“A Dream Of A Dream” (Episode 10)

At the conclusion of a richly-imagined limited series like Shōgun, without knowing what its writers and producers had in store, we might imagine for ourselves the futures of our favorite characters, whose lives would continue into the 1600s thanks to the elaborate gamesmanship of Lord Yoshii Toranaga. We might have done all that, and descended into a mist-laden valley of r/Shogun fanfic subreddits. The series would have left us with a wealth of finely-wrought characters, even with so many instances of belly-slitting and heads being summarily removed from necks. But we also don’t have to do any of that, because in the wake of Lady Mariko’s Episode 9 sacrifice, the Shōgun finale projects a few outcomes of its own. “Grandfather used it to fight off a whole army of Japanese assassins,” one Blackthorne grandson says to another as the now elderly pilot clutches at Mariko’s crucifix, a samurai sword hanging in tribute nearby. But the echoes of the past drown out this imagined future, and instead the Anjin holds Mariko’s dead body in the rubble of their last stand. The future Yabushige imagined for himself didn’t include this tragedy, and Tadanobu Asano puts the gravity of the moment into his features as Yabu realizes the terrible cost of his treachery. 

Toragana knew the gravity of what he asked of Mariko; knew her resolute power to change the course of the future was greater than any Crimson Sky army he might send to the gates of Osaka Castle. But Lady Ochiba also found resolution and redemption in the death of her childhood friend. With her son the heir alongside, Ochiba completes the poem they shared in the hours before she passed. “On a leafless branch, flowers are only flowers because they fall. But thankfully, the wind.” The deadly attack, orchestrated by Ishido, only served to thaw Ochiba’s cold heart, and she sends word to Toranaga that she won’t support the chief regent with the heir’s banner. The fractured, ultimately fruitful friendship between Ochiba and Mariko was not in James Clavell’s original Shōgun novel. But just like Mariko serving as Toranaga’s secret weapon, it became the most crucial element in the conclusion of the series. 

“Please slit your belly by sunset tomorrow.” As the Anjin, Yabushige, and the party of ladies and vassals arrive by ship in Ajiro, Toranaga commands Yabu’s death sentence with cutting indifference. The moves Yabu tried to make, even his deceit that contributed to Mariko’s death – all of it was too small time to influence Toranaga’s grand vision, and the samurai accepts his impending fate. This is finally where it will end for him, after years of making out wills before battles. On a ridge overlooking the sea, Toranaga waits as the agreed-upon second to Yabu’s act of seppuku, and the two men share a few moments of clarity about all that transpired. An Ishido without the heir’s military support is an Ishido with no support. “The Regents will turn on him before a sword is drawn,” the lord says, and we see what the battlefield may have looked like. “Only then will my dream be realized. I will start in Edo, my center of power. A nation without wars. An era of great peace. All of us have made this possible. You, me, Lady Mariko, even the barbarian who came out of the sea.” What Toranaga describes is the dawn of concentrated leadership at the top of the realm. You know, like a Shōgun. And Yabu has to grin even as he faces his end. “It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?” But why tell a dead man the future? SLICE, and Yabushige’s headless body tumbles off the ridge to the water below.

(A side note here, in tribute to the character of Kashigi Yabushige and Asano’s terrific portrayal of him – the death poem he gives his nephew Omi to read is perfect and glorious. My dead body, don’t burn it, don’t bury it, just leave it in the field. And with it, fill the belly of some hungry dog. Yabu grins. “Impressive, right?”)

John Blackthorne’s future will be different than the one he imagined, where he’s back in England and tortured by the past. In exchange for the Christians sparing his life, Mariko arranged for the burning of his ship the Erasmus. But even in this, it was all part of Tauranga’s plan. The vessel’s destruction was a test for the Anjin, one he passes only after pledging his own suicide as recompense for agitating the political firmament of feudal Japan. “If you’re finally done,” his lord says, “rebuild that ship, and make me a fleet.” The coming era will be one of peace, but also cooperation toward stability as the nation’s shores continue to open. And in a beautiful sequence full of quiet solemnity, the Anjin and Fuji-sama sit quietly in his home. They’ve both lost someone, and the house is emptier for it. “No translator…” and each of them are drawn to the empty space Mariko used to fill. Her service as the Anjin’s consort complete, Fuji will become a nun with Toranaga’s blessing. But before she departs the village, Blackthorne rows them out to the open water. He steadies her hand as she commits the remains of her husband and son to the sea’s depths. And with the words Mariko used before her loved ones died, Fuji-sama encourages him to let Mariko’s crucifix rest in the same manner. “Let your hands be the last to hold her.”

The burned-out hulk of the Erasmus will be refit, and as Blackthorne commands his men to heave it onto shore, who joins him at the ropes but Buntaro. With bows, they acknowledge the weight of their collective loss. The death the proud but cruel samurai would never allow his wife was enacted by Lady Mariko on her own terms, and now these two men who both loved her will find common ground in the safer world she left behind. Blackthorne sees Lord Toranaga looking over their work and pauses. So much loss, but learning too, and the promise of what’s to come. “How does it feel to shape the wind to your will?” Yabushige had asked his lord, marveling at how the bushō’s plan had come to fruition after so many trials, setbacks, and bursts of unpredictable violence. But always so wise and so steadily humble, Toranaga demurred. It’s like the flight of his treasured falcons, who shine in the vastness of the sky. “I don’t control the wind,” he said. “I only study it.” In the end, all that Yoshii Toranaga has done is like dew on a delicate blade of grass. A dream within a dream. We live, and we die. The rest is just details. 

Johnny Loftus (@glennganges) is an independent writer and editor living at large in Chicagoland. His work has appeared in The Village Voice, All Music Guide, Pitchfork Media, and Nicki Swift.