For as long as I've been alive, I've lived afraid of something.
Every morning when I wake, the first thing I think is this: today, someone may come to kill me.
I open my eyes a crack and check the beams overhead. Then I search the darkness around my bedding. Is anyone there? Is there the scuff of tatami? Is there a shadow falling across the shoji? Only after checking all that do I finally let out the breath I've been holding, thin and slow. That much is my morning.
These are the warring years. The daimyo of the next province, the retainers in my own castle, even, for all I know, the page who brings my meals—any of them might draw a blade at any moment. My father, and his father before him, lived in fear of having their throats cut in their sleep. Being born heir to the Oda house means, in short, being born "the easiest target there is."
A target can't run. A target can only stand there and wait to be shot. When I think about it that way, my stomach clenches tight first thing in the morning.
So when I walk through town, I dress like this.
A shaggy topknot just tied up in a tea whisk. A bathrobe slipped sloppily off one shoulder, one arm bare. From my waist hang a flint pouch, a gourd, rice cakes, dried persimmons, and whatnot.
I chew on a rice cake, swing the gourd at my hip, and stagger on purpose as I walk.
When the townsfolk of Nagoya see me, they tug at each other's sleeves and snicker behind their hands.
"Behold—the Great Fool of the Oda house."
"That one, the heir? Owari is finished, I say."
I hear it. I hear every word. But that's fine. In fact, that's better.
People frighten me.
Even these townsfolk who are laughing—I have no idea what they're really thinking. If someone comes up to me all smiles, how can I say they don't have a dagger tucked in their robe? If someone kneels and bows his head, how can I be sure he isn't gripping a blade inside it?
I can't. I can't be sure. I can't trust anyone all the way. So I don't want anyone coming close. Rather than have them come close, I'd much rather they laughed at me.
If they think "he's a strange one," people keep their distance. If they keep their distance, the blades stay far away. If the blades stay far away, I live through another day.
This slovenly getup is my armor, my desperate armor. A trick I put my whole heart into, just so I'd be laughed at. Not that I could ever tell anyone.
—That was the idea.
But here's the thing. Just once, in front of an old teahouse on the edge of town, a white-haired old man watched me go by without laughing. With a steady look, like he was peering down to the bottom of me.
"...There is no telling how deep that fool goes."
I heard him murmur it.
Please don't, I thought. My heart gave a hard thump. There's no depth. All there is at the bottom is a trembling, cowardly gut. Peel back one layer of fool and all you'd find is a frightened man curled up in a ball. Don't see through me.
I took a sip of water from the gourd, turned my back on the old man, and quickened my pace. It felt as if those eyes were stuck to my back, and I couldn't shake them off for a long while.
Tomorrow, too, someone may come to kill me. There's no telling how long the fool's skin will keep protecting me. Then there's only one thing to do.
I clench my trembling hands and think.
—I have to get strong.