryukyuan unashamedly stared.

They’d seen Europeans before — Mugen saw a few who looked familiar, he’d probably seen them in Edo rescuing Jouji at the kabuki theater, he thought; but really, between the straw-colored hair and those unnerving pale eyes, they tended to look alike — but here, they seemed to be everywhere.

The buildings were reasonably Japanese in appearance, white plaster and dark wood with low roofs in dark gray tile, and the small lanes of the island were laid out in such a way that it looked like a small backwater area of Nagasaki, but . . . it just wasn’t. For one, there was an odd flag fluttering against the sky, and for another — two Europeans walked by, nodding to Jouji as they went, continuing their conversation in whatever language it was that they spoke, something low and guttural that sounded like the Europeans were talking through a mouthful of sticky rice. All of them — except for Jouji, who wore normal hakama and kimono — were dressed strangely as well, bizarre garments on top and short tight hakama to the knee with stockings pulled up to the edge of the hakama; they were a little like cranes, the Ryukyuan decided, enormous bundles of clothing on top with stick legs poking out from underneath. He noticed the ronin’s eyes flickering over them, eyebrows drawing together subtly, before Jin’s face went blank once again.

The big European led them past what looked to Mugen’s eyes to be storage buildings of some sort, up to a large, comfortable-looking house; the Ryukyuan was fascinated to see a heavy wooden door, carved in panels that showed some sort of story — large pinwheel things, alongside a river, seemed to be important — set into the wall.

Jouji opened the door without hesitation, the door swinging outward instead of sliding on a track, shepherding them into a central room that was reassuringly Japanese in appearance, green tatami mats on the floor; Mugen kicked off his geta, leaving them alongside a pair of carved wooden shoes, before following the ronin into the room.

“Please,” Jouji said kindly. “Our cook has been practicing his eel rice bowls. Would you try some? I’d be grateful if you could give me your opinion on them.”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Mugen sat abruptly, as the ronin and the girl lowered themselves to the floor; impressed, he watched Jouji easily arrange his bulk on the tatami. Someone had been teaching him the culture, he realized. The European was good at mimicking Japanese mannerisms, but it was the precise way in which he did things that gave him away as a foreigner — neither Jin nor Fuu thought that much about the way that they moved, he knew. They just did.

That, and the fact that while the man was only about a handsbreadth taller than the ronin, he was nearly twice as broad, Mugen reflected.

A slender, mild-faced man hurried in, as Jouji was smoothing the hakama over his thighs. Something about the guy looked familiar —

Next to him, Jin twitched. “What are you doing here?” he asked the man.

The man blinked, and smiled. “Goodness! I thought we would meet again someday.”

Jouji looked between them. “Inuyaka. You’ve already met my guests?”

“Oh, back in Edo, years ago. We met at a roadside stand.” The man looked at Jin appraisingly. “We had a discussion about fireflies, and dojo life, if I remember correctly. You are called Jin, I think?”

“Hn.”

“How delightful to see you again.” The man turned smoothly to the European. “Isaac-san, Pieter-san would like to see you. Should I let the housekeeper know we have some guests to stay?”

The European shook his head no. “The deputy director can wait a little while. I’m afraid they aren’t able to stay the night, but perhaps something to eat. Eel rice bowls would be very good,” he said.

Inuyaka smiled at them. “Of course. Immediately,” he said, and slipped out of the room noiselessly, Fuu frowning after him.

“Jouji — why did he call you Isaac?” she asked.

“I’m Jouji to my friends here,” Jouji said. “When I must be European, then I am Isaac.”

“It must be difficult,” Jin said.

The European nodded. “But I am used to acting,” he said. “A man with my . . . preferences must be, back home.”

“I see.”

Inuyaka came back into the room, preceding a group of servants who carried trays of food that they set in front of the travelers and Jouji; he sat next to the European, waving away a servant who would have set a tray in front of him. “I have my meal later,” he explained. “But this is extraordinary that I would see you again after all this time. Will you stay in Nagasaki long?”

“Possibly,” Jin said, as Mugen picked up his bowl and set to with gusto. “We’re on our way to a place near here, Iki— ”The ronin broke off his words, closing his mouth tightly.

“How sad.” Inuyaka’s eyes gleamed. “We could have continued our conversation. It was terribly enjoyable.”

The ronin made a noncommittal noise and began to eat.

Jouji began to talk then, telling them about his last visit to Edo and seeing the kabuki actor they’d met; Mugen was only half paying attention, the good food in his stomach making him sleepy and dull, but he gathered that the actor and the European had been close at one point, but then — traitorous bitch! — the actor had thrown Jouji over for a playwright, before he’d started to run to fat or had started running or something. Jouji seemed wickedly pleased, so Mugen contented himself with picking a last piece of eel out of his teeth and watching the sake cause a pretty blush to pinken Fuu’s cheeks.

He was nearly dozing, when he realized the ronin was making their goodbyes; yawning, Mugen got to his feet.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay longer,” Fuu said.

“Yes.” Smiling, Jouji returned the wakizashi to Jin, who inclined his head and replaced the sword in its customary position at his hip. “I wish we were able to see another play together — perhaps when you’re in Nagasaki again?”

“When we’re in Nagasaki again,” Fuu said. “Thank you, Jouji.”

The big European waved, Inuyaka standing next to him as they went out the gate.

“So who was that?” Mugen asked.

The ronin ‘hn’ed. “Hired assassin. He tried to kill me in Edo.”

Fuu’s eyebrows rose a fraction, as the Ryukyuan scratched himself luxuriously, saying, “Eh. Everyone we know is an assassin, seems like.” Or dead, a tiny voice nagged at the back of Mugen’s mind, before he ruthlessly squashed it down. “Come on, we’ve got some trees to find.”

“Ah.”


Isaac pressed a thumb against the bridge of his nose, hoping to lessen the dull ache just above his eyes.

“You’re lighting a lantern in the powder stores,” Pieter told him. “We can’t afford to be caught with them here, not after what happened with the Portuguese.”

“You think I don’t know that already?” There was no rancor in the chief factor’s voice, only a tired resignation. “I can’t turn them away. The men saved me from a beating at the very least in Edo, and the girl — “

”We can’t be held responsible for what their government does to them.”

“We are responsible!” Aware he was shouting, Isaac flattened his palms against the smooth wood of the table in an effort to calm himself; he pictured it where it had stood in the house at Nijmegen a lifetime ago, and took a deep breath. “Can you tell me that the shogun would be so intent on the Christians, if we hadn’t educated him?”

“It was the truth,” Pieter said, defensively. “You know as well as I do what the Spaniards would have done, they do it even now in the Americas. You’re the last one I would have thought would want to set heretics to burn in the cities. You doubt they’d do it?”

Isaac made a noise of grim amusement. “Can you see those two allowing themselves to be led to the stake? They’re wolves, not sheep. They’d never let them take the girl, certainly.”

“They’re only two men.”

The chief factor shook his head. “There are more of them than you realize — there would be blood to make the Crusades look like children playing at war with sticks.”

“Then it’s better this way.” His second sat back in his chair, hands loosely clasped across his middle.

“If it is, why do I feel like such a miserable sinner?” Isaac asked wryly. “Solve my problems for me, Pieter. Please.”

“Hm.” The two men looked up, falling silent as a brief tap sounded at the door and Inuyaka entered with tea.

“You’ve been hard at work since this morning,” he told Isaac, turning to Pieter with a mild smile. “You must make him take a break, Pieter-san, he won’t listen to me.”

“He doesn’t listen to me either, Inuyaka.” Pieter sat back, the brocade of the chair hushing against his clothes, as he watched the Japanese man pour the tea. “I’m afraid you’ve been able to civilize him only so far.”

“Are you two conspiring against me?” Isaac gave Inuyaka an affectionate look.

“Only for your own good,” Inuyaka said. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all. We were talking about home, so you came just in time.”

“Oh.” Inuyaka waited as Isaac poured a cup for him. “I wondered if you weren’t thinking of having that girl and her companions to stay for a few days.”

“Mm?” Isaac handed the cup to him. “I suppose we could, if you wanted them. Don’t you know the samurai?”

“Ronin, I think. Not very well — we met once, years ago, and not for very long.” The slight man took a sip and said, “I’m not surprised that the islander and the girl don’t remember me. It was a very short time.”

“Still, if you’d like, I’m sure we could put them up for a few nights?” When Inuyaka shook his head, Isaac smiled at him guilelessly. “Then we won’t. We’ll have enough to do, now that the Batavia ships are in. Have the crews finished yet?”

Pieter rolled his eyes. “What you mean to ask is, ‘Pieter, have the crews even begun to be questioned?’. The answer is no, unfortunately. It’ll be at least a week until we can have the merchants in, so I’m having everything unloaded into the second warehouse. Very nice silk from Bengal this time around, as well as a bit of pepper, and some barrels of nutmeg,” he said. “Which — well, one of us must see to it.”

“Someday you’ll have a deputy of your own,” Isaac told him. “And then you can sit about like a king.”

Pieter laughed, smiling at Inuyaka as he left; the slender Japanese man looked warmly after him a moment, then came to sit on the arm of Isaac’s chair. “He works very hard,” Inuyaka observed. “Almost as hard as you do.”

“He does. I’m very lucky to have him here,” Isaac said, and reached up to stroke fingertips over the top of the other man’s hand. “If he wasn’t, I’d have very little time for you to civilize me.”

“Yes, you’d be a barbarian still, almost as bad as the islander.”

“Hm,” Isaac said. “He made an impression on you. I would’ve thought you would’ve preferred the other?”

“Handsome, isn’t he? The last time I saw him was at a hot spring,” Inuyaka said, wistfully. “Yoshitsune, come to life. Not that the islander isn’t attractive, but I think he’d kill you rather than take his pleasure with you.”

Isaac laughed. “And Yoshitsune would not?” he asked, savoring the name. Inuyaka had his faults — it was part and parcel of taking the shogun’s man to his bed, he knew — but the delicious cultural subtleties he was learning more than made up for it. That, and there was that thing he did with — the European coughed, shifting in his chair. “I think his interest is elsewhere.”

“My goodness.” Inuyaka pursed his mouth. “He might have, once — but there’s the girl. It’s very strange. When I met them, she was pretty enough, but neither of them had any interest in her. Now, she’s lost some of her looks, if anything, but still both of them are consumed by her.”

“You don’t see why?”

“Even if she were a pretty boy instead? No.”

“How many women do you think they have in their lives? Not brothel girls — a connection there would be ended before it began. I doubt there’s another woman that either of them know to speak to,” Isaac said, his eyes going to the window, the sun setting outside. “Man only covets what he sees.” He smiled, and reached up to take the other man’s hand.

“It won’t end well,” Inuyaka warned.

“Probably not.”

The boat was there promptly at moonrise, and somehow Mugen was unsurprised to see Jouji had come himself. Mugen leapt into the boat lightly, the feel of the water through the bottom rolling through the soles of his feet; Jin handed Fuu in — to her credit, she went willingly, Mugen was happy to see. It would have been understandable if she’d been reluctant, but she sat next to him without a word — before clambering in himself.

Jouji pushed off from the shore and began rowing, the oars sleeking through the water with hardly a sound. “I’m glad to see you all,” he murmured. “Not long, now.”

Fuu opened her mouth to speak, but Mugen shushed her. “Gotta be quiet,” he said, then looked at Jouji. “Anyone know you’re doing this?”

The European shook his head. He rowed the rest of the way in silence, mooring the boat at a tiny, deserted quay, before leading them to the warehouses they’d walked past earlier. Jouji slid open the door of the second one, ushering them inside before closing the door behind him.

When the European lit a lantern, Fuu gasped.

The warehouse they were in was large, a cavernous space of plank floors and polished wooden beams gone the color of forest honey: but the impressive part of the space was the sheer number of things that the Europeans had crammed in there. Wooden crates rose in high stacks at one end, a number of barrels set in next to them, as pallets of cloth-wrapped bundles made tidy lanes within the building. Mugen touched one of the bundles, and felt it give under his fingers — Jouji saw, and smiled. “Cloth,” he said. “We bring it in by ship from islands far to the south of Ryukyu. There’s cotton, and Bengal silk . . . I think that one is velvet, though. Enough for a king’s ransom.”

“Hm.” Mugen raised his eyebrows. With a king’s ransom — ah. He stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling the edges of the ryu sewn into his clothes, and grinned; old habits never really went away.

“The lantern will have to go with me when I leave here — I am very sorry,” Jouji continued, as Jin looked up from his examination of a bill of lading on the side of one of the crates. “The government keeps a close watch on us here.”

“Yes,” the ronin said. “You should be aware of something — “

”Inuyaka?” Jouji asked. “He’s part of it, I know. I haven’t trusted him with this, and I’ll make certain he doesn’t find out. Now, as much as I am happy to see all of you, I know you haven’t come to Deshima just to see how the Europeans live. You’re not searching for the sunflower samurai anymore, are you?”

“No,” Fuu said. “He died, three years ago.”
“I see. Then you must be here for the ships.”

The ronin nodded, as Mugen said, “She can’t stay here. The government is trying to kill her — they’ve made a couple attempts already. We got to get somewhere safe.”

“All of you?”

Mugen made a noise of assent. “Fuu’s with me now, and we ain’t about to leave Jin behind.” The ronin gave him a surprised look, but said nothing.

The European scratched his chin, thinking. “It can be done,” he said finally. “But I need some time to arrange a ship, so you’ll need to stay here a few days. The sale won’t be for at least another week, so you’ll be safe enough in here for the time being, and I’ll bring you your meals.”

“You haven’t asked where we want to go,” the ronin said.

Jouji chuckled. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll choose to go to Holland. You’ll let me know when I need to,” he said.


There was no risking another lantern after he left, but they’d stayed in worse places than the warehouse. Actually, it was even sort of comfortable: dry, warm, and the air inside scented richly with spices that the Europeans were storing there. It wasn’t completely dark inside — the moon had grown fat again, providing enough illumination this clear night for him to see the rest of the false island from the small window.

Weird — only in this country, Mugen decided, would the government make an island to keep their pet foreigners on. It was convenient enough for the Europeans, who were well-fed and housed, with all their needs seen to — Jouji’d even said something about how whores were brought in from Nagasaki proper for them, he remembered — and they were assured a market for their cargo, but they still lived in a cage with a door they couldn’t open. A door . . . Mugen wondered if the door was meant to keep them in, or keep the rest of the country out.

Either way, he knew, Fuu’d be wondering where he was.

Mugen padded through the fragrant darkness, the bolts of cotton and silk absorbing the sound of his footsteps, muffling the sound of cicadas outside.

Conversation inside was muted as well, he discovered, as his feet took him closer to the end of the warehouse where he’d left them.

“ — he know why?”

There was a pause, then she said quietly, “No. I couldn’t.”

“ — worst possible — “ Jin’s voice became an indistinct murmur again; Mugen shifted, pressing his back against a bale of plush cloth, soft like the belly of a young dog, or the ronin’s voice as he spoke to the girl. Jouji’d called it velvet, he remembered, as Jin’s voice came to him again, as clearly as if the ronin sat next to him. “He is too proud for that, you know that. It will end badly.”

“You’re wrong,” she told him. “I’ll make it work.”

“Fuu.” The ronin paused. “If I — “

”Don’t.” The cotton rustled, further away from Mugen than the other man’s voice. She wasn’t sitting next to the ronin, then, he realized.

Jin sighed, resigned.

“He’s a good man.” Her voice was tired.

“Ah.”

They were silent a long moment. Mugen put his hand out to the bale of velvet, his palm brushing against the nap of the cloth as he rose from his crouch —

“Tell me a story, Jin,” she said.

“Of course.”

“I want to know — “ Her voice was rough. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

The ronin did not answer. Mugen leaned back, unable either to walk away or to announce his presence, his breath a tight knot inside his chest. If he’d walked in to find the ronin lying between her thighs, he reflected, it might have felt something like this —

“Tell me,” she said. “I need you to be ugly.”


Jouji snorted, hearing the steps come up behind him. “I didn’t think I’d see you out here just yet,” he said. “Not sleeping?”

“No.” Mugen stopped next to him, looking out at the quay. “Need to go into Nagasaki.”

The European gave him a surprised glance. “Already?”
“Yeah. Want to come along?”

Jouji laughed. “You think I should?”

Mugen shrugged. “You’re fucking the shogun’s man. Anyone needs a drink, you do.”

“Mm.” The European cocked his head to the side, before shaking his head. “You’re probably right, but no.”

“Your loss.” Mugen jerked his head in the direction of the quay. “Can I borrow that?”

“There will be a guard shortly. Do you want to risk it?”

“Yeah.” The Ryukyuan turned pale, bitter eyes on him. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Fair enough.”

He didn’t look up, as the hand came to rest on his arm; instead, Mugen drank the contents of the cup down, feeling the warm sake burn all the way down.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised at this, either.

She slid in next to him, holding up a finger as she slid a couple monme across the counter. “Drinking alone again?”Yatsuha asked.

He grunted. “You should get out of here while you can,” he told her. “‘M in a really shitty mood. Doesn’t improve it any that you killed Bundai.”

“I didn’t, but I don’t expect you to believe that.” The barman set the cup in front of her before skittering away with the money, going to stand at the end of the bar that was furthest away from the man in red with the waves of anger rising off him like steam. “Look, this — it’s not going to end well for any of you. Just take her and get out, all right? The government won’t be happy, but you’ll be alive.”

The Ryukyuan gave her a sour look. “You didn’t hear me? Get out.”

“Not until you tell me you’ll go.”

Mugen was out of his seat, pressing her up against the wall with a hand at her throat before she even heard the clatter of the stool falling to the floor. The barman gave a choked-off shriek and shot out the back of the stand. “All I want tonight is a drink. No talking, no damn stories, and most of all, no women.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“No talking,” he bit out. “You hear what I said?”

Yatsuha swung her foot in an arc, landing a solid kick in his kneecap; he hissed in pain, tightening his grip as he blocked a punch to his midsection. “I’m being nice, jerk,” she said. “You get out.”

His hand wrapped around her wrists, letting her wriggle out of the grip at her neck. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “Why can’t you just shut up?”

“You don’t want to hear me? Then do something about it.” She lashed out with her foot again and he bent his leg to the side, leaving her kicking fruitlessly.

Mugen sighed. “Fine,” he said, and kissed her.