The Clever Hawk

by Ronan Frost

  *

  The empty drum of the sky rumbles with distant thunder.

  We are in shadow, the setting sun disappeared over the rise of the mountain at our backs, as from our vantage on the eastern flank we see smoke from the sacked village of Sakamoto which lies at the foot of the mountain, a vast solid column of destruction that rises into the pallid sky until reaching a distinct height where high winds flatten its peak into a long streak across the sky.

  I look down at the flowing river in the ravine below where the smoldering skeletal posts are all that remain of the bridge, sealing ourselves in. The last of the fleeing townspeople from the ravaged houses of Sakamoto have fled up the mountain to take refuge in the temple. They came hollow-eyed and desperate, for they had seen death come to their neighbors and their family, and pleaded for protection from the mountain monks. My warning had come but hours before Nobunaga’s army, tens of thousands strong, had made their move, surrounding the mountain in a vast ring, moving steadily upwards, burning and shooting all that stood in their way. I am not sure if I have unwitting sealed the fate of thousands more lives by drawing the armies of Hiei together inside the tightening noose.

  Our forces, bolstered by those strong enough to hold a weapon from the routed city of Sakamoto, are distributed throughout the hillside, hiding in wait, holding position until the enemy should reveal himself. I admire the skill of the mountain monks, for they have used the natural terrain to their advantage and their camouflage is such that the forest seems empty even though I know hundreds lay in wait.

  All that can be done has been done, the entire day passing as if through a kind of surreal lens. I have not eaten nor rested, yet I feel no hunger or fatigue. Rather, I am propelled by a nervous energy. With sunset the wind is rising, whipping the branches overhead into a frenzy and as I cautiously descend through the foliage I feel it buffeting my body. There is no rain, but in all directions come the staccato flash-flash of lightning within the clouds.

  For the thousandth time, I wish Yobutomo were here.

  “Tonbo, is that you? Come over here, boy.”

  I look around, and see Kan’emon waving his hand, gesturing me to come closer. I approach a thicket of mature bamboo. He is with Tomoe, both upon their haunches, studying the ground before them where they have scratched lines of a map and placed small sticks upright in the earth. To my eye the scratches are meaningless, yet it gives me heart that there is at least someone here who has a plan of action.

  Kan’emon hands me a thick bladed sword. “Here, take this.”

  “What? No, please. I have no skill, it is far more useful in your hands.”

  He presses it into my chest until I am forced to hold its weight.

  “I have enough of my own, take it.”

  I bow my gratitude, and although I have bowed to this man many times in the past, this is the first time my heart truly bends.

  The sky rumbles, and the first fat drops of summer rain begin to fall, slapping through the leaves, a handful making it through the foliage and hitting the ground heavily. Kan’emon grins.

  “The gods favor us,” he said.

  The drops double in frequency, and then double again. Within moments it has intensified so that the rain becomes a roar of white noise in the forest, drowning all else. There is some delay as the earth soaks up the water, but it is not long before it is saturated and rivulets form begin to run downstream, fingers of tributaries adding to the slowly rising waters of the river. The sky plunges into darkness as the storm clouds move overhead. We are soaked through as the water hammers down through the branches, but the air is strangely warm. Through the trees come silent flashes of lightning, faint and distant, a promise of what is to come.

  There is nothing to do but hunch our shoulders and stoically wait. The roar of the rain falling tirelessly from the sky drowns out all room for thought or speech. Soon, full night is upon us.

  Then lightning strikes directly overhead, illuminating the night in full color for a fraction of a moment. Thunder rends the air like the splitting fibers of a great tree, the sound and fury awakening a deep and primal fear deep in my core. I blink and wipe my eyebrows, sweat stinging as it is washed into my face.

  Then I see them. The approaching army; tall posts upon which are strung the banners of war, Nobunaga’s crest, black ink upon white cloth, rippling furiously in the wind. They have marched upon the bridge at the far side of the river, using the storm to disguise their advance.

  There is a cry of warning. Then the first arrows fly across the river toward us, coming as heavily and as rapid as the rain, fired blindly into the trees but none-the-less frightening. They whistle as they pass through the branches and plunge into the undergrowth or into the girth of trees. We are spread out over such a large area that the enemy’s attack is diluted and finds no mark.

  I peer through branches dancing with driving rain, seeing that Nobunaga’s army has reached the destroyed bridge, and is bringing up scores of men to repair it with felled tree trunks. I hear the buzzing hum of something passing close by my ear and drop to the ground.

  From all around me monks return the arrow fire. Tomoe nocks a plain bolthead arrows with barely a point to them, shaped to punch through breastplate armor. I dare to raise myself upon my haunches again and see a cloud of black upon black of the monks’ return salvo, a wave of arrows given speed from higher ground plunging into the industrious foes upon the bridge. In the noise of the downpour they are too far away for their cries to reach my ears and I see them fall silently into the waters below. A new wave of Nobunaga’s soldiers sweeps forward to replace the fallen, arquebuses taking up position in leapfrog advances. The sharp reports of the firearms are almost continuous, the shots too numerous to distinguish individually, sounding like a chain of fireworks at a festival, shrapnel ravaging the leaves and branches of the hillside where I duck low.

  Several voices close by cry out in sudden pain. I see a monk to my right break from his cover, drawing back his arm as he cocks an arrow to his bow, but before he can release the top of his skull is blown clean away.

  Frustratingly, the monks leave their arquebuses at their feet, still in their tight covers, using only their bows.

  “We must return fire!” I cry to Kan’emon. Even to one as green to warfare as myself, I see that arrows alone will not be enough to hold off the enemy who are already halfway towards completing the bridge.

  He does not reply, but in reply shouts at the top of his lungs, addressing the monks within range.

  “Hold! Keep the guns covered!”

  The enemy surge is an unstoppable tide, leaking and spilling into every opening. A tree has been laid across the gap, and already two more are lined up behind. Footsoldiers scramble in the banks below, climbing down the steep sides and braving the torrential flow. There must be hundreds growing into thousands upon the path already, shouting as they come. It is only a matter of time until we are enveloped. Already a score have crossed, their numbers swelling like a black tide, swords flashing silver in the rain like the sides of fish within a stream.

  War banners illuminated by nearby torches flaming despite the downpour show the crest of the Nobunaga clan, a five leaved flower. Rising above the footsoldiers are the mounted samurai directing the charge, and with them I see other banners of different clans that have joined the forces of Nobunaga’s army, among them two facing sparrows, the clan of Date Masamune. I find myself oddly detached from reality as I watch my former master’s forces through the eyes of their enemy.

  Then fat heavy drops ease, a typical summer shower; heavy, intense, but quickly over. The leaves and bores of the trees drip mightily, but the air slowly clears. The enemy still scramble upwards and closer.

  “Now!” shouts Kan’emon.

  The covers are removed from the arquebuses and finally the monks of Enryaku-ji raise the firearms to their shoulders and take aim. From all sides I am concussed with the controlled fire of a hundreds of gunners. The sound seems to echo between h
eaven and earth, the force of the defense driving Nobunaga’s army back like a great wind, flaying men through their armor, the bodies of dead and wounded stacking like leaves. There is little answering gunfire; the weapons of Nobunaga’s army are wet, waterlogged, and useless. I see the heads of their gunners bent over their weapons as they work, frustrated and impotent.

  “Namu amida butsu!” comes the shouted chant from the monks, over and over from hundreds of mouths, raising their fighting spirits, intimidating their enemy. They reload, and again light up the night with the sizzle and flash of gunpowder.

  It is as if Kan’emon has been kept on a tight leash, and finally that energy spills forth. He leaps to his feet and races down the hillside, his long naginata whirling above his head.

  I raise to my feet, about to follow, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. I turn and look into Tomoe’s impassive face.

  “We wait here,” she says simply.

  Nobunaga’s men struggle for footing in the mud as they cross the river, and horses charging up behind them stumble and fall. They have fallen into the trap we have set earlier that afternoon; old pots and vases buried up to their necks trapping their ankles and cracking beneath their feet. The monks lying in ambush close the jaws of the trap, firing down at the stationary targets. All the while I hear the constant creak as Tomoe draws back her bow and twang of release, firing arrow after arrow down into the riverbank. The enemy claw into the cover of the reeds but they are too slow, their backs shredded by arquebus fire and arrow. The chant echoes over the hillside with a depth to rival the magnitude of thunder, surging like a tide of triumph.

  “Namu amida butsu!”

  Kan’emon is at the bridge. He lumbers forward as implacable as a hungry bear and pushes away the makeshift logs Nobunaga’s men had placed across the span. They fall into the waters below, leaving only those blackened posts. Kan’emon steps upon the supports of the bridge, spinning his deadly blade of the naginata over his head as soldiers charge. Although they have lost the use of their guns, arrows still flash from the ranks of Nobunaga’s men, whistling through the air, lodging into the beams of the bridge. Kan’emon’s naginata is perfectly balanced as he spins it like a waterwheel, deflecting and shattering the wooden shafts, yet he cannot stop them all. I see two long shafts plunge into Kan’emon’s flesh but he seems to not notice.

  Several more attackers come at him, forced by the narrowness of the bridge to come at him one at a time. Kan’emon favors the upward stroke toward the unprotected groin, using the leverage and length of the polearm to cast them to the waters below as easily as a fisherman might flick his line of fish. My heart goes out to him, as if my will alone can give him strength.

  If it were any lesser army, victory would have been had. But these are the allied forces of Nobunaga, armies that have seen countless battles, whose loyal soldiers are not afraid to throw themselves forward with no regard to their own lives, knowing that they have the unstoppable inertia of Warlord Nobunaga behind them; their deaths will be honorable, propelling them upwards into the next life. There is no shortage to the number of foes leaping to meet Kan’emon’s blade.

  Suddenly with one mighty clash, the haft of his naginata splinters in his hands. He looks at it a moment, then throws it away. A foot solider sees the weakness and charges with his lance, aiming to run the monk through and cast him into the river. Kan’emon reaches back over his head, grasping the hilt of the tachi strapped to his back. The sword blade is naked and flashing across his body, slicing away the tip of the spearing lance. The footsoldier cannot check his advance, which has now become a stumble, and he is within Kan’emon’s range. The second slash of his sword removes the footsoldier’s arm at the elbow clean through bone sinew and lacquered armor.

  Wielding the sword in an interlaced, zig-zag style he mows down another three men, finding the weak points in armor, his steel finding soft flesh. On the next, his blade snaps, caught in a helmet of the foot soldier, and Kan’emon twists the haft and bodily shoves both the blade and the enemy into the waters below. From his belt he seizes a tanto and the next man who meets him finds his sword battered away and his throat cut by that short blade.

  There is a respite, and the soldiers at last back away. Kan’emon seems to stiffen, then stop, as rotund and implacable as a statue of Buddha. Arrows stick from his body, lodged in his arms, the armor of his chest, and his legs.

  Several footsoldiers cautiously approach, heads ducked low, edging sidelong.

  Kan’emon is still.

  The soldiers pause, edge another step. It seems Kan’emon moves a fraction, for suddenly they retreat hastily, shields held high, but they are impelled forward from their leaders. A lance probes out, touches Kan’emon.

  At last they realize, although still standing, he is dead.

  Slowly, he topples forward, and his body adorned with a hundred arrows drops into the blackness below.

  There is a sound of a horn, and a fresh charge surges forward. A wave of footsoldiers have between them a felled sugi tree, hacked of its side limbs. Behind them, three other groups with similarly sized trees advance. I see there will be no stopping the advance this time. A fresh wave of arrows pelts the foliage. Instinctively, the muscles between my shoulder blades bunch together.

  “We must retreat,” Tomoe states flatly. “Follow me.”

  In the space of only moments, it has become a rout. The monks scatter before the rush of Nobunaga’s soldiers swarming up the hillside. We run towards the temple buildings, our way lit by flaming torchlight in places, but mostly we move by the feeble blue light of the stars above. As we climb, I see those who have been hit by arrows or gunfire, their bodies littered the wet undergrowth. It does not take strength to aim and fire a weapon, so the ranks of these ranged defenders are made of a large number of women, even young girls and boys.

  I am with the stream of fleeing monks as we filter into the outskirts of the temple buildings. There are no walls or gates to pass through, for each sub-temple has been constructed to defend itself from its neighbors, not from an external attack.

  There is a strange moment of calm. Nobody speaks. The roofs drip and running feet slap wetly in the mud. An east wind has picked up, gusting through the night, the trees talking between themselves in a susurrus of thousands of leaves.

  From down the hill come sounds of the clash of steel upon steel. The first of Nobunaga’s samurai have appeared, met and repelled by the monks who have taken cover within the buildings. There is the sizzling cracking explosion of gunpowder, for the monks have taken the opportunity to repack and reload their arquebuses, and I hear the screams and shouts of those hit. I feel a curious sense of calm. The monks to my left and right attack, weapons aloft. I find myself moving with them as if directed by a mind that is not my own, my actions directed by a larger consciousness. There is no order to this skirmish, it is a brawl of close combat and confusing shadow and blinding flash of muzzle fire. I am jostled and shoved, and I feel but do not see scores of arrows passing within a hair’s breadth. A monk to my right falls, and my flank is exposed. There is a slash of a naginata in the dark, narrowly missing my shoulder, striking the attacking footsoldier. The cone-shaped helmet of hardened leather splinters and the man’s head snaps sideways and he falls away, out of my sight and lost instantly in the scramble. My head whirls with the strangeness of it all, is that death I had just seen? But I do not have time to think and process, but only react.

  In the melee I come across Tomoe. A curved sickle traces a long arc as she spins it above her head on a length of chain, slicing and tearing at those before her. The sickle whips with deadly accuracy and with such range that her foes fall back, forming a wide circle of bare earth at her feet. The way she moves and fights is somehow sensuous, every ounce of her strength is put into each blow but it does not blunt her aim or her technique. As I watch the sickle jerks to a stop, lodged into a footsoldier’s neck, and she pulls upon the chain, freeing the blade, the enemy falling forward with hands useles
sly pressing against the spouting geyser of blood. I see how she has gained the reputation for never letting blood fall upon her, for she moved as if it were a dance, ducking away too quickly even to be caught by the crimson spray.

  A footsoldier charges upon Tomoe’s back and I swing the blade that Kan’emon had given me. It catches the footsoldier across the chest and digs into his lacquered armor and the sword is flung from my hands. Tomoe pivots and with a flick of her wrist whips the sickle through the throat of the stumbling footsoldier. Now weaponless, I crouch with hands outspread and searching.

  A blast wave of wind from an explosion knocks me suddenly from my feet, casting me fluttering and flapping like an autumn leaf. I fall face forward to the ground that has pooled with muddy water with a high pitched ringing driving like nails into my head. I open my eyes, seeing at first only the stones and mud and leaves. I raise my head and slowly shift my focus. The smoke swirls, and like a curtain opening upon a stage I see I have fallen before the wooden statue of Fujin, the god of wind. In the flickering light, his power strikes a chord deep in my being. He lies upon his side, part of his head splintered away. His mouth is carved open in a silent ferocious roar, the muscles of his body bulging in exaggerated fullness as he holds a writhing bag of wind over his shoulders. Lying awkwardly atop those mighty arms of the statue is a monk, his body shredded, his face turned away from me, flung by force of the explosion. Something shifts in the settling debris and the monk’s body rolls, a limp sack of bones and flesh. He crashes to the earth, his right arm flings downward, his arquebus in his hand and landing by my side as surely as if were a deliberate presentation to me. The monk lies face-up in the mud, his eyes wide open and for a moment I half-expect those white-rimmed pupils to flicker in my direction.

  The night sky is illuminated in a brilliant yellow as one the temple building burns, the thatching of its roof catching the flame despite the rain. The air is thick with smoke and steam and that incessant ringing in my ears makes me feel suddenly isolated, as if I am the only being upon the entire earth. It is an unerring sensation, and I do not try to stand, instead feeling everything recede away.

  A phalanx of riders draws to the base of the rise, a mere stone’s throw away. Armor and banners flutter about the mighty warhorses, those sitting atop straight-backed and with a presence of command. The milling horses allow a brief view to the rider center-most; the unmistakable silhouette of the upright half crescent moon upon his helmet like the horns of bull.

  It is Lord Date Masamune, the One-Eyed Dragon himself, leading his men from the frontline.

  They move at a leisurely pace through the swirling smoke and bright light and stark shadow of the blazing fires. Lord Date raises his arm in an encompassing sweep, giving an order to his retinue that I cannot hear. Two of his samurai gallop away, leaving him with less than ten guards. Feeling as if my actions have been pre-ordained, I switch my focus to the dead monk lying by my side, stretching my arm that seems to have lost all sensation to prise the arquebus free of the claw of dead man’s hand. I almost recoil; disturbed to find the flesh is soft and still warm. My nervous gaze skitters across the monk’s face, as if to ask permission to take his weapon, but he is still. The grip is surprisingly heavy as I raise the gun to my shoulder, my fingers tracing along the wood, trying to find the trigger. I have seen these weapons used, but never held one. I do not even know if it is loaded.

  I sight down the length of the steel bore, taking aim at Date, but samurai mill about, and I can’t get a clear shot.

  Then Tomoe is there, looking small as she stands before the group of mighty warhorses. Undaunted, she steps forward; her chain whirling over her head on a short leash, with extra length held in her free hand.

  The samurai bodyguards edge forward to protect their master but Date shoves them aside, spurring his horse forward between them. Light plays across his face, his lips curled in savage pleasure as he brings his longbow up to his eye, squinting along the length of the nocked arrow, his other eye masked by the black and shiny cup of the eyepatch. Drawing his arm, he loosens and Tomoe flings herself aside as the arrow embeds into the earth, nicking the edge of her robe, missing her by a fraction. Date cocks his head in surprise, the grin stretching as if pleased to be challenged. He reaches to the quiver at his belt in the saddle before him and grasps a handful of arrows, holding them like a fan in his draw hand. Knowing I have only moments, I look down the sights of the gun, but Date’s horse is dancing and I have to trace the heavy weapon to follow his path.

  My finger presses upon the trigger and some mechanism moves, but I hesitate, and can only watch as he drops one arrow after another into the string and fires upon Tomoe. Drawing and firing; one, two, three, four shots in rapid succession. I have never seen such skill, his motions so fluid it seems easy, each draw short and loosened without pause. Tomoe somehow avoids every one; using the crescent blade and chain to deflect some, dancing and twisting from others.

  Date throws back his head, and I see he is roaring with laughter. He gives an impatient gesture to two of the attendant samurai, who nod at the command and dig their heels into the mounts, surging forward upon Tomoe as if to run her down, their weight low. She dives aside, barely missing the hooves and launching the chain and sickle at one as he charges by, the momentum driving the point of the sickle deeper into the chest of the samurai as feet splayed Tomoe is able to hold the chain as it whips taut, vibrating with tension as the blade rips the rider into the air and to the ground, spouting blood from torn plates of armor, his chest opened, and the riderless horse vanishes into the smoke.

  The remaining samurai pivots and charges with drawn katana as Tomoe wrenches upon the chain but it is embedded and stuck fast. She gives a violent pull and the body at the end of the chain twists but it is not enough. The samurai raises his blade, suddenly upon her. At the very last moment she drops the chain and ducks under the feet of the galloping horse, pressing herself close to the flank as the razor sharp edge swishes through the air. Tomoe does not aim for samurai’s body high upon horseback, but instead she grabs low at his boot, breaking it free of the stirrup. There is a confused blur of shadow as samurai draws his horse to a stop, hauling upon the reins so the beast’s head stands upright, mighty muscles in its neck twisting upright.

  Again, I find Date with the sights of my gun. He sits upon his horse, watching the scene play out. Then the rest of the attendant guards draw closer, obscuring him from me. I know I have only one chance. The end of the barrel wavers, up down left right, as I try to compensate, unable to find the right degree of strength. I am on my belly, noisome smoke in my lungs and eyes, the wet grass pressing against my body, my elbows propping the weight of the gun. I have the advantage of higher ground, yet still the shot is not clear.

  Meanwhile, the samurai wrenches his foot away from Tomoe, drawing back his leg in preparation to stamp down. Tomoe ducks beneath the horse’s belly and suddenly upon the opposite side she pulls the man from his horse. He is caught off-balance and for a moment teeters atop his mount, clawing uselessly at the air, but he cannot find purchase and they both come tumbling down heavily together. Tomoe’s hand is about his waist, drawing the wakizashi short sword. Heavy in his armor, the samurai takes a fraction longer to recover and Tomoe has her foot on his chest. She seizes the samurai’s top-knot of hair and cuts off his head with a quick and bloody slash. Blood fountains as she whips the dismembered head in an arc and flings it into the night. She stands there, her head bowed, the wakizashi held low in one hand, her chest rising and falling.

  Then she gives a hiccup as if she had been given a hard push to the chest. Her head snaps upright, finding Date looking at her, lowering his bow with calm satisfaction. He is in my sights.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  The gun explodes into life, the recoil shoving the butt hard up into my shoulder.

  In that moment everything is millpond still; Date’s head whipped to one side, a spurt of blood staining the stone wall, his guards too shoc
ked to move at the shot that has come so unexpectedly from the darkness.

  I have found my mark.

  My heart seems to flutter to a halt and I do not know how to react to the mad flow of exaltation flooding my veins, and then suddenly the moment of ethereal silence is gone. Date finds his balance and regains himself upon his saddle, holding a hand to the side of his face, and as he straightens I see his face.

  I have taken only his ear.

  He hauls upon his reins and wheels his rearing horse, and taking his cluster of samurai with him, retires from the field.

  My eyes return to Tomoe, who has not moved. Then I see the dark shadow upon her robe, and I think, the onna-bugeisha has lost her reputation to have never been stained by a drop of blood. But then I see the stain is growing. She seems captivated by the sight of black feathers protruding from her breast over her heart, sunken so deep that only a handspan of the arrow shaft protrudes.

  She drops the blade and falls to her knees, teetering, then collapses to the mud.