The Clever Hawk

by Ronan Frost

  *

  For the next three days, we travelled that secret path snaking through the mountains and the painful itching rash that had driven me to frustration started to fade. The weather held fair, the sky a pale cold blue when cloud cleared, the winter sun distant and low, the daylight hours short.

  That inner voice rose in multiple times in protest, telling me that I should not be here, that I did not belong, but I forced it down and trusted the old man. I took his advice and tried as best as I was able to focus only on the moment.

  We saw no other travelers, and the only sign people had ever been here was a long abandoned shack on the trail, half-collapsed under its own weight, the shadows within inky black. I slowed my pace and walked past slowly. It seemed the forest were reclaiming its territory, saplings growing from between splintered planks and vines clawing over every surface.

  Yobutomo would often move ahead, his pace naturally faster than mine, and he would wait by the trailside at regular intervals. He was always collecting long strands of grass, loping them off low with his knife and adding to the collection at his belt, and in the evenings, his hands would be engaged in constant weaving. I saw why soon enough; the sandals wore out quickly, and a constant supply was necessary.

  When we stopped to drink from the chill jewel of a mountain stream I noticed the hair at my temples stuck out. Reaching up, I felt the tips crusted in ice, yet despite the cold, sweat beaded upon my face.

  On the fourth day, we reached the main highway leading down the coast to Kyoto, a broad and flat road where the dirt was smooth enough for wagons and wide enough for an army to march ten abreast. Along with the countless tiny stone statues by the roadside there were on occasion milestones marking the distance to Kyoto. I would look for these markers and calculate how far we travelled, and slowly but surely the distance to Kyoto decreased.

  At towns along the way we would separate, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves as a boy travelling in the company of a yamabushi monk. In many places Yobutomo was welcomed and sometimes invited into homes, and in return for healing prayers the villagers would give him parcels of food, which he packed into his bag to share with me when we met up at the far end of the town.

  I felt a strange loneliness whenever we parted, watching with a strange jealousy the respectful reactions as people saw his distinctive yellow and white robes and straw hat. It was always with a sense of relief that I saw him leave the houses and return to where I waited.

  Yobutomo would often lecture me as he kept pace beside me.

  Keep your head upright, he would say. Lift your gaze, keep your eyes level with the horizon, your chest out.

  I found my habitual stride was long and he schooled me to keep it short, to minimize the time each foot was on the ground. Lean forward, he had said, keep your legs behind you. Do not lean backward.

  I was to carry his advice in my head for the many long years to come, for quite suddenly I felt it; I reached a certain pace slightly faster than was comfortable to maintain for long. The wind made an agreeable rushing noise in my ears and I found the truth to his words; to run is a continuous fall.