十 2

There's an inn called Masuya in front of there. We'll rent the upstairs front room, bore a hole in the shoji, and watch."

"Will they come while you're watching?"

"They'll come, surely. One night won't be enough anyway. We'll need to plan on about two weeks."

"That's pretty exhausting. When my old man was dying, I stayed up for about a week straight nursing him, and afterward I was so out of it I was seriously worn down."

"A little fatigue doesn't matter. If we leave a scoundrel like that alone, it's no good for Japan, so I'll mete out punishment in Heaven's stead."

"Sounds fun. Once it's settled, I'll help out too. So you're starting night watch from tonight?"

"We haven't spoken to Masuya yet, so not tonight."

"Then when do you plan to start?"

"Soon. I'll let you know when, so then give me a hand."

"Fine, I'll help anytime. I'm no good at schemes, but when it comes to fighting, I'm pretty nimble."

While Yama-Arashi and I were eagerly plotting the Red Shirt extermination, the inn's old woman came out and said a school student had come wanting to see Mr. Hotta. He'd gone to the house, but since no one was home, he figured you'd probably be here and came looking, she said, kneeling at the threshold awaiting Yama-Arashi's reply. Yama-Arashi went to the entryway saying "Is that so?" then soon returned. "A student came to invite us to a victory celebration side show. Today a troupe from Kochi came all this way to perform some kind of dance, and he says we absolutely must go see it—it's a rare dance, he says. He urged you to come along too," Yama-Arashi said, quite enthusiastic, pressing me to join. I've seen plenty of dances in Tokyo. Every year at the Hachiman festival, the floats come around the neighborhood, so I know my share of the Shiojimi and whatnot. I thought I didn't care to see some rustic Tosa fool-dance, but since Yama-Arashi pressed, I ended up agreeing and went out the gate. Wondering who'd come to fetch Yama-Arashi, I found it was Red Shirt's younger brother. Strange fellow to show up.

Entering the grounds, long banners by the dozens were planted here and there like at Kozen-in sumo or Honmon-ji's memorial service, and every national flag in the world seemed borrowed and strung rope to rope, line to line, making the great sky look unusually festive. At the east corner a one-night stage was built where the so-called Kochi dance would be performed. Going about half a cho right from the stage, there was a reed-screen enclosure displaying flower arrangements. Everyone gazed in admiration, but they were utterly pointless. If they're so happy bending grass and bamboo, they'd do better boasting of a green caterpillar pretty-boy or a lame husband.

Opposite the stage, fireworks kept launching. From the fireworks a balloon appeared, reading "Long Live the Empire." It drifted softly over the Tennosu pine and fell into the garrison grounds. Next came a bang, and a black dumpling shot up piercing the autumn sky, then burst right above my head into a blue smoke spreading like umbrella ribs, trailing down through the air. Another balloon rose. This time "Long Live the Army and Navy" in white on red drifted in the wind from the hot-spring town toward Aioi village—probably landed on Kannon temple grounds.

The ceremony wasn't so crowded, but now the turnout was tremendous. I was shocked there were so many people in the countryside, swarming like ants. Few looked clever, but by numbers they were no joke. Then the famed Kochi dance began. Assuming from the name it'd be a Fujima-style dance, I was quite mistaken.

About ten men each with stern hachimaki and standing hakama lined up in three rows on stage—thirty men all carrying drawn swords, astonishing. Between front and back rows maybe only one shaku five sun; side spacing no longer or shorter. Only one man stood apart at the stage edge. This outcast wore hakama but spared the hachimaki and carried a chest drum instead of a sword—a taikagura drum. He soon cried "Yaa, haaa" lazily, singing strange chants, beating "bokobon, bokobon." The tune was unprecedentedly weird; think a merge of Mikawa manzai and Fudaraku-ya and you won't be far off.

The song was leisurely, limp like summer water candy, but the bokobon marks phrases so even sprawling it keeps rhythm. To this, thirty drawn swords flash—swift and chilling to watch. With living men within one shaku five sun front and back, swinging like you, mistimed comrades would get hurt. If only standing and moving blades vertically/horizontally it'd be safer, but thirty stomp and turn sideways, whirl, bend knees. If neighbor's off by a second, your nose may drop, his head shaved. Blades move free but confined to a one-shaku-five-sun square, aligned in direction and speed with all around. Astounding—no Shiojimi or Seki-no-to match. I heard it takes deep training to sync so; hardest is the bokobon master. All foot, hand, waist obey his beat. Watching, he seems carefree singing "yaa haaa," but actually bears heavy responsibility—strange.

Yama-Arashi and I were absorbed when half a cho away a war cry rose; the calm strollers suddenly waved and swayed. "Fight!"—Red Shirt's brother slipped through sleeves: "Sir, another fight! The middle school is getting revenge for this morning, battling the normal school again—come quick!" then vanished into the crowd.

Yama-Arashi grumbled "troublesome brat, again? Wish they'd quit," dodging runners and dashing off—probably to quell it. I naturally wouldn't flee, stepped on his heels to the scene. Fight at peak: normal school maybe fifty-sixty, middle school surely thirty percent more. Normal wore uniforms, middle mostly Japanese clothes post-ceremony, so sides clear, but tangled grappling made intervention unclear. Yama-Arashi looked troubled, watched the mess, then "no help, police'd complicate—let's dive in," turned to me; I answered not, leapt into fiercest fray. "Stop! Hurts school honor! Quit!" I shouted, aiming to pierce the line, but no luck. Two ken in, stuck. Before me a larger normal student grappled a fifteen-ish middle schooler. I grabbed the normal's shoulder to part them—someone swept my leg; I loosed grip, fell sideways. A hard boot stood on my back; I palmed down, sprang, he rolled right. Rising, three ken off I saw Yama-Arashi's big body wedged among students, tossed, crying "Stop! Stop the fight!" I yelled "hopeless!"—no reply.

A stone cut wind, hit my cheekbone; behind, a rod struck my back. "Teachers out, hit him!" two teachers—big and small—voiced. "Throw stones!" I snapped "country bumpkins, who're you calling?" and slapped a nearby normal's head. Stone whizzed, grazed my cropped skull. Yama-Arashi unseen. No retreat—I'm no pushover. Who d'you take me for? Small but bred in fight's home, I swung wild till "Police! Flee!" came. The glue-everyone swim cleared; both sides withdrew—rustics retreat better than Kuropatkin.

Yama-Arashi, torn haori, wiped nose bleeding from bridge blow, swollen red ugly. My splashed awase was muddy but less hurt; cheek stung. He told me "you're bleeding lots."

“Stories of the world, in your language.”