An Excerpt From the Famous Novel “Masiko” by Hida Nareiko
It is unfortunate that Hida’s decree to never speak the name of his first wife has led the Crab to ignore Nareiko’s impressive account. Nevertheless, Nareiko was a great samurai-ko and explorer before she wrote her novel, and I believe the events in it are the literal truth as far as she could discover, though couched in fiction in a vain attempt to avoid her lord’s displeasure. – Seikansha
The armies were coming.
Every day, Masiko told herself that. Even now, it didn’t seem real. The castle was empty, the panic of the refugees far behind her, and still she could not believe. The armies of the dark kami were here. The armies of her husband’s brother.
They frightened her, his family warriors all, proud and brightly colored or cloaked in deepest shadow. Even the lovely Doji wore her eerie radiance with a soldier’s confidence. Together, they seemed to hold the entire world. She had never thought that there had been another, never guessed they might abandon one of their own.
She checked the door again. The stout oak wedged in the frame could not buy her more time than the lives of all her subjects, but its strength comforted, reminded her of a time when all she needed was the touch of his hand to cure all worries. When Hida looked at her, all he saw was perfection and that was all he spoke of: the perfect beauty that had captured the heart of the strongest kami, the perfect son they had borne, the perfect world they had created for his home.
Though many questioned their match, Masiko knew he could make no other. He needed his opposite – soft of voice, delicate of hand and skin, small and polite, with a laugh like tinkling bells. With her, he did not live each moment in the shadow of his work. In her arms, he could forget the horror of his duty.
There is so much ugliness in what I do.
Her tears fell, darkening the fine grain of the wooden floor. She did not watch, wondering if these were the first tears shed in the palace he had built her, or if the servants had been unhappy at some time in the past. The shoji behind her showed the smoke-colored image of a bird in flight, graceful, quiet, delicate, and she wept at the care he had taken to paint it for her.
I want never to come home to ugliness.
The empire’s greatest warrior had spent every spare moment overseeing heimin cart the stones of rose-colored marble which guarded the entrance. Her own touches showed in the sandalwood incense which scented each room, and the silver-blue cloth which draped the shrine, but this was Hida’s home, and Masiko never wished it to be any other.
Nothing on this earth will dare attack you.
He would not teach her his way, or speak of what happened when he returned in armor still rust-brown from the blood of the battlefield. Each time he left, a hundred of his strongest bushi stayed behind to guard the low wall and green gardens of Kyuden Masiko.
She counted their screams, now, separating each man’s voice from the uluating howls outside. None begged for mercy or cried out with anything but hatred. Her husband had chosen them well, true samurai all, for what good it would do them.
The incense stick was almost ash, doing nothing to mask the reek from below. Masiko watched calmly as the red ember traveled the last of its journey, the small offering all she could make for the souls of those who would die to fail to save her.
She prayed, wherever Shinsei had taken him, that the incense did not burn for Atarasi as well.
She pulled the ivory-handled kaiken from its sheath. It had been a wedding present from an unknown blacksmith, and Hida had demanded that she throw it away, for he saw the hard-edged blade as an insult to his strength, and yelled until the walls shook that she would never need to fight. But she loved the care the man had taken to carve her beloved palace on the handle, and would not allow such artistry to go to waste.
She thanked the Fortunes for his skill.
The blade glowed green with the light beyond the windows, stretching from her wrist to the tip of her middle finger. There were no more screams now, no more clangs of steel on shell. All she herd, beneath the howls, were a hundred thousand footsteps.
He would not come. He should not. He owed his life to Rokugan, to the armies he led fifty miles to the south, to his youngest bother whom all had sworn to protect.
The tears made a pattern on the soft gray silk, dark crows spreading their wings on her knees. One hit the kaiken and was sliced in two, half a drop running down each side of the blade, as if to bless it.
I want never to come home to ugliness.
They were almost at the door.
Masiko wound the rope around her knees tightly. She would not shame her lord by thrashing or kicking. Let the first person to view her body see her composed as a lady, not a woman.
The tip kissed her throat, and Masiko kept her eyes open, fixed on the floor as her hands blunged in and down. Warmth coated her fingers, dripped down her kimono, over her legs. She tried to gasp at the pain, but could not until she freed the blade. Her mouth remained sealed in a crimson smile as she breathed her first new breath.
Sight glazed silver-red. All she heard was blood thrumming in her ears, drawoing their sounds for the first time in days. With her last strength, she lay down by the candle. Starting her kimono burning. She folded her hands neatly.
A proper end.
No worse than any could hope for.
He would be proud.
The armies were coming.
Every day, Masiko told herself that. Even now, it didn’t seem real. The castle was empty, the panic of the refugees far behind her, and still she could not believe. The armies of the dark kami were here. The armies of her husband’s brother.
They frightened her, his family warriors all, proud and brightly colored or cloaked in deepest shadow. Even the lovely Doji wore her eerie radiance with a soldier’s confidence. Together, they seemed to hold the entire world. She had never thought that there had been another, never guessed they might abandon one of their own.
She checked the door again. The stout oak wedged in the frame could not buy her more time than the lives of all her subjects, but its strength comforted, reminded her of a time when all she needed was the touch of his hand to cure all worries. When Hida looked at her, all he saw was perfection and that was all he spoke of: the perfect beauty that had captured the heart of the strongest kami, the perfect son they had borne, the perfect world they had created for his home.
Though many questioned their match, Masiko knew he could make no other. He needed his opposite – soft of voice, delicate of hand and skin, small and polite, with a laugh like tinkling bells. With her, he did not live each moment in the shadow of his work. In her arms, he could forget the horror of his duty.
There is so much ugliness in what I do.
Her tears fell, darkening the fine grain of the wooden floor. She did not watch, wondering if these were the first tears shed in the palace he had built her, or if the servants had been unhappy at some time in the past. The shoji behind her showed the smoke-colored image of a bird in flight, graceful, quiet, delicate, and she wept at the care he had taken to paint it for her.
I want never to come home to ugliness.
The empire’s greatest warrior had spent every spare moment overseeing heimin cart the stones of rose-colored marble which guarded the entrance. Her own touches showed in the sandalwood incense which scented each room, and the silver-blue cloth which draped the shrine, but this was Hida’s home, and Masiko never wished it to be any other.
Nothing on this earth will dare attack you.
He would not teach her his way, or speak of what happened when he returned in armor still rust-brown from the blood of the battlefield. Each time he left, a hundred of his strongest bushi stayed behind to guard the low wall and green gardens of Kyuden Masiko.
She counted their screams, now, separating each man’s voice from the uluating howls outside. None begged for mercy or cried out with anything but hatred. Her husband had chosen them well, true samurai all, for what good it would do them.
The incense stick was almost ash, doing nothing to mask the reek from below. Masiko watched calmly as the red ember traveled the last of its journey, the small offering all she could make for the souls of those who would die to fail to save her.
She prayed, wherever Shinsei had taken him, that the incense did not burn for Atarasi as well.
She pulled the ivory-handled kaiken from its sheath. It had been a wedding present from an unknown blacksmith, and Hida had demanded that she throw it away, for he saw the hard-edged blade as an insult to his strength, and yelled until the walls shook that she would never need to fight. But she loved the care the man had taken to carve her beloved palace on the handle, and would not allow such artistry to go to waste.
She thanked the Fortunes for his skill.
The blade glowed green with the light beyond the windows, stretching from her wrist to the tip of her middle finger. There were no more screams now, no more clangs of steel on shell. All she herd, beneath the howls, were a hundred thousand footsteps.
He would not come. He should not. He owed his life to Rokugan, to the armies he led fifty miles to the south, to his youngest bother whom all had sworn to protect.
The tears made a pattern on the soft gray silk, dark crows spreading their wings on her knees. One hit the kaiken and was sliced in two, half a drop running down each side of the blade, as if to bless it.
I want never to come home to ugliness.
They were almost at the door.
Masiko wound the rope around her knees tightly. She would not shame her lord by thrashing or kicking. Let the first person to view her body see her composed as a lady, not a woman.
The tip kissed her throat, and Masiko kept her eyes open, fixed on the floor as her hands blunged in and down. Warmth coated her fingers, dripped down her kimono, over her legs. She tried to gasp at the pain, but could not until she freed the blade. Her mouth remained sealed in a crimson smile as she breathed her first new breath.
Sight glazed silver-red. All she heard was blood thrumming in her ears, drawoing their sounds for the first time in days. With her last strength, she lay down by the candle. Starting her kimono burning. She folded her hands neatly.
A proper end.
No worse than any could hope for.
He would be proud.
