Side Story #24: Ige's Apprenticeship

<Author’s note: This story takes place during the events of Book 2.>

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Side Story 24: Ige’s Apprenticeship

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■■ Tonogasha ■■

“For spirits’ sake! Does anybody around here know how to swing a sword?!”

Tryouts for the upcoming production at the White Peach kabuki theater were going poorly. The Headmistress vented her frustrations by way of an oversized paper fan, smacking it across the faces of the would-be replacements. None of those faces were half as handsome as Hanshirō the Third’s⁠—the theater’s leading man⁠—who had been put out of commission due to...extraneous circumstances.

That was the official reason, anyway. The real one had to do with multiple geisha and a venereal disease.

Ige, a stagehand, ignored the commotion as he busied himself with a paint brush and a paper panel several times his size. This was to be a backdrop depicting a midnight bridge scene. The Legend of the Heike Warrior Crab would be the White Peach’s most ambitious performance yet, but morale among the staff was low without Hanshirō’s presence. Still, Ige kept himself busy to keep his mind from wandering as it often did these days.

His idle thoughts always seemed to be centered around a certain someone.

“Oh Ige-kun, you’ve got a letter!” yelled the choreography instructor from backstage. “To think you’re already getting love letters from fans...they grow up so fast!” he teased. Of course, stagehands like Ige didn’t have fans: they were out of sight and out of mind, working behind the scenes to make sure everything ran smoothly.

So it was exceptionally odd for anyone to send a letter addressed to him to the White Peach. The oddity was enough to draw several crew members until they learned the letter was from Keiko⁠—then the group grew to two dozen. Keiko had been a sweetheart among the staff, her natural ditziness making for great comedy both onstage and off.

Everyone was heartbroken over her sudden departure⁠—Ige most of all. Embarrassing as it was, he was pressured to read the message aloud. Keiko wrote about her current employment, how she missed everyone, and when she was visiting next.

“Serving as a maid to a foreign lord on a private island? It’s like a fantasy!” an actress remarked. “That mansion sounds like paradise...we’ll be lucky if she ever comes back!”

“The Gion Float Festival is only a few weeks away,” said the choreographer. “Ige! That’ll be your chance. You must convince her to return to us! Oh, damn that foul Anzai character⁠—harassing our girl and causing her to run off like that!”

The rest of the group nodded in unison. Word of Anzai’s behavior and propositioning towards Keiko had spread throughout the White Peach. The silk merchant had been banned, shunned and shamed, yet no recourse was enough to bring their darling actress back.

“Ah, I’ll try,” Ige said, his cheeks going red as he put away the letter inside his kimono. To his relief, the Headmistress began yelling and ordering everyone to get back to work. Ige did likewise, of course, but thoughts of Keiko were even more constant than before.

“Can I really convince her to come back? Whoever this ‘Roderico’ is...do I really have a chance against him? I’m just a wimpy stagehand, after all…” Ige thought, his internal monologue not doing his mood any favors. He was well and truly depressed by the time his shift was over.

In no hurry to head back home, he took the scenic route through the gardens and streets around the outskirts of town. Tonogasha was most beautiful after midnight, when the wisterias were in bloom and all was quiet save for the buzzing of distant cicadas.

At least that was the case on most nights. This one was different: a group of men armed with katanas and clothed in light-blue kimonos shouted and ran beneath the moonlight. They were the Shinsengumi⁠—the Emperor’s most elite samurai⁠—and they were in search of someone. Not daring to get in their way, Ige ducked into an alley in hopes of hiding.

“Ah!” he yelled as he collided with someone doing just the same. Before he could apologize, the stranger he bumped into placed his hand across Ige’s mouth. His palm was sweaty and dirty along with the rest of him, Ige noticed. The man was in his mid-twenties and remarkably handsome despite his unsettled appearance.

His eyes were wide in fear, his breathing was ragged and his kimono was ripped in a hundred places. Odder still, his robes were the same shade of light-blue with white mountain trim that his pursuers wore. He had a katana, too⁠—as if Ige needed any more evidence. “He’s a member of the Shinsengumi...so why’s he hiding from them?”

All Ige could do was speculate as the group of samurai ran past them. Him and his disheveled companion let out a collective breath when it was safe to do so. The stagehand was about to exit stage left when the Shinsengumi runaway grabbed him and brought him close.

“Onegai...please, you must help me. They’ve been chasing me all the way from Yamato. I haven’t slept in days and I haven’t eaten in weeks⁠—please, I need a place to stay!” he begged, falling to his knees. Whether he did so out of respect or exhaustion, Ige couldn’t say. He just knew this was trouble.

“Ah, well I, I don’t want to get involved,” Ige stuttered out, already midway into bowing and offering his apologies. When he did so, the letter from Keiko fell out.

The samurai was quick to snatch it up and inspect it, his bloodshot eyes beaming at the address. “The White Peach! The most underrated kabuki troupe of the past decade! Their performances of The Shugenja and the White Snake and The Vengeance of Inugami are modern day classics!”

“Ah, I assume you’re a fan of Hanshirō the Third, then?”

“I think he’s got continuity issues,” the samurai said, bringing his hand to his chin. His desperation was all but forgotten. “He gets tired easily, and in performances with early swordfights, his mie poses suffer tremendously in later acts. That and...he is difficult to take seriously as a swordsman, with his stances and sword grip being so inconsistent. Still, I imagine his family name alone brings in quite the audience.”

Ige caught himself nodding. These were insights beyond a mere amateur kabuki-goer. This odd samurai seemed to be quite a fan, but it was what he said next that won the stagehand over.

“More so than its onstage talent, what impresses me most about the White Peach is it’s production. It’s independent of the Yamato guilds and so its funds are limited, yet its backdrops, music and lighting are top quality! Imperial quality, even: I was blessed to be in attendance alongside the Emperor himself!”

Ige gasped and all but jumped out of his sandals. “You’re lying⁠—you must be! His Imperial Majesty has never been a patron to one of our plays. Though the Headmistress has certainly sent him plenty of invitations…he’s never once accepted.”

The alleyway samurai chuckled. “It was done in secrecy for his protection. I sat in the row behind him, and overheard how amused he was at how you were able to give a sound to snow falling. If my uniform is not evidence enough, I can prove my position by showing you my katana.”

“T-that won’t be necessary!” Ige said, waving his hands earnestly. The young standhand was overwhelmed⁠—creating a sound for snow by beating a large drum with a stick wrapped in cloth has been his idea. For His Imperial Majesty to approve of it was…

“A dream come true! That’s what this must be,” the samurai said, clutching Ige’s hands in his. “I have always dreamed of being a kabuki actor. Help me join the White Peach, and I will be forever in your debt! I’ll take any role they offer⁠—just get me on stage!”

Ige was overwhelmed by the man’s passion, and⁠—coupled with his natural empathy⁠—couldn’t abandon him in the streets. He agreed to help the samurai, but on one condition. “I’ll need to know your name.”

“From this point onward, I am...Saburo Honda!

■■■■

To say that Saburo’s presence at the White Peach the next morning caused a stir was an understatement. The samurai had cleaned up nicely: nice enough to draw the attention of the entire crew, the women and those otherwise attracted to beautiful men in particular. He had a natural presence that commanded both respect and attention.

“My goodness, Ige-kun, where did you find this thespian?” the choreographer asked, whispering to the stagehand as the two watched Saburo’s audition. The samurai was performing Hanshirō’s monologue during the final act of The Shugenja and the White Snake, and was doing so from memory. “Are you sure he’s not acted before? We usually only get guild dropouts around here!”

Ige could only smile and shrug. Saburo had asked him not to reveal anything to the others: namely, that he was a member of the Shinsengumi on the run from that very same group. If anything, his mysterious origins only made him more appealing to his audience⁠—an audience that was currently shouting accolades and giving him a standing ovation.

“Bravo, bravo! A flawless performance!”

“Oh, he’s absolutely wondrous! A sensation in the making!”

“Please, Headmistress-sama, you must sign him at once!”

Every woman in the theater flocked to him after his performance⁠—save for one. The Headmistress wore a scowl that only grew as the girls insisted that Saburo was a gift from the heavens. She scribbled a few notes on her pad of parchment and turned to Ige, who jumped at the sound of his name.

“Ige! Tell this ‘Subaru Hyundai’ what he did wrong.”

The stagehand let out a quick gasp as all eyes were suddenly on him. The ladies praising the new actor shielded him with their bodies as if to physically protect him from criticism.

“Ah, well,” Ige gulped, before speaking his mind, “your pacing could use some work, Saburo-san. Your lines had great emotion to them, but dialogue in kabuki requires many pauses throughout for musical accompaniment. Notations for string, wind and percussion instruments are⁠—”

The stagehand was interrupted and verbally assaulted by Saburo’s newest group of fans. That Ige’s own coworkers⁠—some of which he had known for years⁠—turned against him so quickly was surprising. Unnerving, too.

“Ladies, please,” Saburo said, quieting them down. “Criticism is far and away more useful to me than flattery. What other changes would you recommend, Ige-senpai?”

Saburo’s humility drew even more approval from his admirers, of which the samurai-turned-actor all but ignored. Though Ige was only a stagehand, he tried his best to give all the pointers he could in the hours that followed. Saburo was a quick learner, eager to make changes to refine his craft. On that measure, he had already surpassed his predecessor.

The Headmistress noticed it too, and even admitted as much⁠—but only to Ige later that evening in the privacy of her own office. She was idly picking at one of her warts while the stagehand fidgeted in the chair across from her desk.

“He’s got everything we could want: looks, poise, presence. Not to mention he can swing a katana like an Emperor’s bodyguard! But even with all that, there’s something he doesn’t have. Do you know what that is?” she asked, to which Ige could only shrug. “A name. He’s a nobody, Ige, and we don’t have the finances to float us until he gets popular. Anzai was one of our largest patrons. That Keiko girl of yours cost us⁠—”

“This isn’t Keiko-chan’s fault!” Ige yelled, before realizing who he was speaking to. His eyes went wide with fear. Such a display of disrespect would earn him a hundred slaps from a wooden fan.

And though he braced for it, no such assault came. That was how serious the matter was.

“An unfortunate time to grow a backbone,” the Headmistress groaned. “This isn’t charity work, Ige. It’s business, and our merchandise sales are at an all-time low. If we can’t improve it and drive up ticket sales for this next performance...it’s going to be the White Peach’s last.”

Ige was shell-shocked; the Headmistress had never mentioned financial issues to him or any of the staff before. She preferred to handle that side of the theater all by herself. For her to confide in Ige must’ve meant the situation was dire.

The stagehand left the office with his head filled with newfound concerns. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t even notice Saburo was standing there listening.

“Keiko-chan, huh…” Saburo smiled, before wrapping his arm around his new coworker. “I think I’ve figured out a way to repay you, Ige. Let’s go get some tea.”

■■■■

The Cloudreach Teahouse was named after its height: it was four stories tall with an open center for patrons to look down upon a beautifully-maintained garden of bonsai trees. The kabuki actor and stagehand sat at the top floor, overlooking the tables below.

Ige was anxious⁠—but it wasn’t from a fear of heights.

“See those two girls, there?” Saburo gestured. “They’re sitting together but their eyes are wandering off. They’re not here for conversation or tea. They’re looking for a man to come over and approach them. Go ahead⁠—it’ll be good practice.”

“Ah, ah, I couldn’t!” Ige stammered out, nearly spitting out his beverage. He gulped it down and shook his head violently. “B-besides, there’s already someone I…I have feelings for.”

“Right, your Keiko-chan. The others told me about her,” Saburo said, sipping his tea. “A creepy patron made advances on her and so she left...but I wonder. What if this ‘Anzai’ was more attractive, easier on the eyes and more charming? Would she have fled? Or would she have…”

“S-she’s not that kind of person!” Ige replied, his cheeks growing red. “You don’t know her, so please don’t make such assumptions, Saburo-san!”

The samurai could only grin as he refilled his cup with tea. “You’re right. But I do know women. Have you told her your feelings yet? No⁠—the look on your face tells me everything. If you really want to win her over, then you have to audition for her the same as any role. So let me see your performance: talk to those girls down there.”

Ige was beyond embarrassed; he felt naked with his secret feelings towards Keiko so exposed. He was upset at Saburo not just for insulting her but for reading him like a screenplay. The older man was many times more experienced with women than he was, and his advice made a strange sort of sense.

In a hurry to get this ordeal over with, the stagehand chugged down his cup and made his way down a set of stairs and across the other side of the teahouse. He felt Saburo’s stare from across the venue as well as butterflies from inside his stomach. It was as if he was performing in front of a packed theater.

“That’s all this is⁠—a kabuki performance,” Ige said, trying to reassure himself. “I’ll just ask them how they’re doing and tell them about the upcoming play.”

That was the plan, anyway. Though he had his line prepared and memorized, by the time he reached their table and caught their attention, he had forgotten everything. Even how to breathe.

“Ah, um, well I,” he stuttered out, the two girls looking at him as if he were some sort of rodent. The disgust on their faces was all too evident. “There’s a kabuki performance...at the White Peach, T-The Legend of the Heike Warrior Crab, if you two are interested…”

“Yeah...no thanks. We already have boyfriends,” one said, before the other giggled and they both proceeded with a fresh conversation. Ige was completely ignored, and hung his head in shame as he made his march back to Saburo. The samurai offered him a cup after he took his seat.

It wasn’t tea, but something much stiffer that burned on the way down.

“I don’t think you’re going to get a callback with that sort of performance. Still, at least you made the attempt...even if you did everything wrong.”

“You couldn’t even hear us, though. How do you know what happened?”

Saburo made a series of mie poses with his hands, depicting shock, joy and then anger. “Most communication is not given through words, but physical presence. This was among the first lessons I learned as a swordsman, and that knowledge carries through to kabuki and women as well. Your back was slouched, your hands were in your pockets, and you scarcely looked them in the eyes. It didn’t matter what you said: your body was screaming out to them. It told them that you are weak, pathetic, and very much a virgin.”

Ige all but crumpled in his seat as Saburo continued with his lecture.

“Women are a hundred times more observant than us men are, Ige. It’s not a skill they’ve trained; it’s in their very nature: detecting the qualities of a potential mate is inherent within each of them. They’re animals acting on instinct. That’s all they are, and yet you’re treating them like goddesses⁠—like they’re worthy of devotion and respect! The truth is...women don’t want either.”

“I don’t...I don’t want to worship anyone,” Ige said in defeat. “I just want to treat them as equals.”

Saburo slammed his fist into the table. “Urusai! You work as a stagehand to one of the greatest kabuki productions Hyuga has ever known! Even at your age, you’re among the most important on the payroll! The Headmistress relies on you above everyone else to keep the production profitable...and yet you dare claim that these whores are your equal?!”

“But...that’s not, they’re not prostitutes,” Ige said in a whisper. “They already have boyfriends, besides.”

The new leading man of the White Peach took his leave with a confident swagger that only grew more so as he approached the pair of girls. He took a seat without invitation, and proceeded to chat as if they were already close friends. Ige couldn’t hear anything, of course, but he could certainly see the night-and-day difference between his exchange and Saburo’s.

For starters, the girls were in a gigglish uproar from the start. In just a few moments they began to cling to his arms, their eyes fixated on his. He took one’s hair and ran it through his fingers, causing that one to blush and the other to grow green with envy. They chatted for a while more, during which time he drank from one of their cups and ate their last rice cake.

Instead of being outraged, they clung to him even more. He had to all but fight them off to make his exit. They looked after him longfully well after he was gone.

Ige couldn’t believe it. What had just occurred was so different than his experience that he might as well have been a disfigured leper. Saburo’s confidence and the girls’ immediate intimacy with him...it was as undeniable as it was depressing.

The samurai returned to his seat, though instead of being pleased at himself for a successful flirt, he looked quite the opposite⁠—cold and unamused, like he had just endured the company of maggots instead of two beautiful young ladies.

He pulled out two slips of paper from his sleeves and put them down in front of Ige. They were house addresses. One even had the imprint of a kiss on it. “Do you understand now, Ige? This is the value of a woman’s love.”

His words were filled with contempt and venom. The stagehand wondered what had happened to the samurai to turn him into such a spiteful person. Had been hurt in the past, damaged and twisted to become this jaded? It didn’t make any sense to Ige, but his skill with women seemed to be tied with his distaste for them. 

“Ah, well, thank you for taking me out, Saburo-san. It’s been very...enlightening,” the stagehand said, his shoulders slumped. He wasn’t sure if he could ever be like Saburo was around women...or if he even wanted to.

“It hurts, doesn’t it? To glimpse behind the mask they wear. Behind the makeup, the perfume and silk kimonos...is something ugly. Something manipulative and wicked. I’ve been a victim to their cruel game, and so I’ve learned how to play it and play it well,” Saburo said, clutching his forehead into his hands. “Kanae-chan...how I wish I never saw beneath the mask you wore.”

Ige didn’t know who Kanae-chan was, only that her name was enough to prompt Saburo’s shoulders to shake and his eyes to well with water. The stagehand knew he had to change the subject⁠—luckily, the jaded samurai had just given him an idea.

“Masks! We can use masks as merchandise, or bundle it with ticket sales! The audience will love being part of the performance!” Ige shouted, his mind flowing with ideas. “What better way to advertise the White Peach than with an accessory that patrons can wear and keep as mementos? We could even charge for autographs, too!”

Saburo looked at his companion with a long, blank stare. Then he erupted into laughter.

■■■■

The entire production crew at the White Peach sat about in a rare silence with their sleeves rolled up and their hands covered in plaster. Shaping each and every mask was a laborious task and a nigh impossible one were it not for the resourcefulness of the crew. Everything from the custom-made casting molds to the faux bronze paint and supply of plaster was scavenged or created in-house.

“Ew! This will take weeks to get out from under my nails!” the choreographer complained. The others had their reservations, too, but Saburo’s personal conviction drove them forward well into the night.

Between the stagehand’s ideas and the actor’s charisma, Ige and Saburo were an extremely effective pair. They pushed each other to new limits⁠—not like rivals but as fellow craftsmen whose craft was kabuki. The two were the only ones remaining after the night shift was over, and the sun was already rising that morning before they finished.

“Ah, I think that should do it,” Ige said, wiping the sweat from his brow and getting it covered in plaster. “I’m worried about how sturdy they’ll be...but they’ll certainly hold up for one performance, at least.”

“One performance is all we need to gain a lifetime fan,” Saburo replied, picking up several masks and trying them on one at a time. “Which one do you think fits me best, Ige? The oni, kitsune, or the old man?”

Ige could only chuckle and shrug. The kitsune represented charm and deceit, of which the samurai had more than displayed back at the teahouse. It was a natural fit, but so was the oni: the long-nosed demon who represented anger and the darkness within. Ige had observed concerning hints of both from the fledgling actor.

“You’d make for a handsome old man,” Ige finally answered with a laugh. He was reluctant to address Saburo about the samurai’s mood swings or nightmares⁠—the latter of which happened at least once every night. On more than one occasion Ige was woken up by Saburo arguing against an imaginary ‘Kanae-chan’ in his sleep. It was clear that he was haunted by something...though the stagehand wasn’t sure he could help.

The two exchanged yawns as they closed up the theater. The morning sun blinded them as they left, but once their eyes adjusted, they went wide. Across from the street was a gigantic mural painted in red and black calligraphy. It was an advertisement for an upcoming Shogi tournament hosted by the Kiseru Tobacco Corporation.

That alone wasn’t interesting. The other taglines, however, were:

“Win an island getaway vacation! Forget your memories and start anew! The Demon of Shogi welcomes you!”

The ‘Demon of Shogi’ had become recent folklore as of late: though accounts of his appearance ranged from a kitten to a giant wooden tile, a growing number of Tonogashans were convinced he was responsible for the cases of memory loss across town. Odder still, those afflicted only seemed to forget painful memories: the loss of a loved one, for example.

“Ige. Do you know how to play shogi?” Saburo asked, his voice serious and his face frozen like plaster.

The stagehand nodded in reply, a growing determination building within him. The only island nearby that Ige knew about was the one Keiko was on. A trip to see her...and to ask her to return back with him, as more than just a friend...it was all he ever wanted and more.

But still, obvious doubts surfaced. “Kishi from all over Hyuga will come for this tournament, Saburo-san. Unless you’re some sort of master...we don’t have a chance against this level of competition.”

“Now, now, my apprentice, what did I mention before about reading opponents?” Saburo asked with a grin, pulling out a ring from his kimono and wearing it. He closed his eyes and twirled his fingers. When he reopened them, his grin grew even wider.

“Well, well! I didn’t know you wanted Keiko-chan to serve you that way. And with a whip? My goodness!”

Ige’s cheeks went crimson. He choked on his own breath, shocked and awed by Saburo’s apparent insight into his innermost thoughts.

“How did he know what I was thinking?!”

■■■■

In the days that followed, Saburo and Ige played close to a hundred shogi matches between rehearsals for the upcoming play. They were average players at a similar skill level⁠—at least until the samurai put on his ring. When he did, the odds turned starkly in his favor: he knew every move Ige made before he made it, and any strategy the stagehand attempted was quickly thwarted.

“I yield,” Ige said, embracing yet another inevitable defeat. He wasn’t dispirited by the loss: on the contrary, Saburo seemed unbeatable and was already growing a reputation as the ‘Kishi With Beautiful Fingers’. Even the Headmistress didn’t mind him playing so long as it served to advertise the theater. By the time the first day of the tournament came along, he was the second favored player to win it all.

The most favored was a familiar name: Anzai. It was the very same silk merchant who drove Keiko away, who anointed himself as the ‘Gold General’. Ige couldn’t allow such a creep to win, and sat in the audience that morning cursing him quietly amidst the crowd.

He was up against an odd opponent, to put it mildly: a ronin, unkempt and unrefined, who wore a conical helmet indoors and smelled of soy sauce. They sat uncomfortably on their silk pillow and proceeded to place down their tiles like they had never played before. Yet they must’ve: the ronin gave their opponent a huge handicap from the start.

“Ka-ku-i-chi! Ka-ku-i-chi!” chanted the crowd as excitement surged from the sudden turn of events. Playing without a bishop was unheard of at this level, and even Ige found himself captivated as the match unfolded. This mysterious ronin proved to be far more skilled than their lowly rank of 15th kyū would indicate, and before long Anzai’s king was facing one check after another.

His defeat was inevitable. This was the upset of the century.

“This battle isn’t over! I won’t be made to yield—not to you!” Anzai screamed, tearing at his hair as everyone looked on in astonishment, pointing and laughing at the one who once claimed to be the Gold General. The only metal he had to his name now was iron, as he pulled out a knife from his kimono sleeve and pointed it towards his stomach.

Ige blinked and it was over. That was how quick the ronin lunged forward and disarmed Anzai, before grabbing his neck and slamming his bulky frame against the ground with a single hand. The silk merchant had intended to commit seppuku⁠—to take his own life out of shame⁠—but the ronin denied him even that.

“Urusai! You want an honorable death? Over a stupid game?!”

That was all the ronin said before standing up and walking out into the pouring rain.

■■■■

The rain had taken a momentary pause by the time Ige reported back to Saburo. The samurai took an immediate interest in the ronin and the two set out across Tonogasha to find them. They didn’t have much luck, however, as Tonogasha had swollen in size due to both the shogi tournament as well as the Gion Float Festival.

“Don’t be in such despair, Ige,” said Saburo as he waggled his finger⁠—the one with the ring on it. “Even if your Keiko-chan doesn’t show up for the festival, you’ll see her soon enough once I win the tournament!”

Ige nodded, not even noticing that his mind had been read once again. The two took to one of the quieter streets towards the marketplace to escape the tourists and rethink their plans. That’s when a couple carrying groceries passed them by.

They were an odd pair: the man was only several years older than Ige, but over a foot taller and very…well, he wore a martial artist’s uniform and a red headband. He was far from a monk, however, with a full head of hair and both the swagger and speech of a Jijinto slum-dweller.

The woman beside him was the sort the theater could use on a poster but never as extra⁠—her beauty drew that much attention. From her generous figure to her fair skin and doe-like eyes, she had a refinement and class that was only emphasized beside the man accompanying her.

“They look like a cute couple, don’t they?” Ige asked, letting out a sigh as he imagined himself and Keiko in their place. The woman was smiling as the man boasted and told jokes, shaking his fist energetically in the air. 

“Not quite,” Saburo said, pulling off his ring. His stare lingered on the streetfighter even after his attention turned over to Ige. “One doesn’t need to be a mind reader to understand attraction, my dear apprentice. This sight before us is a tragic one...one that breaks my heart more than any kabuki act could. Only a man’s love can be so pure. And so foolish.”

Ige squinted his eyes to inspect the pair further but couldn’t find anything amiss.

“For starters, notice how her body is oriented compared to his. They’re having a conversation while waiting in line, yet her feet are pointed away,” Saburo explained. “A woman who’s attracted to you won’t just maintain eye contact⁠—she’ll play with her hair and mirror your actions without even realizing it. And if she goes out of her way to expose her neck to you...well, then she’s already yours. Flaunting one’s vulnerability is as feminine as it gets.”

Ige nodded though that didn’t mean he understood. He tried to recall whether or not Keiko had shown him her neckline before, before realizing just how silly it was and refocusing on the matter at hand. Speaking of which, Saburo had shogi to play and excused himself. His first match wouldn’t start for over an hour, but he claimed even waiting was more bearable than watching this scene unfold any further.

And it did unfold, Ige noticed, as a person⁠—a drunk⁠—staggered by and snatched the woman’s umbrella while the streetfighter was busy arguing over noodle prices with a merchant. That drunk turned out to be the ronin⁠—the master shogi player from earlier.

“You surprised me, though I am glad to see you,” the woman said, smiling and all but jumping with excitement. Ige noticed that her feet and body were pointed squarely at the ronin. “I wanted to ask about how your shogi match went. Hatch-san and I are nearly done gathering ingredients for supper.”

“Let’s just say my opponent retired. But right now I need you to lend me your umbrella.”

The woman in the purple kimono began to giggle. Her posture changed ever so slightly: Ige noticed her back bend to emphasize her chest while her head tilted to the side⁠—showing the ronin every inch of her neck from her chin to her shoulders.

“You’re never afraid to take what you want. Not an undesirable quality,” she replied, handing over the umbrella and watching the ronin go. She continued to stare long after they left amidst the crowd.

Ige let out a sigh. Then he let out a yelp as he suddenly felt the cold sting of steel plant itself behind his neck. His mouth was covered before he could scream; his legs were kicked out from under him before he could run. He was dragged into the depths of an alley by an attacker he couldn’t even see.

An attacker who wanted answers. “Who do you work for?! Why are you stalking these two?”

“Ah, ah, the White Peach! T-that’s where I work!” Ige cried out, his attacker’s firm grip across his neck making it difficult to speak. “And I, ah, I was just watching! I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear!”

His attacker then released him⁠—by shoving him against a wall and smashing his face across a wooden column. Ige could taste his own blood as his lips began bleeding. He crumpled to the ground and into a large puddle.

“For the sake of your longevity: stay away from them. The ronin in particular.”

The rain began pouring down all at once, now, as if there had been a sudden scene change. Ige looked up to see who his attacker was, but saw nothing and no one. They had already vanished. The stagehand did, however, catch a glimpse of them just moments before, reflected on the pool of water beneath him.

“Was that a...a Kondo?” he asked, his question drowned out by the rain.

■■■■

Ige hadn’t mentioned the incident to anyone⁠—not that there was anyone to hear. The White Peach was a madhouse of half-dressed actors and actresses putting on makeup and going over last minute rehearsals for their lines. Everyone was frantic, and rightfully so: the performance of The Legend of the Heike Warrior Crab was about to begin.

Only one man seemed immune to the panic⁠—the one who should’ve been the most anxious of them all. Saburo Honda sat unconcerned and undaunted in his chair even amidst the noise and chaos. His mind seemed to be somewhere else.

In fact, it definitely was: as Ige approached him, he heard the samurai-turned-actor mumbling to himself, over and over. “Kanae-chan...Kanae-chan…”

“Ah, is everything okay, Saburo-san? It’s a packed house…an unheard of accomplishment for a new actor!” Ige smiled, hoping to shake Saburo from his daze. “In case the audience distracts your chain of thought, I’ll be on the lower deck with cue cards ready to⁠—”

“The key to handling an audience is the same as handling a woman, Ige. Do whatever you want with them⁠—but don’t you dare respect them. Don’t give them an ounce of control⁠—they don’t want it. They want to be led by the nose on a beautiful, magical journey, away from what’s real and what matters. It’s our job to take their minds and hearts away, and if we do it well, if we do it properly...then they’ll love us forever,” Saburo said, his voice cold and distant.

Ige nodded and agreed. Whether he actually agreed didn’t matter: one of the most vital jobs of a stagehand was to make sure the actors were healthy enough to perform. Physically and...mentally, in this case.

“You think I’ve gone crazy, don’t you?” Saburo asked, pulling up his hand and twisting the ring across his finger. “Maybe I have. I made the mistake of loving a woman, Ige, and she made me pay for it. In more ways than you could possibly imagine. What she did to me...and what she made me do to her...it will haunt me until the day I die⁠—unless I can erase it from my mind. I have to meet the Demon of Shogi.”

“I have no doubt that you will, Saburo-san!” Ige said and bowed, desperately trying not to think of anything negative or otherwise disturbing. “I, ah, also had an idea about your entrance. For your final shogi match, I mean…”

Saburo jumped from his chair and grinned. “Say no more! I already love it!”

■■■■

*PON*

*PON* *PON* *PON*

Ige beat the drums as the other stagehands lowered Saburo from the ceiling of the shogi hall. The leading man had just completed a brilliant performance⁠—the best the White Peach had ever produced, according to both fans and critics alike. Everything went flawlessly save for a mishap at the very end of the show.

A patron had jumped on to the stage. Ige had expected them to be a rabid fan of Saburo’s, but this one was out for something much more than an autograph: his blood. The ronin who he was about to face in shogi had presented themself early, prompting a swordfight unlike any the White Peach had hosted before.

“That’s because they were trying to kill each other...be careful, Saburo-san! This one is dangerous!”

In a battle of presentation, Saburo had already won: along with his kabuki makeup, he wore white silk robes paired with a red sash across his waist. He held a rose between his teeth, too, that he tossed into the audience of his many admirers. Those who couldn’t appreciate him for his skill in shogi adored him for other reasons⁠—his charm and handsome brought in hundreds who had never set foot into the shogi hall before.

“Welcome, one and all!” yelled Saburo to the captivated crowd. “I am a tenshi, an angel sent down from The Plain of High Heaven! I have but one message to give.” A dramatic pause followed. All were eager to hear this message: one that was simple enough for all to understand.

Saburo stripped off the top of his kimono, revealing the symbols painted red across his chest and back. “Victory!” is what they meant and what he yelled, prompting the word to be chanted across the shogi hall. “The ronin ought to be well and truly intimidated by now,” Ige thought, though from this distance he couldn’t see much at all.

As crowded as the shogi hall was, Ige opted to retain his bird’s eye view from above. He couldn’t make out the board nor could he see the ronin’s face⁠—they were still wearing that helmet that smelled of soy sauce from before. All he had to rely on was Saburo’s expressions and gestures, of which there were many.

Joking and jovial at first, but increasingly frustrated as the shogi battle waged on.

“You come across borderline brutish, which contrasts what can only be described as an elegant shogi. Odd and odder still,” Saburo pondered aloud, before wagging his finger around just as he had done to Ige countless times before. “Why don’t you think over your next moves carefully. Imagine your opening, picture it in your mind. What strategy are you employing?”

“My strategy is the one where you shut the hell up.”

One move came after another, and Saburo’s frustrations grew more apparent in his voice. He was no longer playful; he began yelling in a way that contrasted his elegant appearance. “Is this the classical kakugawari?  A bougin—no, a hayakuri gin? Is Silver climbing, rushing or reclining? What are you thinking?!”

“Have some composure, Saburo. Take your defeat gracefully.”

The samurai, kabuki star and shogi master panicked all at once, and moved a pawn that⁠—to Ige, anyway⁠—meant nothing. But to the shogi players in the audience, it meant everything. Saburo had just made a mistake.

“I—it’s not a mistake! That kid, talking—where are they?!” Saburo yelled, jumping to his feet and looking around him frantically. He looked deranged because he was; when he couldn’t find the child he quickly resorted to desperation, clutching the ronin and begging them to surrender.

“The Demon of Shogi. I know he’s real, and I need to see him at any cost! I beg you, my true name is—”

“Sadao Hamasaki. You are under arrest for crimes against His Imperial Majesty,” said a samurai soaked in rain. He wore a light-blue kimono with white mountain trim, and when he unsheathed his katana his companions did the same. They were the Shinsengumi, and encircled Saburo like wolves surrounding their prey. “For desertion the penalty is immediate execution. Anyone who stands in our way will be eliminated.”

Saburo⁠—or Sadao, or whoever he was⁠—ran. He ran through his crowd of adoring fans, pushing them aside and in the way of his pursuers. Once he escaped the shogi hall he sprinted down the streets of Tonogasha, splashing puddles of water in his wake. Watching him flee from above the shogi hall was the last sight Ige would ever see of him.

The last memory he would have of the man who had been his teacher, coworker, and friend.

■■■■

Ige’s walk back home was a long and difficult one. It was well past midnight and the rain was pouring down, yet he was in no rush to return. He was wet beyond the point of being drenched; his skin was beginning to prune as he trudged along in waterlogged kimono.

“I’ll never see them again...Keiko or Saburo,” Ige thought. His feet took a detour without him realizing it, marching him over to the White Peach which was closed and empty. It was a mess, too: him and the rest of the crew would have plenty to keep them busy before the next show. “A show without Saburo...will feel very empty.”

Ige waddled backstage, careful not to get any water on the stage itself out of concern for warping the wood. It was a silly concern, at a time like this, but the stagehand couldn’t help it. Being concerned for others was in his very nature. Even if that meant losing out on what he wanted most.

“It’s why I’ll never have any luck with women, isn’t it?” Ige asked himself, wondering what Saburo would say in reply. The kabuki star had called him his apprentice...and though they had different views, Saburo had certainly given him insights the stagehand had never considered before.

Love was just a game to Saburo⁠—one that wasn’t so different from shogi.

But he had lost his queen and had never been able to recover from it. It was an offstage tragedy with more questions than answers, which left Ige dismayed and disheartened as he moped over towards Saburo’s dressing room. The sight of his coworker’s name on the door was enough to make his eyes water.

Ige had decided that the least he could do was clean up the room, at least until he found something inside that wasn’t a costume or makeup. Saburo’s katana rested atop his chair with a note tied to the hilt. It was addressed to Ige.

The stagehand raised it up to the light of a lantern and read it aloud. He spoke with heavy, heaving words.

“To my dear apprentice, Ige. If you are reading this message, then the worst has come to pass. I’ve given you no shortage of trouble in this life⁠—yet I must burden you with one final request: take care of my katana, which upon my death I pass onto you. For I have no heirs...through all fault of my own. If karma is true, then the price I pay is long overdue. Sayonara, goodbye...and thank you. Thank you for making both Saburo Honda and Sadao Hamasaki’s dream come true.”

Ige wiped his sleeves across his face to clear up his eyes, only for them to go blurry immediately after. He sniffled and gulped a dozen times over until he noticed that there was one more line scribbled below.

“You are a good man, Ige. I couldn’t change you...and on that note, I’m glad.”