by Ronan Frost
Chapter Eight
A rising wind brushed the branches of the evergreen trees against the shuttered windows of the temple in seeming harmony with the low monotonous moans of grief within. A light rain was falling and the returning runner was soaked and chill.
“What the assassin said is true, Lord Date’s father is dead,” he said. “From what talk I could gather, he was kidnapped six days ago by the Hatakeyama family and pursued by Lord Date himself. They trapped the kidnappers against a river, and Date’s father cried out for his son to kill all the enemies, even if it should cost him his own life. It is said that Lord Date fell upon them without mercy, massacring all. As he had predicted, Lord Date’s father was among those who died in the fury of the attack. Over the past few days, several of his innermost samurai warriors and their wives have sliced open their bellies to free their souls of the disgrace. Lord Date is scouring the land, tracking down and torturing all belonging to the Hatakeyama clan in vengeance for the loss of his father’s life.”
Yobutomo shot me a look.
“Tell me boy, do you know how Lord Date lost his eye?”
“A sickness, as a child,” I said. “The demon of smallpox.”
Yobutomo nodded, and when he spoke his words were directed not only at me, but loud enough to address the attendant yamabushi. “That’s how he lost sight in the eye, but it was when his military advisors told him it was a weakness in battle that he took up a knife and gouged the socket clean with his own hand. That is the strength of will of a man who would even slay his own father to revenge upon those who would go against him. The One-Eyed Dragon will stop at nothing until he has what he wants.”
I remained silent as a low hubbub of conversation rose between conferring yamabushi. They speculated as to how best to defend themselves against this new focus of interest from Lord Date’s forces. I dropped my gaze quickly and happened to see it laying there in the weak morning light: Hatano’s body, wrapped in cloth, cleaned and prepared for cremation.
So it had not been a dream.
This still and silent bulk of flesh would be burned until only blackened dust and bones remained. Then his loved ones would sift carefully through those ashes and pluck out the bones, passing them between themselves, from chopstick to chopstick, placing them within an urn to be crushed into powder. A furious rushing of blood crowded the narrow confines of my skull; with no outlet, the cramp of my thoughts circled, sending shuddering spasms of guilt throughout my entire cursed body.
It was then I knew I had to go, I could not stand to remain here any longer. I had to get away, to give myself in, let everything go. I walked quickly to the door; it felt sickeningly satisfying to give in to my craven impulses and urge to flee. My focus narrowed, the roaring in my ears growing until it seemed a roar like a waterfall.
At the door to the temple I pulled on the boots, tying the laces quickly and carelessly. I heard a voice raised in protest as I fled down the tall stone stairs and into the drizzle of rain hanging in the air, instantly soaking my face and clothing, welcoming the bracing chill that disguised the tears that now ran down my face. I crossed the clearing and entering the path dropping sharply downwards.
It was not long until my breath came in ragged hitches, a tight stitch of pain forming just under my lungs, yet I forced myself on, thinking only of getting away, if I could somehow move fast enough I could undo what I had wrought here. Fleeing quickly enough, perhaps Hatano would find life again. I do not know how long I ran, but after a time my pace slowed and my body temperature dropped, my clothes wet and clinging to my body. My pace was a heavy trudge when I came to a turn in the trail and stopped short. Through the mist, a figure relaxed against a log by the trail, dressed in the garb of an itinerant samurai, eyes hidden under the shelter of the flattened cone of a broad-brimmed hat: Master Masakage.
The figure looked up casually at my approach; he did not wear the signature double swords of the samurai, nor bear any family clan emblem. Rather he bore only the short bladed wakizashi in his belt, and an axe rested on the log by his side - short helved and serviceable it looked more like a farmer’s tool than a weapon. From beneath the shadows of the brim of his circular hat, I saw I had been mistaken.
“You left in a hurry,” Yobutomo said, proffering a roughly folded cloak.
“I can’t stay.”
Yobutomo nodded. “Is it true what that assassin said, that you are traitor?”
“Yes.” I croaked.
How had I so easily dismissed my Master, had not considered the extent of his fury? My mind flittered atop the peaks of thoughts, knowing that if I were to linger upon any I would find an entire mountain of sorrow.
“You are right. This is no place to find refuge,” Yobutomo continued. “The yamabushi have clashed with Date’s forces on more than one occasion; he won’t hesitate to strike again if he knows you remain at the temple.”
“I… I have nowhere to go.”
“I will help you.”
I hesitated, then stepped forward a score of paces. Yobutomo watched me silently but I saw no malice, only patience and sympathy. I took the cloak, finding the edges and shaking it out; travel-worn, yet finely woven.
“I’m don’t deserve this. Please -”
“Enough. You are not to blame as much as you think you are.”
“I cannot keep you from your home.”
“The yamabushi’s home is the trail.” Yobutomo stood and settled the string of his pack across his chest. He took up his axe and, passing it through his belt, smiled at me from beneath the shelter of his broad brimmed hat. His manner was so beguiling I wondered how I had ever mistaken him for a samurai.
“Where will we go?” I asked.
Yobutomo smiled. “Kyoto.”
“Kyoto? What? Why?”
Yobutomo paused, seemingly weighing up something in his mind. “The details will have to wait, but for now I can tell you my idea. There is a special place, on a mountain on the outskirts of the city, a place like none other. A place of the gods.”
I blinked, and slowly shook my head. There was something in the way he had answered, some deliberate casualness than triggered my suspicions. I had been raised to deceive and to lie, and I knew to look for the subtle signs in others. “I am no monk, don’t ask me to become one.”
“I don’t ask anything; I simply give you an opportunity. There, you will find a home, at least for a while. A place where Lord Date and his servants cannot find you.”
“A temple?” I asked.
“Like none other. It is called Enryaku-ji. It sits at the summit of Mount Hiei, fortified by those opposed to the forces of tyranny sweeping the land. You will be protected.”
“How long do I have to hide?”
“The memories of those who have been betrayed are long.” Yobutomo must have seen the panic flashing in my eyes, for he was quick to add: “You have inner strength of spirit to endure, my boy.”
With both hands Yobutomo raised a conch shell to his lips and directing the blast towards the trees sounded a short signal. The deep resonance bled away without echo into the trees and then, from the far distance, there came an answering call.
Yobutomo grunted to himself and let the conch shell fall back to his side.
“Come on, let’s leave this all behind us.”