by Renee Ahdieh
And by whom.
She glanced at Ren sidelong as they made their way toward the center of the encampment. Through the haze of the afternoon sun, his yellowed eyes reminded her of a snake lying in wait in the summer grass. How it would slither in the shadows while it pursued its prey, lulling everything around it into a false sense of safety.
Perhaps the best way for Mariko to gain answers was for her to do the same. To stop being difficult. To start paying attention.
Follow orders. Engender trust.
First she needed to find a way to be useful to the Black Clan. Then—when the men were lulled into a false sense of safety—she would strike. Discomfort twisted through her chest as she pondered this course of action. For it was not one of honor; it was one of deceit. Unsettlingly more so than her choice to don the garments of a boy and seek out the Black Clan.
A true warrior would face her enemies without flinching. Not slither about in the shade.
But there was so much Mariko wished to know. So much she wished to learn.
And she was beginning to realize that honor did not serve her well in a den of thieves.
Briefly Mariko toyed with the idea of asking Ren how Ōkami’s powers worked. The fool thought knowledge did not win wars? Knowledge was everything in a war. Especially in a war of wits. She could trick the evil twit into revealing damaging information. Learn how Okami was able to move as he did. Why the use of his powers seemed to take such a harsh toll on him.
As she glanced one last time over her shoulder, Mariko discovered she also wanted to know where the Wolf was going.
And to whom.
But for now she would lie in the shadows and wait.
WEAKNESS OF THE SPIRIT
The man with the wooden leg hovered over a steaming pot, peering into its contents with the focus of a mother hen. He paused to stoke the fire beneath the iron cauldron. A sooty box bellows groaned as he fed the flames with a blast of air.
As Mariko had first suspected, this Yoshi was the cook.
When another gust of steam rose from the pot, Yoshi stepped away, something akin to a smile spreading across his face. He was slightly portly in the middle. His reddened forehead shone with sweat, and one of his ears appeared larger than the other.
Yoshi leaned forward when Mariko and Ren approached. His eyes were still fixed on the contents of the pot.
“Yoshi-san.” Ren prodded Mariko closer by digging his shoulder into her back. She refrained from scowling when she stumbled forward.
“Are you still here?” Yoshi muttered without even turning around.
His dismissive tone reminded Mariko of her father, though Yoshi appeared several years younger than Hattori Kano. She pursed her lips. “I’m not certain I have a choice.” She pitched her voice low. Gave it a grating quality, as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of sand. It was true Mariko had decided to cooperate, but she knew only a fool would appear pleased to be the Black Clan’s captive. At least not so soon after being taken prisoner.
“Of course you have a choice,” Yoshi said.
“I fail to see what it is.”
He turned to face her fully, a long wooden spoon hanging from one fist. “You could run.” His tone was circumspect, the lines around his mouth deep-set.
Mariko paused in consideration. Wondered what could prompt Yoshi to make such a point. “I’d be caught.”
“It’s true.” He nodded, drumming the spoon against his thigh in almost rhythmic fashion. “You would likely be caught.”
“Then why bother with the risk?”
“Without risk, life is far too predictable.”
Mariko stared at him, forcing her expression blank. She had not expected to find a philosopher buried beneath the cook’s worn exterior. “We are born. We live. We die. All that matters in life is predictable. A rock settles into the soil. A blossom gives off a fragrance. A—”
“A blossom can split through a rock, given enough time.”
“And enough sunlight. Enough water. Enough—”
Yoshi laughed sharply. The sound warmed through her in a way that troubled her. Mariko did not want to like any member of the Black Clan. Much less this portly fellow brandishing a wooden spoon. Yoshi continued laughing, his surliness causing the sound to spike into the patches of light above. He turned back toward his precious pot of steaming liquid, lowering the spoon into its depths with that same sharpened awareness.
Her curiosity growing with each passing moment, Mariko leaned closer to peer into the boiling vat, determined to see what Yoshi labored so painstakingly to prepare.
The bubbling liquid shifted as he stirred. A familiar object swirled into view.
Eggs?
“You seem disappointed.” Yoshi eyed her askance.
Mariko frowned. “They’re just eggs.”
His lips protruded in a scowl as Yoshi removed one egg from the pot and gingerly dropped it into another bowl of water nearby. “These are not just any eggs.” Using the tip of his spoon, Yoshi began rolling the egg in the water.
The silence that descended on them stretched uncomfortably thin. Mariko could no longer keep quiet. “Why are you washing the egg after boiling it?”
“This is cold water,” Yoshi said as he took the egg from its chilled bath and raised it into the light. “Two extremes make for one perfectly cooked egg.” He tapped the rounded end of the egg against the side of the pot. Then he did the same to the pointed end. He lifted the egg to his lips and blew hard, as though he meant to cool it entirely in a single breath.
The egg flew from its shell into Yoshi’s waiting hand.
“Eat it.” He offered it to her.
The last time Mariko had consumed an offering by a member of the Black Clan, she’d awoken to find herself thrown across the back of a horse. Nevertheless hunger overcame her the instant she took hold of the egg. A stronger warrior would have refused to eat any food offered by the enemy. But in this case she was not a strong warrior. She was a starving sparrow.
Mariko took a small bite. The white of the egg was cool and creamy. Light as a feather. Its center was the warm yellow of a dandelion. Steam rose from it in a perfect curl. In short, it was quite possibly the most delicious thing Mariko had eaten in her entire life. She opened her mouth to swallow the remaining bite whole.
“Wait!” Yoshi said, startling her still. From a small, earthenware jar, he removed a piece of pickled ginger half the size of his palm. Moving faster than Mariko’s eyes could follow, Yoshi yanked a hooked dagger from the collection at his belt and sliced two paper-thin slivers of ginger on top of the egg. Then he prodded her to eat by raising his brows.
Mariko had been wrong before.
This was the best thing she’d ever eaten in her entire life.
Though her mouth was full, Mariko began offering muffled words of gratitude. It galled her to be giving thanks to a member of the Black Clan, but she’d already made her choice. For however long they kept her here, she would follow their orders. Find a way to be useful to them.
And wait in the grass to strike.
As Mariko started to speak, a rock pinged against the side of the iron cauldron, surprising her. The precious egg spilled from her mouth onto the earth. Before Mariko could think to react, Yoshi yanked another dagger from his belt and hurled it into the bushes at her back.
Ren shouted as the dagger struck the tree trunk a hairsbreadth from his shoulder. The branches around him shuddered from the impact.
“Mealtime is sacred,” Yoshi scolded. “You know this better than anyone.”
“Boss said I could do as I pleased with the new recruit,” Ren fumed. “Even told me I could kill him if he broke any of our rules.”
New recruit? Rules?
Mariko struggled to stay emotionless as a flurry of thoughts whirled through her mind. Yoshi’s already flushed face reddened further. In t
hat moment, Mariko knew she was right to keep silent.
Ren had just revealed something he was clearly not meant to divulge.
Yoshi took a deliberate step in Ren’s direction. A step laced with warning. “He did not say you could do as you pleased with me. And as long as Sanada Takeo is with me, I insist you leave him be.”
“Fine,” Ren said, anger flashing in his yellowed eyes. “Enjoy your meal, Lord Weakling, for it might be your last!” As he yelled his threat, he fought to untangle himself from the brambles at his feet. Then he spun away, his expression promising a fierce reprisal in the near future.
Predictable, at all turns.
Mariko stared at the ruined egg lying on the ground. She contemplated picking it up and finishing it, dirt and all.
Such a shame to waste something so delicious.
“If that was to be my last meal,” Mariko murmured, “how fitting is it that it fell from my lips before I could eat it?”
The previously rough timbre of Yoshi’s laughter was gentler now. “Despite what I thought at first glance, you do have a flair for the dramatic. As to this being your last meal, that will depend on what Ranmaru decides.” He transferred another egg from the boiling vat into the cool bath. “Though I must say, for someone on the brink of death, you do appear remarkably calm.”
Mariko gnawed at her lower lip, once more considering what kind of information Yoshi intended to wheedle from her with his surly brand of kindness.
What kind of information she could, in turn, wheedle from him.
“I am not calm,” she said finally. “It’s a constant effort to quell my fear.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because I do not wish to appear weak.”
Another smile tugged at his mouth as Yoshi unshelled a new egg for Mariko.
His kindness could be a tactic. A way to wear down her defenses. Extreme cruelty tempered by extreme consideration. Much like the egg.
It could all be a trick.
But the egg—that simple egg—was so wonderful. So perfect.
How could anyone who would take such care to prepare a simple egg truly be bad?
Mariko sighed to herself.
If Yoshi’s kindness was a lie or a trick, she would let herself fall prey. All in service to a greater goal.
Follow orders. Engender trust.
Strike when they least expect it.
She would learn who these men were. Whom they served.
And why they’d tried to kill her.
When the bushes behind Mariko rustled once more, Yoshi yanked another small dagger from his belt and took aim. A yelp and the scurry of fleeing feet followed.
While she chewed, Mariko marveled at the fluidity of his movements. His wooden limb did not hamper him. Nor did it grant him any advantage, in that heedless way of stories. It was not a gift, nor was it a blessing.
It simply was. Just as he simply was.
And Yoshi threw daggers as though he was born to it, like an eagle taking flight.
This realization prompted her to consider a new idea:
Perhaps true weakness is weakness of the spirit.
“How long did it take you to learn to throw a kunai like that?” Mariko asked with unconcealed admiration.
“Most of my life.”
Her eyes dropped to the intricate leather belt at his hip. To the array of polished blades, each of varying shape and size. “What is the purpose behind having so many different kinds of daggers?”
“Some kunai are better to throw short distances. Others are better for longer ones. The remaining ones? Well, that’s among the many secrets I possess.” He snorted.
Mariko thought of Ren and his pebbles. “I wish I possessed this skill.” Her lips quirked to one side. “Today of all days, a skill like this would have served me well.”
“You could learn. Given enough training, anyone could.”
“I’m not so sure.” Lines of doubt settled across her face. “Are you also going to inform me I need to be as swift as a fire so I may move mountains in the wind?”
Yoshi laughed loudly.
Mariko caught herself before she could smile. “And you shouldn’t dismiss your abilities. It insults both you and me at the same time.”
Another raise of his brows. She suspected people did not often speak to Yoshi in such a direct manner. “Is that so?”
“Yes. You insult yourself by dismissing skills that took you a lifetime to develop. At the same time you insult me by stating that I need only try—as though the only hindrance is my own lack of effort.” Mariko’s speech grew more rapid with each passing word. She took a deep breath before continuing. “To even attempt something, one must first believe in the possibility. And then be granted an opportunity.” As Mariko finished, she glanced meaningfully at the portly fellow.
Yoshi’s grin turned knowing. “Alas, Sanada Takeo, you will not be granted the opportunity to throw a dagger here. But your attempt to try is duly noted. And appreciated.”
“Not an attempt. Rather an unceasing challenge of life,” she mused. “To learn, even when knowledge itself may fail you.”
“Rather the unceasing challenge of youth,” Yoshi said drily as he lowered more eggs into the simmering pot. “Not to worry; I can promise that all great opportunities in life follow some form of struggle.”
“May I ask what it is you struggle with most?” Mariko prodded.
Yoshi rubbed a sleeve on the sweat gathering above his brow. Then he wandered to the bushes to retrieve the blade he’d thrown at Ren, prying it from where the kunai was embedded in the tree trunk. He lifted the dagger into the light, then lovingly restored it to its place at his hip.
“Learning a new blade,” he replied.
A groove formed at the bridge of Mariko’s nose.
Yoshi said, “Every blade has its own path. Every handle is different. Every tang is unique. The balance of every dagger is its own.”
Again Mariko lingered in thought. “Would consistency not make it better? Consistency in the forging of the steel. In the forming of the blade.”
“Consistency is not enough. It doesn’t account for chance, and there is always a chance the handle will strike the mark instead of the blade. No amount of skill can thwart it every time.”
Mariko studied the hooked dagger Yoshi had used to shave slices of pickled ginger. “Two blades affixed in their centers like a cross would work better.” She considered further. “Or perhaps even three. Like a star.”
“Why not four?” Yoshi said with amusement. “Alas, you will never see me wielding a cumbersome thing like that. Any effective kunai would need to be light.” In one flowing motion, he whipped a blade from its sheath and hurled it toward the same branch. “Quick.”
Mariko considered the quivering handle. Yoshi had thrown it to strike the exact same place as before. It fit into the previous divot at a near-identical angle. The way the handle shook—trembled into solid motion—brought to mind Ōkami and his mysterious abilities. Mariko frowned.
She did not wish to be reminded of anything she did not yet understand.
Especially something pertaining to the Wolf.
Mariko lowered into a crouch. Picked up a twig. Began to draw.
Indeed.
Why not four?
JUBOKKO
That night, Mariko woke from her slumber to the sound of screaming.
It startled her into awareness, like a splash of icy water. Her forehead grazed the rock she’d been using as a pillow. Her fingernails dug into the damp soil.
The screams echoing through the forest were the screams of a tortured animal. Not a man.
It couldn’t be a man.
No human could make sounds like these.
As the screams continued, each beat of her heart crashed through her, a drum pulled taut beneath her skin
. She opened one eye, trying to focus on the forest’s shadows. Trying to drown out the sounds of pure suffering.
Men with torches were massing in the distance. Several rings of fire blurred through the trees.
For a moment, Mariko considered running. The Black Clan was distracted. Perhaps they would not notice her slipping into the night. Perhaps she could find her way out of the forest without tripping any of their supposed traps.
Perhaps.
A foot kicked the small of her back, frightening her all the more.
“Get up.” It was Ren. “Now.” The tenor of his voice was surprisingly sad.
Mariko scrambled to her feet, too unnerved by the screams to protest. She followed Ren as he wove through the trees, his torch held high.
Save for the screaming, the forest had grown eerily silent. The wind did not stir through the branches. Nor did Mariko hear the sound of any life in the air about her. Only the crackle of Ren’s torch. The snapping of twigs beneath her bare feet.
And the screams.
Ren walked silently, Mariko at his back. As they made their way toward the cluster of torches, the screaming grew louder.
Mariko refrained from covering her ears.
They approached several members of the Black Clan, standing around the base of a tree, its branches twisting into the darkness like skeletal fingers stretching for the sky.
At first glance, the tree appeared completely normal.
What Mariko saw once her eyes adjusted to the shadows almost elicited a scream from her own lips.
At the base of the tree was a young man. His limbs were tangled in the roots. Roots that had risen from the soil, wrapping around him like a thorny vine. Thin rivulets of blood dripped down his face. Down the skin of his arms. Across the meat of his stomach.
The thorns had pierced through the young man’s skin. All over his body, the vines squeezed tight, their thorns cutting deeper and deeper.