Side Story #9: Tanjiro's Big Break

<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>

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Side Story 9: Tanjiro’s Big Break

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■■ Jijinto ■■

“Alright Tanji, look over the ‘justments we made to the prototype. We ‘cided to fit an iron shell ‘cross the starboard side. The ‘Tekkōsen’ will revolutionize naval warfare and put Shibuya & Sons on the map!”

That was Shibuya himself talking, a man with only one actual son—Tanjiro—and two dozen adopted ones, as he considered himself a father to every shipwright who worked under him. Tanjiro’s adopted brothers were much like his old man: illiterate, rowdy, and usually came into work drunk. It meant all the numbers, calculations and paperwork fell onto him.

“But Fa...Shibuya,” Tanjiro corrected himself, “that’ll throw off balance from portside! There’s no way to redistribute enough weight evenly to account for—”

“Just ‘member to turn the lanterns off when you’re done. We got them inspectors ‘morrow, don’t forget. Lot ridin’ on that contract!” Shibuya left the offices without saying goodbye, as Tanjiro was left to a stack of papers piled up to his chin. With the sun already setting, this wouldn’t be a late night.

“It’ll be a sleepless one,” the disgruntled shipwright thought to himself. His words might as well have been thoughts, too, considering that nobody ever listened to him. His father and ‘brothers’ just did as they wished, and it was his job to clean up their messes. S&S was overly ambitious, taking on too many contracts all at once: from as far east as Shima to as south as Genfu. Knowing Shibuya, he’d accept a contract with the Kondo savages out west if the price was right.

And it didn’t help that it was unbearably humid, as Jijinto sweltered in the hottest summer of recent memory. Tanjiro was parched and tired. Lonely, too, though all three problems were addressed at once by way of a grinning streetfighter at the front door.

“Yo, Tan-kun! Workin’ hard or hardly working?”

“Hatchi-kun!” Tanjiro smiled, happy to see his childhood friend Hachirobei once more. The two had grown up on the same street, bonding together through cuts and bruises against sons of seawhores and other juvenile delinquents. The fighting never left Hatch as it had Tanjiro, and the young man now lived alone in his grandfather’s run-down dojo.

Though Hatch was poor he was free and in high spirits—and speaking of spirits, he had a bottle of cheap saké and a couple of cups with him. Tanjiro put the stack of papers aside, and the two friends enjoyed a drink of the best, watered-down swill Hatch could afford.

“I reckoned you needed some liquid encouragement before your big day tomorrow. I sure would be stressed if I were you, Tan-kun!”

Tanjiro gave a nod and then a grimace, after he downed the bitter brew. “You mean the inspection for our new flagship vessel? I can already predict it’ll go poorly. Assuming I can correct the balancing issues, we don’t know the effect the iron plating will have on the haul. That’s not even to mention that the shipment of lacquer is late. If she takes on water she’ll be nothing but an expensive stone!”

Hatch scratched the back of his head. “Well, er, I was actually talkin’ about that date your folks are setting you up with. A geisha, or something, right? What was her name?”

“Oh yes,” Tanjiro sighed and stared into his cup. “Keiko, I believe it was. And it’s not a date...it’s a marriage interview. My father has already forgotten about it, but Mother will insist I go. But I don’t want to,” the shipwright downed his cup and held it out for another. “I don’t want to get married, Hatchi-kun. I don’t want to work on this ship, either...I just...I just want leave Jijinto!”

“Le-leave the city?!” Hatch gasped while pouring Tanjiro another cup; the result was a splash of watered-down saké all over his kimono and papers. “You’ve got to be pullin’ my leg! I know what’cha need, old pal: a night on the town!” The streetfighter raised his fist and shook it, as he often did when he was particularly determined. “We’ll throw some dice, talk up some ladies, and see if Eguchi has some discounted stock for his most loyal customers!”

Though Tanjiro knew there had to be more to life than gambling at Chō-Han and drinking at The Canary, it certainly seemed better than the alternative. He looked over at the stack of papers and thought about Shibuya—the father who only let his son call him by his last name.

“Yeah, Hatchi. I’m ready to go.”

■■■■

Hatch was practicing the Ken Raijingu-Ryū’s Ishiheddo technique by pounding his head against the wall. This was the third gambling den that had been closed, for reasons unknown. There was only one place let to check, and it was owned by the Yamagata-gumi. Gambling at one of their joints was akin to funding the yakuza, which left a bad taste in the mouths of the two Jijinto locals.

“Guess we’ll just have to steal our supper from the yakuza! I’m feelin’ lucky tonight, Tan-kun!”

Tanjiro smiled and nodded. Hatch was nowhere near as good or as lucky a gambler as he thought he was, but so long as the shipwright was there to check for cheating, they usually pulled in a decent haul. At least when Tanjiro was able to get him to quit while he was ahead.

The mark of the Yamagata-gumi was cherry blossoms, and you knew you were in their territory by their decorative, floral designs across posters and walls. Tanjiro noticed the streets were oddly vacant—usually there were men, single or otherwise, heading towards or out of the yakuza-owned brothels.

“Maybe the heat kept them away,” Tanjiro thought to himself, as he swiped his sleeve against his sweaty face. “Or maybe the prostitutes don’t look so good with their makeup running.” In either case it was unusually quiet, as the two made their evening stroll into the gambling den.

“Evenin’ fellows, how are the bones rolling?” Hatch asked after sliding open the door. He then winced backwards and choked, as a powerful spew of smoke flew out from inside the chamber. Peering into the den, the two found a considerably less rowdy crowd than they were accustomed to. It was also packed: you couldn’t take a step in without stepping over somebody, especially considering that most of the occupants were laying around in a daze.

Coughs and murmurs came out like a chorus. “Shut the damn door!” was the consensus among them. Seeing that no gambling was taking place, the two obliged and left with the lingering scent of sweet, burning flowers on their clothes.

“I think that was opium they were burning in there, Hatchi-kun.”

“Opi-what? Man, so much for a night on the town!” The streetfighter gave the air an uppercut, followed by a knee and a pair of jabs. Tanjiro thought it was amusing—not his shadowboxing, but his innocence. Somehow Hatch knew little to nothing about drugs or even whores, though the streets they lived on had plenty of both. The girls he liked to chat up were working girls, whose profession Hatch never fully understood.

“Are you going to be okay without me, Hatchi?” It was a question Tanjiro wouldn’t speak aloud.

With newfound determination out of seemingly nowhere, Hatch was on a mission to find something for them to do even if it killed him. And it very well might, considering he was barging through yakuza-owned businesses. The man couldn’t read, which meant signs were futile at stopping him from opening doors at random.

One such door had a voice from within: a loud, beautiful tenor that was amplified well beyond natural means. It was an angelic yet haunting voice, as from out here it only came as a murmur. Looking at the sign, Tanjiro read this to be the ‘Gangaku Guild’. These were upscale music halls, hosting musicians both local and from around Hyuga. They were almost exclusively found in Yamato and Tonogasha; to have one here within the slums of Jijinto was something of a diamond in the rough.

As the two headed in their heads were assaulted with beads hanging in strings from the ceiling, and beneath their sandals—feet in Hatch’s case—were ornate, silk carpets. It was like a different world in there, one that Tanjiro was well aware that they didn’t belong in. He was nervous and ready to leave.

“Tan-kun! Get a load of this guy!” Hatch, however, had no such restraint. He was peering down into a lowered stage, that must’ve been dug well beneath the ground. It was an odd choice for a theatre but it was blissfully cool amid the hot summer night. Rich folk wearing silk sat in rows atop pillows, enjoying the show.

It was dark inside aside from the stage, which was lit with torches all around. Tanjiro motioned his loud friend to quiet as they gazed upon the performer: a man holding a fan to his lips. He was painted in white makeup with red around his eyes, and wore a flowing, white kimono with elaborate designs. No doubt it was kabuki attire.

“Arigato, thank you very much,” he bowed with one arm outstretched. “For my next act, I would like to perform the art of shigin. For those in attendance who may not be aware, shigin is a modern expression of poetry with the verses not spoken, but sung. It is my hope that, through the power of my voice, I can bring new depths and life to these timeless pieces.”

Tanjiro stood—or rather, knelt—in awe, as he was mesmerized by the performer’s stage presence and charisma. For a young man who was a chronic mumbler and accustomed to being talked over and his opinions discarded, this man in makeup was a captivating hero.

“This next verse is written by the poet called Bashō. It is titled, ‘Weather-Beaten Bones’. I know it’s out of season but...it’s important to remember, even amidst a burning summer, just how cold and cruel winter can be.”

The performer brought the paper fan to his lips, and through the use of shugenja magic, it amplified his words throughout the underground music hall.

“Weatherrr-beaten bonesss,

I will leeEeave your-ur heart exposed

to coooold, piercing winds.”

The way he extended the vowels and shifted his pitch was unlike anything Tanjiro had ever heard before. It was both eerie and calming, and so interesting that the shipwright could listen to it for hours on end. His companion, however, felt quite differently.

“Jeez, this guy’s lame. You wanna go check on Eguchi and The Canary?”

Hatch didn’t get a reply. Tanjiro didn’t even hear him—he could only hear the man on the stage, with the lights around him and his voice echoing throughout the hall.

“Poor little monkeeey,

Soooon, your crieeeess, will blend,

into this autumn wind.”

Tanjiro felt everything, everything from cold chills to cool melancholy as he was swept up by the speaker’s words. Jijinto and the summer heat no longer existed. For the shipwright born in the slums of the big city, he was, at that moment, high atop the Suijin Mountains, beside a crisp and flowing stream.

It was beautiful, but it wouldn’t last long.

“Hamasaki! We know you’re in there!” came a yell that needed no amplification to resonate throughout the hall. A samurai in a kimono of light blue with white, mountain trim entered through the doors, followed by several others in matching attire. These were the Shinsengumi: the elite forces of His Imperial Majesty. What they were doing in a Jijinto slum like this one was a question that went unanswered.

*THUD*

A magically intensified thump sounded off as the performer tossed down his fan. He hurried to get off stage, though stumbled over his unorthodox attire. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to make it out in time. Seeing this and knowing that he was all there was between Hamasaki and certain death, the shipwright steeled his courage and stuck out a leg, tripping the lead samurai into a tumble down the dark staircase.

Chaos ensued among the wealthy spectators, all fighting to get out from their seats and evacuate as disorderly as possible. Those that weren’t yakuza were closely affiliated with them, and had little desire to be held and questioned by Hyuga’s premiere law enforcement agents.

Pain coursed through Tanjiro’s leg as he fell to a knee. Seeing what he had done to one of their own, a Shinsengumi unsheathed his katana and held it overhead. “Jijinto sewer rats! How dare you interfere!”

*clap*

Hatch appeared in front of his friend, his hands held up together as if in prayer. Though he wasn’t praying, he was holding back the blade with nothing but the palms of his hands. He fought back a cry as the blade’s wicked edge rested atop his head. Half an inch lower and it would’ve cut his red headband into two. As it was, red of another sort came trailing down his face.

“Behold...the Ken Raijingu-Ryū secret technique! Aianpāmu Bōei—Iron Palm Defense!”

“Catching a blade with your hands? What are you, insane?!” the Shinsengumi stood paralyzed after watching such a display. This was a new technique even for Tanjiro, who was accustomed to the streetfighter’s unconventional style. It was enough of a distraction to give the performer time to make his escape; the samurai had no choice but to leave the Jijinto locals or risk losing their prey altogether.

The adrenaline still remained after the men in light blue ran away, and the risk of death by means of a katana slash waned. Tanjiro rushed to Hatch’s side, his childhood friend bleeding at the palms and forehead, too. He looked light-headed, which was a bad sign considering he was the most hard-headed man Tanjiro knew.

“Hatchi-kun! What were you thinking?! You almost died!”

“That technique still...needs ‘ah bit of work. But I’m just glad you’re okay, Tan-kun. Couldn’t have your face gettin’ ugly before your date tomorrow,” Hatch said with a boyish grin. Few men could smile like that, let alone while tasting their own blood.

Tanjiro shook away the tears that welled in his eyes. “You’ve got to start looking after yourself! What if I’m not around?!”

“Tan...kun?” Hatch staggered and fell into Tanjiro’s arms, his consciousness all but gone. Luckily they were in the Eastside slums, where there was clinic nearby. Hatch would never go to such a place willingly, but he needed help and fast.

That said, there was something on stage that beckoned out to the shipwright. As much as he cared for his friend, the paper fan infused with magical power called out to him. He thought of the strength, courage and charisma that the performer had. Tanjiro wanted it, too. More than anything, he had to have it for himself.

He snatched up the paper fan and in doing so, changed his life forever.

■■■■

“A clinic? Come on, Tan-kun, I’m not goin’ in there. Just...take me to Eguchi’s and...pour some saké on it.”

Hatch had shifted into and out of consciousness all the way to Fish-Eye Hospital, as Tanjiro strained beneath the weight of his lanky friend he carried atop his back. It was past midnight and unlikely that the clinic was even open, but he didn’t have any other options.

“I hear the nurse there is quite a beauty. Just your type, if you know what I mean,” Tanjiro laughed or at least tried to. It was hard to be in good humor when you were carrying your dying friend in the sweltering heat.

The streetfighter must’ve been fully unconscious by now, as he made no reaction. Tanjiro hurried his pace as he came upon an odd spectacle: a crowd as big as one you’d find in an afternoon market, surrounding the corner-side clinic. Seeing these many people gathered this late at night was strange, even more so when you factored in who was among them: there was everyone from street toughs to grannies, from sailors to monks down from the temple.

Though the crowd was diverse, their chants were united. “We want more, we want more!”

Whatever they wanted, they were in Tanjiro’s way. With his bleeding friend on his back, the shipwright gritted his teeth and waded on through the mass of people. Or at least he tried to. They wouldn’t give way and when Tanjiro tried squeezing through one pushed him back and made him fall to a knee. But a scraped knee cap was nothing compared to Hatch’s pain.

“Move! This is an emergency! My friend’s dying! I need to get in there!” Tanjiro yelled and yet no one listened. He was powerless, just as before, just as he had been all his life. As a child he was bullied and picked on, except for one boy who always stood up for him. And now that boy was on his back and dying, and needed Tanjiro to—for the first time—stand up for himself.

“Not just stand. I have to speak up for myself, too,” Tanjiro mumbled as he had a habit of doing, though this time he swore it would be his last. He stared at the paper fan he now held in his white-knuckled grip. “The power of my voice...I’ll let him hear me! I’ll speak until I’ve nothing left to say!”

Tanjiro took in a deep breath, and by the time he released it, the man known as Tan-kun the shipwright from the slums had died. In his place was...well, somebody very different.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please!” the announcer spoke in a grand, amplified voice. The crowd quieted all at once, with all their stares now on him. “This clinic isn’t going anywhere—unless it grows a pair of legs, it’ll still be here tomorrow morning! Hahahaha!” He laughed at his own joke, and to his shock the crowd followed suit.

Empowered, he raised his hand out high. “It’s time to break this party up and go home! Get some sleep, and when the sun rises, I expect everyone to get into an orderly line!” The crowd looked among themselves, hesitated for a bit, and then dispersed. The path to the clinic was made clear for him and Hatch. The man with the fan was experiencing a high unlike any he had felt before.

“Good night, good citizens!”

With the way cleared and with newfound strength, Tanjiro hurried over to the clinic doors and convinced the old man barred behind them to open up. The aged fellow turned out to be the doctor, called Fujii, who thanked him for diffusing the riot.

“Thank goodness you arrived when you did. What a troublesome ruckus, and this late at night! We’ve had a sudden surge in demand for our pain relievers...not quite sure why, but our patients can’t seem to have enough of them. Now then, where did I put my spectacles?”

After the doctor found them on his head, he proceeded to clean and stitch up Hatch’s. Tanjiro stood by with a supportive hand atop his friend’s shoulder. The other held the magical fan: his voice and the source of his power.

“Nurse...beauty...where?” Hatch mumbled. He must’ve been more conscious than Tanjiro realized, to recall what he had mentioned earlier. He wondered if the streetfighter had heard his new voice, too—though it was more than just that. Tanjiro had, for that moment, adopted a different personality. A stronger, friendlier one that everyone listened to and nobody ignored.

“Oh yes, my apprentice,” Doctor Fujii readjusted his glasses. “She’s sick today, I’m afraid. We lost a very important patient just last night. The death shook her very deeply. She’s all but locked herself up in the lab...now what was I doing again?”

Tanjiro reminded the forgetful doctor to patch up Hatch, though after he did so the shipwright’s attention drifted. He thought of the crowd that had built up outside, their apparent need for pain medication, and the gambling hall that had become an opium den.

And then he saw it, right there on the counter: poppies. Lots of them—ready to be made into that addictive drug. Someone at this clinic had found a way to make it and to do so quickly and cheaply, cheap enough for it to thrive even amongst the poorest in the Jijinto slums.

From what Tanjiro knew, it was possible to overdose from it. And that’s when a plan formed inside his head. A way out of Jijinto. A new life, a new him.

“I sure am sorry, Tan-kun. We’ll have a better outing next time, I promise!”

“Don’t you worry about it, Hatchi,” Tanjiro replied. It would be the last words he ever spoke to his old friend. After this night his new personality would take over. His life as a shipwright was at an end.

And his life as an announcer had just begun.