by Nick Lake
Didn’t they?
“As I say,” said Shusaku, “I am far from believing that the kamis exist. I think perhaps we are no more than a slightly different species, like wolves are to dogs. Or, less glamorous perhaps, vampirism may be a mere disease. This business of the ama woman … it’s just an idea.”
Taro shrugged. At any rate, it didn’t seem likely that anyone was going to explain his resistance to the sun. He would do better to be grateful for it. But there was something else he wanted from Shusaku, something he needed if he was going to make his plan work in the fight against Little Kawabata tomorrow.
“When you were made a vampire …,” he began, watching Shusaku’s body language carefully. He’d never asked the ninja about his past before, and he was worried about offending him. “Heiko said you were … badly injured.”
Shusaku stiffened a little, but he nodded slowly. “A spear to the neck. It was during the war against Lord Yoshimoto, when the Lords Oda and Tokugawa joined forces to defeat the old shogun’s enemy.”
“You were dying?”
“Actually,” said Shusaku, “I think I may have been dead. There was a girl … She appeared to be a serving maid to Lord Tokugawa. She and I … had become close. But that evening, as I bled into the ground of the battlefield, she bit me, then cut her own palm and let her blood run into my mouth. When I awoke, I learned that she was a vampire—a ninja—sent by the people of this very mountain to watch over Lord Tokugawa. She saved my life.”
“Like you did with me, when the sword pierced my stomach.”
“Yes. Rather like that.”
“So the vampire blood, it heals?”
Shusaku leaned his head to the side as if thinking. “In a manner, yes. But at the price of making the … patient … a vampire.”
“Of course. But that is better than being dead.”
Shusaku laughed. “Not everyone would agree, I’m sure. But I certainly think so.”
Taro looked at the paintings on the cave walls, the angels and demons and gold-robed Buddhas, and thought about what he would have to do the next day. But now that Shusaku was speaking to him about his own life, he found himself wanting to know more. “Heiko said she … the ninja girl, I mean. Heiko said she—”
“Died, yes. Someone in that camp learned what she was. I found her by the water pumps early one morning, her head cut off.” Shusaku leaped down from the horse and began pacing.
“You loved her.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. I still do.”
The ninja began to walk away, signaling an end to the conversation. Taro understood, it was still too painful for him to discuss. Taro wondered if he too would be like this one day. If he didn’t ever find his mother, would he be pacing this room when he was Shusaku’s age, unable to talk about her loss? He knew that his father’s death would always live inside him, that a small part of him would always be watching his body lying in a pool of blood, the shadow of the ninja who had killed him detaching itself from the darkness. But he felt that if he could just find his mother, see her again, then some part of that wound might heal over, and he could carry on with his life.
Also, of course, he would go with Shusaku to Lord Oda’s castle, and he would have his vengeance on the man who had sent those ninja to Shirahama, who had as good as killed Taro’s father with his own hand.
Shusaku gave a low bow, taking his leave. Before he left the cave, though, he turned around. “Good luck tomorrow. I’m sorry you chose this path. It might have been easier to let Little Kawabata be executed.”
“No,” said Taro. “It wouldn’t.”
Shusaku nodded. “I think I see.”
He disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel system. Taro spun the nunchakus in his hand. Only some of his questions had been answered, but he had confirmed the most important thing. Shusaku had given him the information he needed to face the fight tomorrow—to step boldly into the circle, sword held tightly in his hand—
and to kill Little Kawabata.
CHAPTER 51
Taro did not sleep much, and it seemed he had only just closed his eyes, at last, when Shusaku came to his sleeping cave and woke him.
“You’re ready?” asked the ninja.
“No.”
“Good,” Shusaku said. “You would be a fool if you believed you were.”
He led Taro—and Little Kawabata, who joined them in the corridor—to a bare cave near the crater itself. The other children followed. Little Kawabata was given a simple meal of rice. Taro, as usual, had pig blood.
Hiro, Yukiko, and Taro spoke among themselves while Little Kawabata sat hunched in the corner. Heiko held her knees close to her chest and remained silent. Taro was nervous. He could feel a whooshing sickness in his stomach, like the feeling between when you trip and when you hit the ground. Yukiko, too, looked anxious. She bit her lip often, and broke off in the middle of sentences.
Little Kawabata said nothing—only stared at the rock wall, grinding his teeth. Taro didn’t really know why Little Kawabata hated him. He suspected that in part it was because his father hated Shusaku, and so Little Kawabata had simply taken this hatred of his father’s as if it were an heirloom. It had been Shusaku who had decided to turn Taro, to bring him here, even though he was the son of Lord Tokugawa—and so in a way Taro symbolized Shusaku, was an emblem of his divided loyalty, half ninja, half samurai.
In a way, Taro was Shusaku, only younger.
But Taro thought, too, that Little Kawabata was jealous. Like Yukiko, who had borne it better, he was hurt that Taro had been turned before him, had been made a vampire without training or ceremony. Taro wished he could undo his turning, wished he could be an ordinary boy, and not someone different to be hated. At the same time, he felt angry with Little Kawabata for being envious. Did the fat little weasel imagine that it was easy to see your father die, to lose your mother, to be taken from everything you knew and loved?
And Taro wondered how jealous a person would have to be, how easily wounded, to want to try to kill someone only because they felt threatened by them. If Little Kawabata had been prepared to see him die in that rice store, then perhaps the boy was truly dangerous, perhaps there was little he wouldn’t do in the service of his own twisted ego.
Taro hoped he was not about to make a big mistake.
Shusaku came for Taro and Little Kawabata early. He led them down the stone corridor and into the crater. The other children continued to follow.
Taro gasped. Great bonfires had been lit at the four corners of the compass, casting a shimmering glow all around. Wooden benches had been erected around the circular wall of the great round space, and on these benches sat hundreds of people. Some were eating; some were laughing and joking among themselves; all fell silent when the five children entered the arena. In the center stood Kawabata, who gazed contemptuously at his son before indicating a wooden scaffold next to him. On it were displayed two swords, their blades gleaming in the firelight. These were full-length katana—not the usual short-swords used by ninja.
Taro and Little Kawabata walked behind Shusaku to the middle of the crater, while the others made their way to the benches. The ninja turned to Taro then and made the mudra for dispelling fear, holding his right hand out, palm outward. Taro felt a rush of affection for this complicated man—killer, teacher, friend—and bowed, hands together, in the gesture of gassho, the mudra of respect.
Shusaku smiled.
Little Kawabata seemed very pale. He turned to his father. “You’re not really going to make me do this, are you?” he asked. His eyes were glistening. “I’m your son.”
Kawabata senior turned away. “You have broken our oldest law,” he said. “I would execute you myself, if the duty fell on me.”
Little Kawabata stared at his father with horror. Then, seeing that Taro was looking at him, he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and turned away.
Taro closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on clearing his desires and attachments, washing his mind of h
is pity for Little Kawabata, who would never be good enough to impress his father, and who would therefore always be angry, always wanting to bring low those who were stronger and happier than he.
Taro felt his compassion for the fat boy blossoming painfully in his chest, and he crushed it tight within himself, pushing it down, making his inner canvas as blank as possible. Only with perfect clarity would he be able to go through with his plan.
They reached the scaffold on which were arrayed the swords. “The choice of swords must be fair,” said Kawabata, “so that there are no possible recriminations. You will each choose one of these chopsticks.” He held out two wooden sticks to the contestants. “Each is numbered, and each number has a pair that is written near one of the swords. Whichever stick you choose decides your sword. Taro, as the aggrieved party, you may choose first.”
Taro shook his head. “I chose the type of weapon. Let Little Kawabata choose the weapon itself.”
Little Kawabata grunted something that might have been an acknowledgment. He reached out and took one of the chopsticks. He looked at it, then went over to the scaffold and removed his sword. Taro followed, receiving a wickedly sharp katana sword. He waved it around and turned it in his hand, admiring its shallow curve, its thinness, and its beautiful construction. A pale blue wave ran down the steel face of the blade. This was a far finer weapon than the one with which he had been practicing.
Shusaku and Kawabata removed the scaffold between them, then returned to the center of the crater. “Taro and Little Kawabata, please proceed to the center of the crater,” said Shusaku. “There is only one rule of the fight. One of you must die. And if neither of you is capable of killing the other, the boy who is adjudged by the leaders of the clan—that is, me and Kawabata—to have fought the least valiantly will be put to death. Do you understand? One of you will die here today.”
Taro’s stomach flipped like a fish.
Kawabata gave his son a sharp slap on the back. “Die with honor, even if you could not live with it.”
Little Kawabata let out a little sob, and Kawabata the elder glared at him. “On hai, you fight,” he said. Then he and Shusaku joined Hiro, Yukiko, and Heiko on the benches.
Taro looked at Little Kawabata. The chubby boy regarded him with a calculatedly blank expression. Taro gave a shallow bow. Little Kawabata bowed back. Form had now been observed. Neither boy’s sword was sheathed. This was not ii-aido but pure sword fighting. The speed of the draw did not count here. Only skill with the blade.
Taro, like Little Kawabata, stood in the basic stance, his left foot forward to brace his weight, the sword extended before him, sharp side up. Shusaku had told them that the ultimate stance in sword fighting was ku, or emptiness. A swordsman had truly attained greatness when he was able to stand casually, with no stance at all, and move from that emptiness into any form of attack or defense.
But Taro and Little Kawabata were a long way from that kind of skill, and so they stood in the stance they had been taught. Taro felt a drop of sweat run down his cheek, and he started to turn toward Shusaku because surely they couldn’t go through with this. It was insane to—
“HAI!”
Little Kawabata leaped forward, swinging his sword in one of the canonical opening moves. Taro parried easily, his movement flowing thanks to hours of practice, his arm moving practically of its own accord. He lunged forward, scraping his blade along the underside of Little Kawabata’s, hoping to flick the other boy’s sword out of his hand and into the air. But Little Kawabata saw the danger and snapped his sword to the left, twisting Taro’s, and Taro had to grip tightly to avoid losing his own weapon. He danced backward, getting his equilibrium again. He could hear the roaring of the crowd, yet only dully, the voices combining into a distant rushing noise like waves on sand.
Little Kawabata struck at Taro’s shoulder, forcing him to raise his blade to block the blow, then turned his feint into a sweeping stroke that only just missed Taro’s stomach. He jumped backward just in time. Taro was faster than Little Kawabata, but the leader’s son, despite his bulk, was very skillful.
Their swords clashed several times in succession as they read each other’s moves successfully. Then Little Kawabata found a gap and slashed Taro’s thigh, opening up a thin, shallow wound. The crowd gasped.
Taro gritted his teeth. He moved forward, bringing his sword down in a wide sweep. Just as it neared Little Kawabata—and the pudgy boy almost disdainfully raised his sword to parry the obvious strike—Taro reversed his grip on the sword’s pommel, so that the blade was moving sideways, not downward, its arc changing in a flash. It wasn’t a move Shusaku had taught him—just pure instinct.
Little Kawabata’s block would have stopped the original strike, but now Taro’s sword came in with a far flatter angle, and it bit home under Little Kawabata’s arm. Taro had to pull hard to recover his sword, which must have cut into a rib.
Little Kawabata staggered backward, a red stain spreading on his side. The crowd fell silent. Taro made a quick feint to Little Kawabata’s injured side and noted the slowness of the other boy’s reactions as he turned and batted away his sword. Moving with complete focus now, Taro made a few more strikes, some more clever than others, designed to wear Little Kawabata out.
A low murmur came from the crowd as the spectators saw the trouble Little Kawabata was in. Taro thought he heard the clan leader shout out, scared for his son.
Little Kawabata’s movements were pained and sluggish, his eyes half-closed. The blood had soaked as far down as his baggy hakama trousers. He waved his sword ineffectually at Taro, as if it was very heavy.
Taro felt that the time had come to end the fight. He sent up a final plea to the Compassionate One.
Lord Buddha, make this work—for him if not for me.
He countered a weak strike from the other boy, then struck with force and determination. His sword flew out in a deadly, straight motion—like an arrow—and buried itself in Little Kawabata’s stomach. The leader’s son blinked once, opened his mouth wide as if to say something, and then toppled forward.
He lay motionless on the hard ground, in a spreading pool of blood.
CHAPTER 52
In a voice that was only slightly shaky, Shusaku called out, “Taro is the winner!”
Taro looked up. Kawabata senior was running over from the benches, his face drained of color. Heiko looked at Taro, aghast. On her face were written excitement, horror, and disappointment, all together. She looked at him as if he were a stranger, as if she had never believed that he would go through with it.
Taro ignored both of them. He had no time to lose.
As Kawabata ran up, Taro bent over the man’s son, who lay lifeless before him. He remembered what had happened at his home, how Shusaku had turned him after he’d been mortally injured. And he remembered what Shusaku had told him about the girl who’d saved him when he was dying—or dead.
He hoped it would work the same for Little Kawabata.
Leaning in close, he bit Little Kawabata’s neck. The boy’s heart was no longer pumping, so Taro had to suck to drink of the blood. It was warm and sickly, with a metallic, rusty taste. He felt a spreading heat in his body, a sensation of growing strength. He wasn’t sure precisely what to do, but he reached for his sword and drew its blade across his palm. Blood welled up from the wound. Then he turned his hand over Little Kawabata’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” shouted Kawabata, who had arrived at the center of the circle and grabbed Taro’s shoulder. Taro shook him off, pressing his hand over Little Kawabata’s mouth, using his fingers to pry it open. He tensed, feeling the blood dripping, repeating like a mantra in his head the two words just work, just work, just work …
Kawabata pulled him roughly out of the way, and Taro fell to his back. He looked up at the artificial stars, still hoping. He rolled until he could look at the boy, with his father kneeling beside him, weeping. Kawabata picked up his son and cradled him in his arms. There was something embarras
sing, something personal, about the leader’s uncharacteristic tenderness.
Taro stared. It hadn’t worked.
Then Little Kawabata coughed and shook in his father’s arms. He drew in a deep, rattling breath. Kawabata, shocked, dropped him, and the boy fell once more to the ground. But he twitched and then, his movements jerky, pulled himself into a sitting position. He turned to Taro and bared his teeth.
His canines glinted in the firelight.
CHAPTER 53
Taro and Little Kawabata were helped over to the benches, where Heiko threw herself around Taro’s neck, weeping.
“When you—you killed him …,” Heiko stammered. “I had no idea what you were planning. I thought … And I saw in your eyes how much my lack of faith must have hurt you. I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”
Taro put his finger to his lips. “I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”
Kawabata hovered, fulminating. His red face was streaked with tears and his voice quavered. “This is a disgrace!” he said. “In all the years of the volcano this has never happened before! Taro should be punished. This was meant to be a fight to the death. The rule clearly states—”
“According to the rule, your son would be dead,” said Shusaku. “In fact, Taro clearly bested him. According to our rules, Little Kawabata should still be put to death.”
Kawabata’s mouth flapped, silently. The other spectators had all turned to watch the drama unfolding on the benches. The leader was about to protest, but Taro cut him off. “Actually,” he said, “I believe that Little Kawabata has acquitted himself of his crime. The rules state that one of us must die. Little Kawabata did. When I turned him, he was not breathing.”