The Honjo

pages.

December 1945

Mejiro District, Tokyo, Japan

Iemasa Tokugawa was a short, frail man in stature, older than his smooth skinned, impassive face appeared. He walked in slow, measured steps; attempting to keep his gaze above the needy but it was difficult not to see the misery about him. He brushed his dark suit with a few light strokes of hand, adjusted his round, wire-rimmed glasses and let his fingers cover his mouth and nose to lessen the stench of urine and excrement from the gutters. The destitution of his people, his city and country, tore at his heart. Doubts rose within him about the worth of war.

The homeless with their meager possessions were sprawled along the sidewalks and huddled against buildings. Grimy-faced orphans in filthy rags darted in small gangs between the better dressed pedestrians, begging with tin cans in hand. They were the outcasts of prostitutes; the children of dead soldiers, and the unwanted from families no longer able to feed them. But those with marred faces and bodies covered with horrid, red-blistered wounds were recognizable. They were part of the endless stream of refugees from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Tokyo provided their only semblance of hope because where they had come from held none.

But who was I to question the Emperor’s decision when he declared war? We are a nation born to obey the Chrysanthemum Throne, he thought. As a descendant of the Tokugawa shogunate he knew rulers must have the obedience of the people. A sigh passed his lips. He glanced at Kobori Susumu, his aide, and the bundle carried against his chest. And now we must obey the Americans.

Two shivering children broke from their group and rushed Iemasa with tin cans outstretched. They were barely clothed, no more than six or seven years old, and possibly brother and sister by the way the boy held fast to the girl’s wrist. Iemasa halted, stunned by the haunting contrast that the whites of their eyes presented against the dark filth covering them.

Kobori gripped his bundle tighter with his right arm and swept his left arm out to bar them from drawing near. He was about to shove them away and scold them for their impertinence when Iemasa stopped him with a touch on the shoulder.

Here, take these coins. Don’t let the others steal it from you. Go buy a bowl of warm noodles from the shop down the street, Iemasa whispered to the children. To avoid the coins making clinking sounds in their empty cans, he laid the money in their palms and watched as they ran away. But it was too late. A taller boy among the orphans saw the exchange of money and gave chase with his gang.

"Sir, you are a prince and the President of the House of Peers. It is dangerous for you to be walking the streets among these—." Kobori motioned with his left hand to the people about them then took hold of his bundle again. His brow drew downward as frustration became anger.

"These what, Kobori-san?" Iemasa asked in a weary tone. He returned to his walk, gazing at the long line of doomed-faced men, women, and children in tattered clothes awaiting food handouts at a building across the street. Further down in a large, bombed out lot was a makeshift market of simple wares on rows of blankets. The crowds steadily grew as more would-be merchants arrived. Several stern-postured men strode about barking orders to keep discipline among the masses.

The black market is thriving, Kobori said with contempt. "Yakuza…they have already taken control of the people." He shook his head and readjusted the long bundle in his arms, its weight making it more awkward to carry the further they walked.

No, the Yakuza had control of the people long before the war…they may be the underworld, but, I’m sorry to say, their control is needed now more than ever to bring stability in these unstable times. Yes, they have black markets throughout the city, yet look at the order they maintain and the return of trade that the poor feel. The people willingly obey them and in return receive a sense of structure to their lives—and optimism for survival, Iemasa said as if forcing himself to believe his own words.

His gaze swept the street ahead. A grubby Japanese soldier still wearing his military cap and frayed uniform stumbled on one leg and crutches past two well-armed American occupation soldiers smoking as they stood watch on a corner. One flicked his unfinished cigarette through the air and the Japanese soldier hobbled after it.

Our government is almost nonexistent and the American general, MacArthur, rules our nation. He says that we will be rebuilt. Until that is complete, whether it is right or not, the Yakuza will quietly operate, as it already is, to be our shadow government, intervene, and fill the void that our government cannot…for now, though, we must obey this general and patiently wait for the day the Americans leave.

Kobori spun and stepped in front of Iemasa to halt his walk. They were of equal height yet the aide was heavier set and his worn black suit was stretched tight across the shoulders. He stared into Iemasa’s eyes and saw the man’s determination.

"Iemasa-san…sensei…I beg you again. The aide glanced at the long bundle in his arms. Please reconsider what we are doing, sir. The Americans should not be given the Honjo. Its been passed down the line of shoguns as their symbol of power and authority, and—"

A hand rose from the President of the House of Peers, silencing his aide.

Kobori-san, I know you mean well, but it is my responsibility to obey General MacArthur’s order as I would obey the emperor’s. We are to be disarmed. All weapons must be surrendered. Our family has no weapons other than the swords you now carry, but they must be relinquished. I will not bring dishonor upon the Tokugawa name by refusing to fulfill my duty and conceal even one sword.

The aide’s bottom lip turned inward. He respectfully bowed before Iemasa could see his wet eyes. Remaining bowed he moved to Iemasa’s side and waited until their walk resumed. Neither man spoke as they moved along the sidewalk until Iemasa paused to read the weathered sign above a door at the top of a short flight of stairs: MEJIRO POLICE STATION.

I believe the superintendent is expecting us, he said in a low voice.

Kobori hurried up the steps and held the door open for the President of the House of Peers. No sooner had they entered than every police officer in the large, well-lit room rose from his desk chair and stood at attention. The office was cool, but not as chilled as outside, even though no fire burned in the room’s potbelly stove. Behind the waist-high counter, Superintendent Tadashi Matsushita, a respected, tall, lean, rock-faced former Imperial Army soldier, twice wounded in battle, waited in his best police uniform. His penetrating dark eyes watched the dignitary and his aide approach. When they halted before the wooden counter, the superintendent bowed, followed by his officers. He greeted Prince Iemasa Tokugawa with formal words of welcome to the station.

Kobori laid the bundle on the counter then shook his stiff arms to return feeling to them. He untied the black silk ribbons binding the bundle and reverently unraveled its blanket, revealing fifteen samurai swords in their scabbards.

The superintendent gazed at the swords and bowed in homage to their souls.

In accordance with the Occupational Order to surrender our weapons, I bring these fifteen swords from the House of Tokugawa and submit them to your custody, Iemasa said, standing rigid as he looked at the superintendent.

Matsushita bowed in acknowledgment then raised his right hand. A willowy, uniformed policeman rushed forward, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses further up onto his nose, and bowed to the superintendent and dignitary.

Document these swords from Prince Tokugawa in our logs. The swords will be turned over to the Americans with the other weapons we are holding, Matsushita calmly ordered.

Kobori stepped closer and handed each katana to the policeman for examination, noting its description on the proper forms.

"This is the Osamtisu…this is the Kunitoshi," the aide stated, pausing with each katana sword until the officer completed the pertinent entries. His tone reflected the grief within him.

The prince and the superintendent stood in silence to witness the proceedings. As Kobori lifted the last sword, Matsushita reached out with both hands to take the weapon. He held it before him on open palms and let his gaze rise to Iemasa.

"And this is the sword made by the great master smith Goro Masamune? The very sword won by General Honjo Shigenaga in the sixteenth century and declared a National Treasure in 1939?"

The prince nodded slowly and reverently gazed at the sword.

"Yes, the Honjo Masamune—the sword of shoguns, Prince Iemasa Tokugawa said, regaining his composure. Although it is a tachi and should be longer than a katana, my family records state it had been damaged in battle and a portion may have been removed for the repair. This was all properly noted at the inspection when it was declared a national treasure."

You do realize there are questions as to whether such a treasure should be surrendered? If the Americans remove it from Japan, there are many who believe the sword may be lost to us forever, the superintendent said, watching the dignitary’s reaction.

I am aware of such discussions, sir, but I feel there is no other course of action at this time. Iemasa’s expressionless face concealed his thoughts.

"I have always wondered if the legends about the Honjo were true, Matsushita said in a tone of admiration, looking from end to end of the sword still sheathed in its scabbard. It is an honor simply to hold it." He laid the sword on the counter and motioned for the officer to resume the documentation. When finished, the nervous policeman gathered the swords to secure them with other surrendered weapons.

Place them on my desk. Matsushita’s gaze returned to the dignitary.

The officer paused in confusion, bowed, set the paperwork in front of his supervisor and departed with the swords across his arms.

Iemasa Tokugawa solemnly watched until the swords were gone from sight. He faced Matsushita. If you will excuse me, superintendent. I must leave to address other matters. His voice was deflated and his shoulders sagged. He and his aide bowed respectfully, turned and left.

Opening the door for Iemasa, Kobori heard Superintendent Matsushita call out.

You are an honorable man, Prince Tokugawa.

Iemasa slowed his pace as if he were about to stop. He left the building without looking back.

Matsushita’s right hand rested on the countertop. His fingertips drummed the sheets of documentation as he stared at the front door. He glanced at his office where the swords lay on his desk. His fingers drew still then his hand curled into a fist.

Friday, August 21, 2015, 1:00 pm

Klein Ranch

Stonewall, Texas

The old house sat on a winding, quarter-mile trek off of Ranch Road 1623. Built before the Civil War from the large, flat rocks common to the area, the original ranch house had undergone changes from owner to owner, but none so great as when Greg Valdez bought it to hide from the world with his wife and son. The country kitchen had been expanded to fulfill Melissa’s dreams; the rustic main room was increased, and the stone fireplace was enlarged to burn hefty logs. Larger rooms that matched the Texas Hill Country style were added on to the house to provide Greg with a spacious office and separate dojo , martial arts training gym, he had always wanted, and masons ensured the exterior matched the original rugged walls. Across the rolling landscape, oak trees stretched their limbs like yawning giants while a shallow creek cut the land. Whitetail deer and escaped exotic wildlife from surrounding game ranches were always present and roamed without the threat of hunters. For the last eighteen years it had been Greg and Melissa’s private Garden of Eden, and the only true home Daniel had known after six years of his youth at the Lakeland Estates facility in Dallas.

Greg sat at the head of the mahogany dining table with Melissa to his left, and Daniel to his right. The standing joke had always been that the table was long enough to have been at the ‘Last Supper’ and was never used unless Daniel drove in from Houston. Melissa loved its length and dark, rich wood. She had always insisted on the formal setting when her stepson and his wife, Kyla, visited. And the table’s formal usage continued after Daniel and Kyla divorced.

Sitting back in his chair, Greg gazed at his empty tea glass and plate. He gingerly rubbed his stomach as he scanned the half-empty bowls on the table.

That was an excellent meal, honey. I love that stuffed pork loin. He looked at his wife then winked at Daniel. How come I only get sandwiches and water when Daniel is gone?

Daniel grinned, shook his head lightly, and waited for the explosion.

Brown eyes narrowing as she frowned, Melissa rose to clear the plates and silverware from the table. Go ahead, mister. Talk brave while he’s here. We’ll see how much you enjoy sandwiches and water until he comes back! She paused, brushed a strand of black hair from her eyes, and stared at her husband. I did have vanilla ice cream and hot apple pie for dessert, but now I can see there’s going to be more for Daniel and I ‘cause you’re not getting any.

Since Dad won’t be having any, I’ll take his share, Daniel said as she walked past him to the kitchen. He laughed low and leaned to his father. You should have kept quiet, he whispered.

Greg smiled wide, gave a half nod, and looked to the kitchen. But you do make great sandwiches, honey, he called out. May I at least have a cup of coffee? He heard a faint grumbling reply and made pleading faces for his son to see, making Daniel laugh more.

Tray in hand, Melissa returned to the table with plates of desserts and coffee for each. She passed them out and pointed a finger at Greg. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today. But her crooked smile displayed the amusement of their banter. With all they had gone through as a family years ago, it would take far more than Greg’s prodding to anger her.

Their conversations were light between bites of pie, ice cream and drinking coffee. Greg smiled as he glanced at his wife and son. He loved their family time together; they were the special moments he had never known as an abandoned child in an orphanage.

A few more meals like today and I’ll have to increase my exercise program. You too. I noticed you’ve put on a few extra pounds since last month. Daniel spoke to his father with a wry grin, pausing before finishing off his apple pie. I could probably take you in two out of three matches since you’re getting soft.

Melissa groaned when her husband set his coffee cup on the table and sat sternly in his chair. There was no soft in Greg Valdez. His aches and pains from a hard life were catching up to him, but at sixty-three, he still pumped iron in his home-gym, and whether sunshine or rain ran a twisting path through the ranch’s four hundred acres. Salt had overtaken the pepper in his close-cropped hair the last ten years, giving his six foot, wide-shouldered frame a strong-featured distinction that still turned women’s heads when they went into Fredericksburg, the next town down the highway. But soft would never describe him, physically or mentally.

"Okay, boys, stop it right now. I don’t need both of you traipsing to the dojo for another testosterone karate match. Melissa canted her head and shot Daniel a warning glare. Besides, you’re four inches taller than your father, weigh more, and are almost thirty years younger. That doesn’t seem fair to me."

"It’s Aikido, Mom, not karate, Daniel replied in exasperation. And fair? He cheated last time and punched me in the gut. Thought my bladder was going to explode!"

A devilish smile formed on Greg. "There’s no cheating in a fight. When I was in the Corps, we fought to win."

"Oh, here we go again—the old Corps versus the new Corps, Daniel exclaimed. He rolled his eyes. I know it was tough on you in Vietnam, but it wasn’t a cakewalk in Iraq. My Force Recon unit proved itself in Fallujah and you would have been proud of how we fought."

I’ve always been proud of you…you know that. Greg reached over and firmly gripped his son’s forearm. Listen, let’s change the subject. Since you’re heading home this afternoon, tell me how business at the gallery is going…and don’t worry, next time I’ll let you win a match. A hint of a smile appeared.

"Good. See y’all don’t have to go do that karate thing," Melissa remarked, gathering the dessert dishes.

"It’s Aikido," the father and son said almost in unison.

Whatever, she replied in a droll tone, walking past them to the kitchen.

Kelly still doing a good job for us? Greg asked. The young man had been Stockton’s clerk, almost his shadow as long as Greg had used J. B. Stockton’s art gallery for his clandestine shipments. The clerk always wore a smile; had a sharp mind for business, and a sharper eye still for potential forgeries. After retiring, Greg bought the gallery and kept Kelly on to help the old man, but Stockton suffered a debilitating stroke and the protégé became the gallery’s manager. It had been a seamless transition, and from the day Daniel was discharged from the Marines and became his father’s working partner, Daniel and Kelly had become close friends.

Definitely no complaints. The books are always in order, our clients love him, and he’s made several excellent European contacts, Daniel said, nodding adamantly. He still talks about the two vases you gave him.

Daniel knew about his father’s past as a professional thief to recover stolen artifacts, and Greg was about to explain how the vases had been used to ship an ancient Templar pouch, but he stopped when the telephone rang. He listened to Melissa answer it on the kitchen phone. Telephone calls were rare, especially since few people had his number. The cautious tone of Melissa’s voice made him more attentive.

Yes, John… he’s here… A long pause hung in the air as Melissa listened to the caller. I’ll let him know. Thank you. We appreciate your call. She set the receiver in its cradle and walked into the dining room to find Greg waiting for her.

"That was John, the cook at Lindig’s. He said men in black suits and sunglasses, driving shiny black vehicles, stopped by the café. They didn’t order very much, were talking among themselves, then one of them asked for directions to the Klein Ranch."

Did he overhear their conversations? Greg’s brow drew down hard.

"He didn’t but the waitress did. Cathy