Dark Blue Water
Kanagawa smells of salt, fish blood, rotting kelp, and most of all, thick foreign tobacco.
I arrived before dawn, stabling the horse outside the village because it’s always better to enter any place on foot. Much less memorable. I am… traveler seeking work, perhaps? Or a pilgrim, yes simply, another pilgrim on the way to visit that small shrine overlooking the harbor. Certainly one special. No one you need to be reminded of after bodies get discovered.
The village sits where land and sea have squabbling over territory for a millennium. Waves have gnawed all the substance out of wooden docks and leeched soul from stone breakwaters. Fishermens homes are huddled like codgers, some on stilts, backs to the hills, facing an unforgiving ocean as if they were banding together to stare it down. Narrow streets twist and writhe among them, haphazardly swerving through the buildings that seem to lean against one another for support.
And at the north end of the harbor, separated from the Japanese district by an invisible line no onecrosses without distinct and specific purpose… the foreign settlement.
Three Western-style buildings stand in the shade of a low stone wall. One, a trading house. Beside it, a residence, and what appears to me to be… a storehouse. My target owns the last and largest of these, a two-story wooden structure with glass windows under an eerily pointed roof. Mynheer Dirk Van Houten… why did they have to give me someone who’s name is so hard to pronounce?
Van Houten-san. Arms dealer, and, soon to be corpse.
I rent a small room above one of innumerable markets. The smell is so atrocious it can’t fall asleep without gagging, but the vantage is perfect and the location is ideal. My window faces the harbor, so I can see Van Houten’s residence, the main street, the comings and goings of ships, whatever I need to. The old woman who owns the building asked no questions when I payed her three days worth in advance. Money silences curiosity, which is why we’re always given plenty to bribe with.
First day is for watching and getting acclimated to the smell. Learning the rhythms of the village, particularly when the streets are full and when they’re empty. Fishermen leave well before dawn and have mostly returned by mid-morning. On the other hand, merchants open their stalls after the catch comes in, and women in shawls gather at the communal well around midday. In the narrow streets children are playing with their friends until they all get called home for evening meals around the same time.
At the foreign settlement, men in blindly brightly-coloured and tight clothing come and go on incomprehensible unpredictable schedules. Guards stand at the gate as well… two Japanese samurai… in the employ of foreigners. Traitors. But, useful for now. Their patterns will tell me when Van Houten is present, when he sleeps, when he might be… vulnerable.
I eat at a small teahouse near the docks, choosing a seat in the corner where I can observe without being observed. The owner, a middle-aged man with sun-darkened skin and missing fingers — fishing accidents, most likely — serves me miso soup and grilled fish.
“Passing through?” he asks, refilling my cup with tea before it was requested.
“Looking for work,” I reply.
He grunts. “What kind of work does a man with two swords seek in Kanagawa?”
Mhmm, perceptive old fool isn’t he? I keep my face impassive.
“Same as any other man. The kind that pays.”
He laughs, a short loud bark. “Well if you’re entirely willing to sacrifice you honour, you’ve come to the right place,” he sneers darkly, “Barbarians pay well for Japanese swordsmen to defend their hides.”
Sipping my tea. “You have many foreigners here?”
“More every month,” he complains, glances toward the window, toward the settlement. “The Dutchman was here the longest. Almost three winters now. Speaks better Japanese than officials from Edo, so they say.”
Hmmm, very good to know. “He must do much business.”
The teahouse owner leans closer, lowering his voice. “You didn’t hear it from me, samurai, but ships come at night sometimes. Leave before dawn. No one knows or asks what they carry, but…” Tapping the side of his nose and whispering, “They say crates get moved by men who try not to rattle them. Metal inside. Heavy things.”
Weapons. As suspected. “The authorities here allow this?”
He straightens up, suddenly suspicious of me. “Who can say what authorities allow or don’t allow these days? The shogun and his men look north, the Emperor and his look south, but coins speak louder than loyalty now.”
A customer calls for service and he shuffles away while I consider what he said. The village knows what Van Houten does? They… tolerate it? Perhaps benefit from it in some way, though most do not approve it would seem. Useful. Extremely useful information to me.
I finish the small meal and continue on my exploration of the village, memorizing alleys, rooftop paths, any trail that might represent a hasty escape route. The shrine on the hilltop offers the best vantage point, and from halfway up the steps to reach it I can see the entire settlement, harbor, and the roads traversing through Kanagawa on every side.
Afternoon fades orange toward evening, and I inspect a ship docked at the private pier behind Van Houten’s compound… Chinese by the look of its sails. Men immediately jump off the bulwarks and begin unloading crates. They work with eerie efficiency, without shouting or andy unnecessary noise. Clearly practiced and disciplined.
I need find out what happens to those crates.
Returning to the village, I adopt a slight stagger to my walk to feign intoxication. A drunk samurai does draw eyes, but not concerned ones. Locals step aside, seeking to avoid any trouble from me, but do not give more than a second glance besides. I weave toward the foreigners’s settlement, coming close enough to see the guards, and their weapons, more clearly.
One is young, barely old enough to wear swords. The other, possibly his cousin or brother, older, and much more battle-scarred. Both sharp and awake, appearing un-complacent despite the routine nature of the task set before them. The older one watches me approach, hand resting on his sword.
“No closer,” he calls when I’m within twenty paces. “This is private property. Turn around.”
I stop, swaying slightly. “Jusss, juss, admiring zzz, foreign architecture,” I slur. “Very…” making a tent with my fingers, “Very pointy.”
The young guard snickers but the the older one doesn’t smile.
“Admire from the harbor,” he orders me firmly. “Better view.”
I bow and deliberately exaggerate my torso’s descent too deeply, pretending to lose my balance. “S’Ezzzxcellent advice from an exzzzzcellent guardian. I like you. The foreigners are, hic, fortunate to have such… wise men protecting them.”
A flash of shame crosses the older guard’s face. Interesting. He serves barbarians but doesn’t like being reminded of it. I won’t forget that.
“Move along,” he growls, voice hard as a fist now.
I bow again and shuffle away, but the interaction told me more than what I needed. These men are competent, trained, wary and capable, but conflicted. Their loyalty to their blonde haired employer is far from absolute. That might be the loose thread I’ve been looking for.
As darkness falls, lanterns come out to gently and beautifully illuminate the streets. Fishermen gather in saké houses or on benches alongside wheeled carts, another day’s work done, sharing in the daily gossip and occasionally breaking out in song. Merchants seal up their stalls, as families retreat behind sliding doors that close one after another like gentle drums. By contrast, the foreign settlement blazes with hideously gaudy false light from strange glass bulbs that burn the eyes more harshly than any paper lantern could ever manage.
From my room above the fish market I watch shadows move behind Van Houten’s windows. A dinner gathering? Perhaps? Four, no, yes, four, distinct silhouettes. One much larger than the others — Van Houten himself in all likelihood. A large man by reputation, even by Western standards.
The ship that arrived earlier remains docked and no cargo has left the settlement yet, which means whatever was delivered remains in that compound. Tomorrow, I think, it will move. And I will follow where it goes.
Sleep comes in fragments while scout, as it always seems to before a particularly important kill. My mind rehearses possibilities endlessly. I awake in terror when my plans all go haywire. Morning approaches and I fantasize about ten thousand different escapes, considering, for each, what might go wrong. What would I do, if I’d already done it ten thousand times, and could pick the best option from them? The itchiness of the wound in my shoulder is bothersome, but it has healed enough to be reliable for climbing. Strangely, it seems to ache especially badly when rain draws near or storms threaten.
The rising sun brings mist rolling in off the sea and shrouding the village in a grey-green twinkling blanket. Perfect. I dress as if I am a laborer seeking some work. No weapon visible. The wakizashi is hidden beneath my clothing, strapped against my back. Sometimes the absence of swords makes one more remarkable, but I believe this down-on-his-luck character will serve me better, having seen many similar-looking individuals loitering around the day before.
I join men gathering in clumps near the docks, where fishing boats need hands to mend nets. Someone says that a merchant is in need of strong backs to move goods. A foreman points at us, assigning tasks one-by-one, but when he reaches me, he hesitates,
“You… Those hands look too soft for dock work.”
I show him calloused palms (not from labor but from sword practice) hoping he won’t know the difference.
“They’re strong enough,” I insist.
He shrugs and scratching his forehead with the quill. “Five of you, with the rice merchant’s wagon then. Deliveries around the village.”
Perfect. Exactly what I’d hoped for. A totally legitimate reason to move throughout Kanagawa and observe on the ground level, from within rather than without.
The rice merchant is a nervous, rat-faced man with calculating eyes and a greedy hands. He assigns each of us to a different part of his wagon, ensuring none can have access to the entire inventory. Smart, though obviously unnecessary in my case. I have no interest in this man’s rice.
As we make deliveries I pay careful attention to which households receive how much. The largest delivery goes to the foreign settlement, unsurprisingly, three heavy sacks carried through the gate under the watchful eyes of the same two guards I saw yesterday. They do not recognize me. Excellent. And just like that, I am… in.
The compound looks far different in daylight. More details are visible in the brickwork and tiling, with etchings in every metal surface. A garden in the Western style, ugly and systematic, plants arranged in unnatural rows like sculptures. A small stable with two gigantic horses rises on our right, with a side door that servants use on the left… less watched than the main gate.
Beyond the main house, visible now that I’m inside the walls, is the storehouse. Larger than it appeared from outside, with two stories and tiny windows filled by coloured glass set high in the walls. A separate structure from the main house and yet I can now see they are connected by a covered walkway.
“You!” the rice merchant calls, interrupting my contemplations. “What are you doing there?! Stop gawking and move that sack inside, idiot.”
I bow and obey, following a servant toward the kitchen entrance and into the building. Inside is the most disorienting mix of Japanese and Western elements I’ve ever witnessed. Tatami floors in some rooms, wooden planks in others? Paper screens living happily within crystalline perfectly transparent windows. Smell of painfully unfamiliar spices mingling in with the familiar comforting scent of brewing tea.
The kitchen is a hive of activity, preparations for the midday meal well underway. Servants, all Japanese, barely glance up from what they’re doing at me as I deposit the rice in an adjoining, slightly recessed stone-walled storage room. I think I’ve gotten incredibly lucky to have made it this far, so not wishing to press it much farther, I turn, resolving to leave… just a voice booms from the doorway.
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“Ah! The rice has arrived! Most splendid. Most splendid indeed!”
A giant fills the doorframe — red-faced, yellow-haired, with a beard thick as a tanuki tail covering his lower face. Van Houten, the man himself. He speaks Japanese with a strangely gull-like honking accent, but impressive fluency despite that.
“Well what have we here? I believe I haven’t seen you before my young friend,” he says, noticing me. “First time delivering here?”
I bow, keeping my eyes down. “Yes, honoured sir.”
“Look up, look up! Look up young man! I am not your daimyo! You must never bow to me!” He laughs, clapping a hand that weighs as much as a whole leg on my shoulder, laughter rolling and rumbling in his chest like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. “In my country, men look each other in the eye to show respect. But I understand all cultures show respect differently.”
I raise my gaze with genuine curiosity, carefully cataloguing the features on his face while appearing to be merely obedient, doing as I’ve been bid. Shockingly, worryingly tall, yes, but also immensely wide. Muscles now running to fat, with some definition remaining. Confident in his safety, it would seem, as he wears no visible weapon. Despite his jovial-seeming manner and bluster, I notice his eyes are extremely sharp, drinking in the details of my face as much as I do his. No fool, this barbarian.
“What is your name, my friend?” he asks.
“Tanaka, honoured sir,” I answer truthfully, but providing only half my identity.
“Well, Tanaka-san, perhaps you will deliver here again? I’m always in need of strong youths for loading and unloading.” Glances at my shoulders, perhaps assessing my frame for a moment and concluding in the affirmative with, “You look capable enough.”
“Thank you, sir. I would be honoured, sir.”
He waves a hand with a foreign word, dismissing me and turning away, already forgetting as something else seizes his attention. That’s right, just another faceless Japanese servant to you. Just one more of your “tools.” Perfect.
Back outside, I rejoin the rice merchant’s team and we continue making deliveries throughout the day. Each stop provides some new small scraps information: which residents have samurai visitors, which fishermen sell directly to the foreign settlement, which families have sons working for Van Houten and which families refuse to let their sons anywhere near him.
By midday, I’ve built a map of connections and influences in my mind. This foreigner’s barbed roots have reached deep into Kanagawa heart. Money flows from his compound into countless pockets… but not all. Some doors remain staunchly closed to his influence.
The priests in the shrine, for one. We deliver rice there and the elderly monk accepts it with traditional formality. His face hardens when I mention the settlement in passing.
“They will bring change too quickly,” he whispers somberly, watching me with eyes that see far too much. “Men should learn from the sea, which only gives and takes at its own pace.”
I nod, understanding his meaning. Nature changes gradually, progressively, accumulating, else, eroding over centuries. Foreigners have transformed Japan in a mere decade.
“Sometimes the sea sends storms to clear obstacles away,” I observe.
The monk lift his head suddenly and peers at me. “Yes… and after storms, someone else must clean up the wreckage.” I can feel his gaze lingering on me. Hmm, I might have allowed this conversation to go a moment too long. “Be careful which storms you choose to set in motion, young man. Some make landfall differently than others.”
Has he so easily guessed my purposes for being here? Impossible, one would think? Yet his warning feels deliberate and specific. He was not addressing a labourer. His words were addressed to a hitokiri.
I bow and retreat, profoundly unsettled as I make my way back to town, feeling him watching me from the hill the entire way.
The afternoon brings another ship to Van Houten’s private semi-concealed docks. Far smaller than yesterday’s vessel and a Japanese crew this time? Very very interesting…
As we finish the last delivery, I observe three samurai disembark the small ship. The mon (family crests) on their garments and accessories identifying them as retainers of a northern daimyo. Here to buy, not to sell. I see.
They enter the storehouse directly, bypassing the main house, and whatever transaction occurs must have already occurred or happened immensely quickly as they emerge within the hour holding a sealed letter. The letter is passed from the lead samurai to Van Houten himself, who follows with his retainers to see them off at the dock.
Now I understand. Payment arranged, delivery to follow, as is standard practice for dealing in weapons.
Evening and exhaustion sneak up on me and I struggle to stifle a yawn as the rice merchant pays us our wage. A pittance, essentially good for a few meals, but the information I gathered was truly priceless. I thank him, appropriately showing my respect and gratitude, then ask if work will be available tomorrow.
“Yes yes. Same time, same place,” he grunts. “Be prompt and there will be work.”
I thank him profusely, in keeping with my desperate character, bow three times and depart, walking not toward my rented room but toward the beach, south of the village. The sun is setting in low over the water and licking small bands of light up into the sky more beautiful than any painting. I could swear there were colours out there that haven’t been named yet. Fishing boats returning in for the night, silhouetted against the dying sunset… might be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever had the pride and privilege to witness. My country, my home.
On the beach, children gather shells as their mothers call them to evening meals. An older couple walk together along the water’s, edge hand-in-hand. A young woman stands in a loose gown alone, watches the horizon as though expecting something — or someone — to appear there.
This what men like me fight to preserve. These ordinary moments. There are no greater joys. I know better than most that things cannot remain unchanged, and the black ships have already transformed us beyond recognition. If we wish to survive, it is on us to find the strength to direct our transformation in some way, exert agency over it, as I believe are no means in either Heaven or Earth to prevent it.
I approach the young woman on a whim, maintaining a respectful distance and attempting not to appear threatening. She glances at me with contempt, then returns her gaze to the sea.
“Excuse me, are you… waiting for someone?” I ask, tone conversational.
She hesitates, then answers. “My brother. He serves on a trading vessel.”
“Foreign vessel?”
Her shoulders tense, then unclench, “Yes. For the Dutchman.”
“Decent work?”
“He sends money home…” Her tone betraying concern over whatever moral compromise might be involved. “Our… father, died last year. And the fish have stopped filling our nets.”
I nod. Necessity outweighs ideology for most, I do not begrudge anyone that.
“This foreigners, do they treat Japanese crew well on their ships?”
“Well enough.” She turns to face me fully now. “Why do you ask me so many questions, samurai-san? And you do not introduce yourself?”
How’d she? Despite my disguise and clothing, she’s recognized me for what I am without any difficulty?
“Only my own curiosity,” I answer. “I have wondered what changes the foreigners bring, to a village like Kanagawa.”
“Changes?” She laughs a bitter heartbroken sound. “Look around you! Foreign roof tiles on Japanese homes. Foreign tobacco in Japanese pipes. Foreign words in Japanese conversations.” She gestures toward the harbor. “We happily wore their changes like a young child puts on her new clothes even before allowing them to live among us.”
“Is this bad?” I ask.
She considers this, holding her face in her hand, watching a final fishing boat slip into the harbour as the last light shines. “Neither, bad nor good, I suppose. Like the tide it simply is. Those who fight it drown. Those who understand… survive to fish again tomorrow.”
With that, she inclines her head slightly and walks slowly away, hardly moving her feet, giving me plenty of time to remain haunted by her face and words.
The village lights reflect on the darkening water, doubling all lanterns presence. Reality and illusion, once inseparable, now on other sides of a plane. A divide. Japan as it is, and my country as it appears to me.
I return to my room to plan the next day’s reconnaissance as Van Houten’s schedule is now becoming clear. He breaks his fast at sunrise, conducts business until midday, then usually leaves the compound to walk along the docks for an afternoon stroll, usually followed by a large meal, more business, then another large meal with guests and associates.
His most vulnerable moment is bound to be during the walk. Alone except for a single guard. Exposed to anyone who might approach, multiple directions to defend, easy work. But a public killing would bring… complications I prefer to avoid. Better to strike… within the compound, if possible.
Tomorrow, I will find a way inside again.
The storehouse remains my focus. Whatever happens in there matters enough for Van Houten to oversee it personally himself. Whatever weapons he’s trading in, whatever secrets he is keeping, are centred on that building. To understand how to kill him, I must understand what he values so highly.
The ambient sounds change as night deepens. From my window I watch shadows move within the foreign settlement. Silhouettes crossing in front of gossamer drapes, through glaringly bright windows. The guards change their shift over at the gate. A dog barks for several minutes, then falls silent.
The moon rises high, high, higher. Casting silver light across the hushing sea. Boats creak, rocking gently at their moorings, and bumping against each other with a hollow sound. Nets hang like webs of spiders, waiting for the starlight to come.
I clean my weapons, checking each edge by moonlight. My wakizashi will likely be my tool of choice for this task, but then again, I see my katana waiting there hungrily as well, eager to taste foreign blood.
Sleep, when it finally comes, takes me to ocean depths. Dark blue water becomes black, luminous strange creatures swim around me and I float peacefully among them. Neither predator nor prey.
When I awake, I feel as if I am myself the ocean. Preparing to send another soul into murky depths from whence there is no escape, and which, will one day come for us all.
