Red Hands
Even assassins have expressions.
Dawn splits open over Kanagawa like a crushed blood orange, overripe. Or perhaps a melon sliced in half. Reddish-orange and gold juices leaking across a veiny sky, staining cloud and sea alike in watercolour. Sailors would take warning on a red morning. But one man’s bad fortune is another man’s windfall. I have heard it said that a red sky brings red hands by nightfall, and we call that good fortune.
My second day as a laborer begins the same as the first. The same familiar, disheveled, partially staggering from hangovers gathering of men at the docks. The same rice merchant with his calculating eyes and smooth, unblemished hands rubbing together. Rubbing rubbing, as though he enjoyed feeling his own soft, womanly skin. But I have no time to think of him today. Today, I awoke knowing precisely what I seek.
“Ah, you again, very well,” the merchant says when he sees me in the crowd. “Strong back, prompt arrival, as I requested,” gesturing to his wagon. “Same as yesterday? Good boy.”
I bow gratefully, joining the other workers. The air tastes of salt and static on the air with the storm. Fishermen stand along piers or warily tying down boats, the changing horizon under their constant scrutiny. The wind seems to drop off and disappear entirely, after blowing on for several minutes, leaving me and perhaps the rest of us with a curiously certain sense of impending doom. Birds fly in from the sea, a huge flock patterning the sky, fleeing for the mountains and the land. Some are deciding to keep their boats anchored today, having felt what I feel already: rapid, severe, uncontrollable change, shrilly warning of its arrival on the wind before being silenced by a force much more terrifying.
Something is out there.
Our first delivery is to the harbor master, a small, amusingly self-important man who literally counted individual grains of rice to estimate the weight of the bag and the total grains inside, to see if it matched his estimate. The second bag went to an inn frequented by well-off samurai travellers of high birth. I only had to wait until the third to arrive somewhere that would interest me.
“Foreign settlement again?” the merchant announces with confusion, checking his delivery scroll. “Double load in two days? Unexpected gathering perhaps?”
I knew that red sky was meant for me. The Dutchman is mine.
As we approach the gate, I am seen by the two guards, hopefully for the final time. The older one’s eyes rest on my face for a few seconds without any perceivable recognition.
Inside the stone walls, servants scurry to and fro between buildings; the compound is abuzz. A cook shouts orders from the open window of the kitchen, steam spilling out, and when they can’t make themselves heard, run to the door to start shouting themselves red-faced while whacking a rag against the frame. Two foreign men standing by the main house are startled by this but return to their conversation in undertones after a moment, one gesturing unconsciously with his hand toward the storehouse.
The rice merchant directs us to make multiple trips. Six sacks total. Six. What could possibly be going on? On my second trip, I deliberately take the long path around the kitchens to end up as physically near to the storehouse as possible… no guards at the door? Not a bit of an oversight?
On my third trip, I pretended to stumble slightly, having secretly sliced part of the sack in preparation to drop it. Rice exploded wildly, spilling across the ground — not more than ten handfuls, but enough to cause a significant delay. The merchant ran over to kick me in the ribs as I was picking them up, while apologizing to the Western men and cursing me. I apologized profusely to him, them, and everyone, while kneeling and continuing to gather up grains while under blows from his feet. And all while the others looked on.
“Clumsy fool,” the merchant spat on me, before following the others.
Left alone at last, I’m exactly where I intended to be: between the main house and the storehouse, partially obscured by a… shrub, or whatever this oddly cube-shaped plant is. I watched a Japanese servant exit the storehouse, dutifully locking the door behind him, pocketing the key, and hurrying away toward the kitchen on loud foreign shoes over stone.
I memorized his face. Thin, scarred across one cheek. Young but not young. With what I placed as a hiraizumi accent, at least when he snapped at another servant for not getting out of his way fast enough. That one is the key handler. The key traitor.
When the rice merchant returned, I’d cleaned up most of the spill and carried the ripped sack to the kitchen. Inside, I saw Van Houten in an adjoining room, standing at a table covered in papers and conversing with another European, this man near my height and also darker of hair, with his hair cut into a bowl shape, and wirey spectacles perched on a nose more bulbous than a mushroom.
“The shipment must reach Aizu by the new moon,” the stranger said in horrifically accented Japanese. “Lord Matsudaira grows impatient.”
Van Houten nodded. “Weather permitting, it will. The supplies are growing impatient waiting to be loaded.”
Their conversation stopped abruptly as the spectacled man noticed me. I kept my eyes down, depositing the rice sack with the others, and Van Houten laughed.
“Ah! Tanaka-san. I didn’t take you for the clumsy type, but I believe I might have seen you catch a whooping,” Van Houten, eyes twinkling maliciously before rescuing it with, “No matter though! Accidents happen, my friend. Accidents happen…”
I bow deeply, ever the grateful servant, even as my mind strives to piece together the fragments I heard. Weapons for Aizu? And they don’t know Matsudaira’s dead yet? The domain most loyal to the shogunate? Have we foiled their communication lines? Are they being fed false information by Imperial spies? All enemies of Satsuma are enemies of mine. If this man was planning to arm the Aizu, he is even more worthy of my steel.
It occurs to me I may have just stumbled upon the exact intelligence my masters sought, and a thrill runs through me. What luck. What an unbelievable stroke of good fortune… almost, too good…
Back outside, the rice delivery team gives me looks of disdain.
“He usually gives us a bonus on days like this, but now we’ve got no chance because of you,” one tells me, and I apologize, promising I will do better and be far more attentive, but they ignore me. Though I’d considered my mental picture of the situation close to fully formed, each stop around the village is adding to my understanding of Van Houten’s operation. By midday, I know three essential facts: The weapons in the storehouse are destined for Aizu. Second, they are expected to leave within days. Third, aside from the servant with the scar, it seems that only Van Houten might reasonably have a key to the storehouse on his person.
Separately, a special dinner of some kind was unexpectedly thrown tonight, as Van Houten is entertaining… merchants from Yokohama?
A plan is forming in my mind without any volition or effort. Not during his walk. Not in public. Tonight, when his attention is divided between his guests and his wine. When the storehouse stands by… guarded only by locks.
After our deliveries finish, I thank the merchant for the work, claiming illness and warning him I would be absent tomorrow.
“Something in the food here, it seems, disagrees with me,” I explain, holding my stomach.
He grunts, unconcerned. “Your pay to lose, fool.” He tosses me a few coins, fewer than yesterday. “Others will take your place tomorrow and the day after, and the day after that. Never fear, boy.”
How kind of him to assure me I won’t be missed when I don’t appear. Nobody’s going to connect a sick laborer from the day before to what happens tonight.
I return to my room, looking down over the market in the warm afternoon light for the last time. The fish stalls are preparing to close as I begin to prepare the things I’ll need. Dark clothing? Check. Oil for silencing door hinges? Extremely check. A thin metal shiv for picking locks — rarely needed in my work, but occasionally amazingly useful? Into my sleeve it goes.
My wakizashi’s edge gets cleaned with particularly attentive care. This blade will taste some blood tonight, that’s almost certain. Hopefully, not too many of my own countrymen’s.
I whisper to it as I polish its edge a bit like my brother would sing to me. Not a prayer, or a lullaby, but something in between. An acknowledgment between tools of death of our mutual kinship perhaps. I never want my weapons to feel abandoned, as I know the feeling.
As afternoon becomes evening, I visit the teahouse near the docks a final time, taking the same seat in the corner and a similar watchful silence. Taking in the beauty of the shore and ominously salty and sporadic breeze, while also listening for specific information about tonight’s gathering.
“Seven merchants coming!” a fisherman whispers excitedly to his companions, after poorly concealing his excited run into the shop. “…three of ours, four from Yokohama. All Japanese, but doing trade in foreign goods.”
“Van Houten showers favours like a brothel girl,” his friend replies with a laugh. “Whatever he’s selling, he wants their distribution networks to get it.”
“Don’t say whatever-he’s-selling, Toshino, we all know it’s weapons,” the first man says, lowering his voice. “Everyone understands he’ll sell rifles and cannons to whoever pays the most.”
“Gods punish such men,” a third voice mutters, making a warding gesture across his face.
I sip my tea.
The sun sets, drawing darkness across glass-smooth water like a resting shroud over a lifeless body. Like flowers with rosy petals, lanterns bloom throughout the night as the village battens down window shutters and doors. From my vantage by the shore, I watch as guests begin arriving at the foreign settlement. Well-dressed merchants stepping through the gate with jewel-strewn ladies on their arms, bowing to Van Houten as he greets them warmly one by one.
I dress in dark blue — not black, which actually stands out more against night shadows. The color of deep water, not spaces between stars. The color of living absence.
The wakizashi on my back, hidden beneath my clothing, a tanto in my sleeve beside the lock pick as well as the knife I used to shave this morning. No armor. Speed over protection tonight. If I am caught, no amount of armour will be enough to stop miniballs from a rifle.
I wait until the dinner is well underway. I can see figures stumbling and swaying behind the lit windows of the residence. Servants carrying trays, cups, and all manner of expensive delicacies from the smell. Guests with cups raised in toasts every few minutes. And here and there, the obese form of Van Houten himself, moving among the smaller silhouettes like a bear among chickens and ducks.
The path to the compound takes me back towards the beach for a stretch rather than in towards the main crossroads. It’s more convenient in every way, including fewer eyes and much softer footing. The tide has receded dramatically, leaving huge areas of wet sand that greedily eats my footprints but will wash them away just as easily by morning.
The wall surrounding the settlement stands twelve feet high on the seaward side. High enough to deter all but the most determined trespasser. I find a shadowed corner where a drainpipe’s fittings offer many handholds. My wounded shoulder protests, itchy and hot as I climb, but I do not feel the itch reopen.
At the top of the wall, I peek over and pause, scanning the compound and the ground below for guards on patrol. Two at the main gate are visible by their shadows in the harsh white light, but facing outwards. A servant dashes from the kitchen to the main house with a tray, struggling to deal with the many lacy layers of her uniform’s long skirt from the looks of it. When she’s gone, the grounds lie empty. All eyes are on the important people and their gathering.
I drop silently to the inside of the wall and lower down until I’m holding by my fingers, then drop the remaining distance, landing in a crouch among decorative plants and rolling into soft garden soil which absorbs the sound well. For thirty to fifty breaths, I remain motionless, becoming one with my surroundings. I sense all the animals hiding among the garden. Some of whom have become aware of one more danger in the darkness. But no dogs bark, and no alarm has been raised by human ears by the time I begin to move.
The storehouse stands a hundred paces away. Two entrances — the main door facing the compound and a smaller loading door facing the private dock. Both are locked, no doubt. But locks only keep out honest men.
I move from pocket of shadow to pocket of darkness, under plants, behind statues and foundations, and on my stomach through the garden itself until, reaching the storehouse wall on the far side, hopefully unseen. The weathered wood makes for easy climbing with two large nails. I scale it silently, reaching the second-story window with colourful glass I’d noticed yesterday. Small, far too small to fit through, for anyone but a man of my size, that is.
The coloured glass doesn’t open, however. Unfortunate but unexpected. I withdraw a small pouch from my belt and extract a sticky grease mixed with fish oil. Applying it over the surface of the window, and then applying a fibrous mat over it. It helps to both muffle the sound and prevent pieces from falling as I carefully lean my weight against the glass until it cracks, then carefully remove the mat, bringing many shards with it and using my fingers to carefully remove the others. I roll up the mat with the glass inside and place it on the ledge over the window, then very, very carefully crawl through, unfortunately ripping my sleeve and drawing blood but maintaining silence. I listen. No alarms raised, none yet. No dogs barking. Or nervous horses. Lowering myself into total darkness, feeling out with sandaled feet for anything to stand on, the storehouse smelling of oil, metal, and gunpowder. My eyes adjust at last, and moonlight in the high windows reveals crates stacked to the ceiling. Carefully prying one open confirms what I suspected — rifles. Western-made, newer than any I’ve seen before. Each wrapped in oiled paper, likely to prevent rust during sea transport from what I was told.
I remove the lid off a second crate with different foreign markings and see it contains dozens and dozens of gleaming pistols. A third holds sword blades but without hilts, cheap European steel to be fitted with traditional Japanese katana handles, creating hybrid weapons. For samurai willing to abandon honour, but not tradition, entirely.
This arsenal could arm thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of soldiers. Enough to shift the balance of power between domains! With these weapons in their hands, the Aizu could reasonably pose an existential threat to all imperial forces combined. With this… they could rule Japan…
I close the crates and continue exploring, stunned and horrified by a dawning understanding. A wooden staircase leads into a lower floor, a kind of cellar perhaps? What would they keep down here? Descending cautiously, smelling and sensing for traps, I resolve to walk on the railing on the stairs rather than the steps themselves, unable to properly test each step for tripwires or creaks before applying weight to them. Fortunately, I reach the landing and find the door below unlocked after checking for traps. Sliding silently inside, I find even larger crates, lined up end-to-end along the walls. One has been broken open, and the contents stand on three legs, revealing something I’ve only heard described…
a Gatling gun.
Multiple barrels arranged in a drum to rotate. Allowing a man to fire without reloading. A weapon of such devastating power that it’s said a single one can destroy any army’s morale in mere minutes. Granting even an untrained child the ability to shoot down dozens of fully grown samurai in less than a moment.
This, then, is Van Houten’s true business. Not merely an arms dealer but a war-maker. Profiting from Japan’s internal conflicts while feigning neutrality.
A sound outside the door drives me to either freeze or run. I dash behind the Gatling gun without thinking, then slink in between the wall and the nearest crate, trying to shrink down as small as possible as voices approach — lumbering down the wooden stairs. A cough. The distinctive rumble of Van Houten himself.
“Just a brief inspection, you understand,” he says. “The merchandise must be moved by tomorrow, before the storm season. Or it will be too late.”
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“Quite the impressive operation you’ve managed in a few short years here,” replies another voice, Japanese but with a posh, educated accent. “Lord Matsudaira will be pleased.”
The door swings open. Lantern light floods the space, casting long shadows wreathed in an orange halo. Van Houten enters first, followed by a Japanese man in merchant clothing too fine for his theoretical station as a scholar. An Aizu agent, unmistakable to my eyes.
“Arrived yesterday,” Van Houten says, gesturing broadly. “British rifles, American pistols, even a new French design I think you’ll find… immensely interesting.”
“And the… ahem, special request?” the agent asks.
Van Houten smiles a toothy gold-toothed grin, moving him toward the Gatling gun. “The eighth wonder of the world. A bonafide miracle of engineering. One man can do the work of twenty, no, sixty. Very expensive, very effective.”
The agent approaches to circle the weapon and I try to crouch myself into any even more compact ball. I risk a peek to see where they are and find the man physically caressing the weapon with admiring hands, reverentially petting along its length like some fabulous creature of legend brought to life.
“Yes. Yesssss. With this, we will change everything.”
“It’s already happened, all your friends are just late to the party,” Van Houten replies. “Why not get the drop on them?” with another gold-flecked smile.
They discuss specifications, prices, delivery methods, and I remember everything while remaining entirely motionless, disciplining my breathing and steadily emptying my muscles of tension, in fact, becoming emptiness itself. The conversation shifts to politics, and the Aizu agent speaks of a shogunate plan to establish preparation for conflict with imperial forces by introducing dissent into wavering or disloyal domains. Van Houten listens, occasionally offering advice on how best to disrupt internally while doing maximum damage on the battlefield, as well as suggesting ideal weapon deployment strategies. It would appear this man knows our country’s internal matters… better than any callously unfeeling foreigner should.
“The Emperor’s loyalists are passionate, numerous, and very poorly equipped,” he assures the Aizu man. “Satsuma has spirit, but outdated weapons and archaic ideas about a fair fight. With these — “ slapping the gun “ — Aizu becomes the power you’ve always deserved. Respected, as you should be.”
My hand tightens on my wakizashi. This man would send hundreds of thousands of men — my comrades, and the cause we fight for — to a senseless death, all while seeing coins in his eyes and calculating profits.
Their meeting concludes, but as they move toward the door, Van Houten, extinguishing lanterns on the way out, leaves one burning near the entrance. Only one.
“Go back to the festivities, my friend, relax, enjoy yourself,” he tells the agent. “I’ll lock things up here and join you momentarily.”
The agent mutters excitedly his assent, bows, and exits up the creaking stairs. Van Houten turns, surveying the storehouse one last time with the satisfaction of a proudly satisfied proprietor.
All alone. At last.
I step from behind the crates, silent as my thoughts are racing. He doesn’t hear me. No one hears me. Doesn’t sense me. No one senses me. Not until my blade draws a droplet.
The gigantic man’s entire body stiffens. “OH — WHO — OH — you startled me!”
“Don’t turn,” I command, voice not above a whisper. “Don’t shout. Or your life is forfeit. Nod if you understand.”
He swallows, hands wide, Adam’s apple invisible beneath the folds of flesh but noticeable against the steel when it rises and falls. “You’re making a terrible mistake, whoever you are. I have powerful allies. They will avenge me.”
“They will have no one to see revenge from…”
His breathing quickens, but I’m surprised that his voice remains relatively steady. Not brave, he truly thinks he’s invincible. “Who are you? Tell me who you are? Who sent you? What do you want? Money? I can give you more money than you’d ever want. I could make you a king, boy.”
“I’m not here for money. Do not call me boy.”
Understanding dawns, and his posture stiffens further.
“Is that you, Tanaka-san?”
I am — stunned.
“Ah. So I was right to find you suspicious. Satsuma, then? Or perhaps Chōshū?”
I say nothing. The less he knows, the less he can reveal if he somehow survives.
“Whoever sent you is shortsighted,” he chooses to go on, talking faster now. “I sell to all sides. I’m neutral. I don’t care! You think I care?! I don’t! I’ll set your masters better than I arm their enemies! For a price, of course…”
“You mistake my purpose if you think you can talk your way out of this,” I reply. “I’m not here to redirect your weapons or put a stop to your weapons, ketō. I’m here to put a stop to you.”
A new tension enters his shoulders. Calculation giving way to fear, the giant hand inches toward his pocket.
“A pistol?” I ask. “Or perhaps a knife? Either way, too slow. You won’t make it.”
His hand freezes.
“You’ve armed those who would keep Japan in chains,” I tell him.
“OH please! How are you sanctimonious people not all exactly the same?! Grow up!”
“Rather than see the people serve their Emperor, you would keep him powerless. Forever subservient to foreign interests like yours.”
“Politics is not my concern,” he replies. “Business is business, and this is just business, Tanaka.”
“Not to me.”
His body telegraphs his intent a split-second before he begins to move — no training to hide where he’s about to move. Muscles tensing, weight shifting. It’s all so obvious. He plans to spin and grab my arm. A whole year could pass in that time. As he begins to turn, I step aside, blade sliding across his throat in a single clean motion upward. Not deep enough to sever the spine, but more than sufficient to open all those many vessels he didn’t deserve and wouldn’t use if they weren’t needed to feed cursed blood up to a demonic brain.
Red sprays high, in an arc, loudly squirting as it strikes the crates, shimmering on the exposed weapons. His hands clutch at his neck, eyes wide with disbelief. He tries to speak, confused but nothing resembling speech emerges. At last.
I catch his massive body under my shoulder as it crumples, so that he falls more quietly, but it is a courtesy, of sorts. I was gentle.
His eyes remain open, shocked, unable to accept what has just occurred, looking back into my eyes as life drains out of his. I have never been this angry before in my life. I have never… wanted to kill a man so much. It’s not a pleasant feeling, which leaves me surprised. But I cannot look away. A last moment of truth exists between killer and killed. The intimacy between strangers that usually arises from a natural death, but in the context of murder is blood-curdling and horrible. I… almost regret what I’ve just done. I feel empty. A skeleton. Fleshless. Dead inside. I know he deserved it, why am I flooded with regret so much I can’t breathe? Who do I feel like… a murderer?
“One death to spare a thousand,” I whisper.
Whether he understands, I cannot say. His body shudders, twice, then Dirk Van Houten, arms dealer, businessman, meddler in the affairs of others, is dead. Merely cooling meat on the floor of a storeroom. And my work isn’t finished. These weapons must never reach any of their destinations.
I locate Van Houten’s lantern, still burning where he left it against the wall. Consulting the logbook that I found in his pocket, I see the shipment schedule, with what I believe signified two ships departing tomorrow. To Aizu and beyond.
Extinguishing the lantern and waiting for it to cool while my eyes readjust, I move systematically through the storehouse with a barrel of gunpowder, spilling it in a trail that passes over and into open crates. Then dousing everything in oil, including the stairs, leading a gunpowder trail back up to the door, and spilling what remains of oil I could find on everything else. I’m hoping the wooden building itself will help feed the flames once it all gets started. The gunpowder trail has to be considerably longer than I’m expecting. I’m assuming that if I light it at the door and run, I’ll probably be… I pause, after locking the door with Van Houten’s key.
I’m only thinking about my own safety here… but an explosion and fire risk the entire village. Countless innocents. What was I thinking? But then again, allowing these weapons to survive risks far more lives than just those in Kanagawa.
In the end, I had no choice. Looking up, while still deciding to light my flint, I see flames licking up the walls of the storehouse. Possibly the hot lantern I left on the ground was enough to ignite the oil. I stare, thinking, one fire to prevent a greater conflagration… what did that old man with the pipe say to me? The flames are strangely beautiful to watch, and then I recall what’s about to happen and frantically make a mad dash for the gate.
As silently as I entered, I depart. Over the wall, nearly running up its length, across the top, leaping down onto the beach and sprinting for the coast where my tracks will be washed away, to the stash of supplies I left here earlier today, having left enough articles in my room that it wasn’t clear I wasn’t intending to return. One never knows who’s watching them. Behind me, and behind the stone wall, the foreign settlement remains peaceful for a few precious moments more.
Perched atop a sandy dune with the wind whipping up the long grasses, I watch and wait until the explosion, arriving not as sound, but pressure. A pressure wave unlike anything I can imagine. A wave that hammers the air, flattening me and the dune, shattering every pane of glass and eardrum. A gout of flame like the finger of God erupts from where the village stood, a pillar of orange and red that transforms night into day.
I stand up, and fall. Staggering. Are my ears bleeding? Bells ring. I’m dazed. Shouts echo. I have to get out of here. I have to get… people pour onto the beach, pointing toward the inferno that was once the settlement. Some run toward it with buckets and then get beaten back by the searing heat. Others, perhaps fleeing further explosions, make their way down the coast away from the fire. Families casting shadows on the sand as the wind picks up further and clouds block out the stars.
The fire spread to the village, but the stone wall separating the foreign settlement from the Japanese district contained and minimized a surprising amount of the damage, from what they told me. That and the wind blowing seaward appear to have saved Kanagawa. When I looked up, I thought I’d killed everyone. I thought I’d destroyed the entire village by accident.
Nothing remains of Van Houten’s compound by morning. Smouldering ruins surrounded by a crumbled stone wall. No bodies have been recovered that I could learn. It’s possible the heat was too intense to leave remains, or that the structure collapsing on itself will make recovery a lengthy process. Will they ever find him? Eventually? Does anything remain of him? Perhaps they’ll blame the fire on carelessness. But at least one monk will suspect foul play, which is why I cannot stay any longer. It was foolish to stay as long as I have. But I was so… curious. To see the effects of my terrible, short-sighted actions that almost cost all these people their lives.
All that matters to me is that weapons were destroyed. As I walk the coastal road leading away from the village, hopefully towards a bit of recuperation, but most likely towards my next mission, I pass the base of the hill and look up at the shrine on the hillside. The elderly monk is standing on the steps like a stage, watching smoke still rising from the settlement ruins. He looks down directly at me in one motion, as if having been aware of my presence all along. We make eye contact. I swallow. I see the disappointment and lower the brim of my hat.
He says nothing. I say nothing. But understanding passes between us. He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He disagrees that it was necessary.
I bow slightly — not to him, but perhaps, but to what he represents. The storm has not yet fallen, but I’ve already given him so much debris to clear away. The blade that cuts away disease to save the body still cuts the body.
Behind me, I tell myself Kanagawa will rebuild itself, as Japan will rebuild itself. By doing away with foreign influence.
A road stretches before me leading back to Kyoto and to Saigō-dono, to the next man who needs to die. Though I am afraid of seeing those eyes again. And I’ve never been afraid of my victim’s eyes before. The sun kindly warms my face, caressing my cheeks like a parent as clouds part. For this moment, at least, I am only a man enjoying fine weather. A man without red hands. Not a shadow, a person. With substance.
But I see my shadow lengthen as the day progresses. Soon it will fall across another doorway. Another life in the way, another obstacle to the future we must fight to bring about.
I am Tanaka Shinbei, a blade that can cut between worlds.
And this bloody work of mine, it seems, is always far from over.
