The Clever Hawk

by Ronan Frost

  Chapter Twelve

  I took a break to catch my breath. Yobutomo was up ahead on the trail and for the moment I was alone. Water clung to every surface, glistening upon trees and rocks. As had been our routine for the past few months, we had risen from our camp before sunrise, the air heavy and oppressive, the mist growing thicker and the air colder as we climbed.

  I shook myself and got to my feet, and began climbing again with a sigh. Yobutomo was waiting a little further up the trail, sitting upon a boulder.

  “Not so much further now, Tonbo.”

  As we climbed closer to the summit, voices filtered down through the trees, and the mud of the trail was flattened with the passage of feet. I saw no people, although heard the sounds of an army thousands strong. Mysterious shadows loomed in the mist as suddenly we came across the upturned curve of temple roofs, lantern posts standing like silent stone sentinels, some leaning as if weary and about to topple, water dripping from every surface. From somewhere deep in the mist came the tolling of a huge bell, the immediate sound of impact falling quickly into rich harmonics of sonorous reverberation that drew on and on, slowly fading like an evaporating dream.

  I stood with one foot upon a step in the path, watching Yobutomo as he strode through the mud towards the buildings, his straw hat low over his eyes, robe flung over one shoulder. I felt in that moment disjoined from reality, as if I had been plucked from my life in Miyamori castle and placed in this strange place by a giant hand.

  With a start I realized Yobutomo was not pausing. Afraid to lose sight of him, I hurried onwards, catching him as we treaded our way through the complex of buildings. Unlike the single large temple upon Mount Haguro, it seemed Enryaku-ji had hundreds of buildings, the towering trees a wall about the perimeter, the mountain continuing to rise gently into the grey middle distance to my left. Figures moved about in the swirling mist, the noise of construction and penned animals reaching my ears. Most wore monastic robes, with weapons at their belt.

  Yobutomo gave no indication that he noticed anyone, and I tried not to meet the gaze of those who gave surly looks of distrust.

  “Keep close to me.”

  I did not need further encouragement, and hugged close as we continued to walk deeper and deeper into the complex. Buildings emerged from the sea of ethereal white and took incongruous form of solidity and permanence, the aged stones of the walls and paths and monuments each imbued with their own kind of personality, mottled with growths, green moss flourishing between cracks where sunlight scarcely fell. From somewhere off in the hidden mists I felt the stamp of feet of warriors training and heard their unified shouts rend the air.

  Yobutomo knew exactly where he was going and our path led us through the tunnel of mist to the base of a large temple, its ultimate extent lost to the damp greyness in the air. At the base of the stone stairs two monks armed with long bladed naginata challenged us. At a word from Yobutomo one of the guards nodded and indicated that we may enter.

  We followed closely up the slick and slippery stairs and into the temple, removing our trail worn sandals. The guard called to someone within and a slender woman approached. She had a special kind of grace and beauty; the high ridge of a straight nose, lips slightly downturned at the corners, her silken hair long and unbound reaching down to her waist. She had an air of quiet authority about her, and the guardless braided grip of a tanto sword in a slender lacquered scabbard thrust through the cloth of her belt. I dropped my eyes to the floor and kept them there. Following Yobutomo’s lead I stepped up from the vestibule, feeling the tatami cool beneath my bare feet. After so long on the trail it felt strange to be indoors where things were clean and ordered.

  “Follow me,” the woman said, and started walking. We were led into a corridor, my eyes still upon the flooring, until we reached a room, the sliding door already open. Inside, a man sat upon a cushion at the far side of a low table, stacks of books in various states of disorder around him. I saw only the glistening top of the man’s shaved head, for he did not pause in his task of tallying numbers upon a parchment.

  “Yes?”

  Yobutomo stepped to the door and bowed deeply from the waist.

  “Kaibo Kan’emon, it has been a long time.”

  The man, Kan’emon, looked up. He had the face of a grizzled old warrior given to a life of lassitude and excess; his eyes deep-set in a face rounded by fat, his jowls and cheeks wobbling as he squinted shortsightedly at us. The scars across his face were a record of his past, his unusually prominent bulbous nose kinked from a long since healed break.

  “Yobutomo?” I could not read the expression that passed over Kan’emon’s face. The hard line of his mouth softened a little but his round cheeks did not go so far as to relax into a smile. His eyes flickered over Yobutomo’s yellow and white robes, taking in the conch shell and accoutrements at his belt. His words were more statement than question: “You are a yamabushi now.”

  Yobutomo nodded. “I am with those of Mount Haguro.”

  “Come in.” Kan’emon nodded a reassurance to the woman who still stood at our shoulder. “Thank you, Tomoe.”

  The slender woman bowed and took her silent leave.

  Kan’emon looked at me askant. “And who is this boy?”

  “He is someone I trust. He seeks protection here.”

  “Protection! You bring payment?”

  “He is strong, he can work.”

  Kan’emon shook his head and with an odd dexterity lay down the quill of his pen from the clubs of his fingers. “He looks too skinny to even stand on his own two feet.”

  “He has endurance.”

  “I turn away scores of men every day who are stronger.”

  “Mercenaries looking for an easy meal, who would just as soon turn on you given half a chance,” countered Yobutomo. “This boy is honest.”

  I shot Yobutomo a look of startled panic, the blood rushing to my face. To his credit, Yobutomo did not betray any hesitation.

  Kan’emon shrugged and slowly, almost sadly, shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but it is impossible. Please, sit down, it has been a long time. Let’s share some tea. My welcome can extend at least that far.”

  Yobutomo did not sit on the indicated cushions. Instead, he moved to the low knee-high table and placed his hands upon it, dropping to a squat on his haunches. “Take this boy, and I promise you the yamabushi of Mount Haguro will come to the aid of the monks of Enryaku-ji in the fight against Warlord Nobunaga.”

  Kan’emon sat back at his desk, furthering the distance between them a little.

  “You have the authority to speak for the yamabushi? They are a disorganized band at best.”

  “I give you my word.”

  “And I trust you at that.” He held his gaze steady for a moment as mark of his conviction, but then gave a bark of laugh. “However, things have changed. Warlord Nobunaga brings the battle to all. I can guarantee the yamabushi are committed to this war, an alliance with us or not.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  Kan’emon’s spread his arms expansively, taking in the piles of parchments. “It has been many years since you have been here, and much has changed. Temple funds are critically low. We cannot feed another mouth.”

  “What about the teachings? ‘Set your mind on the Way and clothing and food will be there.’”

  “We need coin.”

  “The yamabushi have none.”

  “Then we simply cannot take him on.”

  Yobutomo paused, and then seemed to reach some decision. He turned to me. “Tonbo, please, wait outside a moment. I would like to discuss something in private.”

  My gaze swung back and forth between them; Kan’emon’s eyebrows gave an intrigued twitch but Yobutomo’s expression gave nothing away. Left with no choice, I backed out into the corridor, the wooden door sliding closed behind me.

  From within, the voices were low, and I could not make anything out. Only a short time later I heard the creak
ing of the table as if weight were placed upon it; judging from the grunts it must have been Kan’emon levering himself to his feet. When the door opened Kan’emon’s height struck me, for he was much taller than I had at first judged. He was a giant; Yobutomo, who was not a short man, stood only shoulder high to the rounded slabs of Kan’emon’s shoulders.

  Kan’emon looked down at me from that lofty height with those unusual beady eyes that did not stop darting from one place to another. When he talked the unpleasant smell of onions and garlic wafted with his words. “Well then, boy, let’s get you settled.”

  He gave a clap upon my shoulder, a gesture intended to be one of companionship, but his reluctance was obvious. He said no more and began to walk away in the manner particular to the obese; swinging the fleshy pads of his hands beside his body as if he paddled his bulk through the air.

  I sought out Yobutomo’s attention. Even in that dim light I saw the old man’s face heavy with some secret knowledge.

  “What is it you said to him?” I demanded, when Kan’emon was out of earshot.

  “Later, when this is over, ask me then.”

  I was taken into the washroom to bathe. The clothes pulled over my head smelt of wood smoke permeated into the cloth, and I realized it had been many weeks since I had last bathed. It felt odd, for in the service of my old master Masakage I was forced to wash every day, lest any hint of odor give away my presence while I spied. Now, however, the chill water dashed by the bucketful over my body carried with it layers of dirt that formed the sentences filling the book of my journey.

  I was not given long before I was taken outside and seated, and a monk proceeded to cut handfuls of my hair low to my scalp and then began to shave it completely, my head cold and strangely sticky to the touch.

  I was given instructions: as the newest of the monks, my tasks were the most menial: cleaning the vast expanse of floor in the temple with cloth and bucket, sweeping the paths surrounding it, and braving the stench to empty the latrine buckets.

  In addition to my daily chores, I was charged with attending to Kan’emon’s needs; fetching his meals, folding and stowing his bedding in the cupboards every morning and making it afresh each evening. That evening, my head spinning with all I had been told, I was given a small pallet to sleep upon in a room with other temple workers, mostly older men than myself. I was relieved to see Yobutomo had joined me.

  I had not seen him all day, and at the sight of him fought a sudden rise of a desperate panic, feeling as if the ground were slipping away from beneath my feet. “I can’t do it.”

  He looked surprised. “Are you not comfortable here?”

  I looked down at my hands, found that I was holding them together tight. “Kan’emon, he despises me. And this… It is not my home. I am alone.”

  Yobutomo bent his head from side to side, straightening a crick in his neck. Finally, he broke the growing silence. “Remember, you serve no man but yourself. At any time, you may leave. Perhaps you may find shelter and food elsewhere, but it is dangerous, far more so than you realize.” He then turned to me, a kindly fondness tinged with some deep sorrow in his eye. “I only bring you here because I know you will find protection, as I myself once did.”

  “Can’t I come back with you to Mount Haguro?” I hated the way the hopeless waver crept into my voice, I sounded weak. I cowered; Master Masakage would surely have struck me for such mewling.

  “There is no protection there. The yamabushi do not linger there long; we have no standing army, unlike here.”

  I had never truly thought of Miyamori castle as a home, but now, after such a prolonged absence, after so long on the road, it felt as if I were adrift upon a vast sea; no landmarks to mark my way, only the ever shifting waves and vast emptiness overhead.

  I could not help but feel a pang of heartache, yearning for Aki. I had harbored dreams that I could somehow be with her if I passed from this world and into the afterlife. My vision blurred, and despite myself, I felt memories resurface. Details were losing their edge in my mind’s eye, yet that feeling of compulsion would never pass, the way my senses were compelled to drink in every detail about her. Like a sudden stomach cramp, something twisted inside of me, and in that moment, Yobutomo’s hand upon my shoulder was the only thing tethering me to world.