by AD Starrling
‘This is becoming a tedious routine, Soul-san,’ said Musashi the last time we fought. The man thrust his sword into the scabbard in his belt and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Why do you still choose to pursue this hopeless dream? Most people would have given up after their first defeat.’
I wiped my bloodied lips and pressed a hand against the shallow cut he had inflicted on my shoulder.
‘I am not most people, Miyamoto-dono. Besides, your reputation precedes you. You are one of the greatest sword masters alive in the world today. As such, I want you to teach me all that you know.’
Musashi frowned. ‘Why? What is it that you wish to achieve with these skills?’
I hesitated. ‘I want to learn how to survive the battles that will come my way.’
Musashi had watched me warily then. For the first time since I met him, I felt he had glimpsed my unearthly nature.
I was born in Prague in 1560, the half-breed son of a Bastian and a Crovir, two races of immortals who have walked the Earth since the dawn of mankind and possess the capacity to survive sixteen deaths. Two races forbidden from union that might result in offspring deemed an abomination.
Knowing I carried a death-sentence from the moment of my conception, my parents fled the immortal societies and hid from the men assigned to execute me. Shortly after my tenth birthday, they finally tracked us down. That day, the Hunters murdered my father and mother before my very eyes and I suffered my first death. How I escaped further deaths and survived remains a mystery to me.
It was several decades before I realized that I would not be able to escape my fate as the most hunted immortal in the world for much longer. With that in mind, I set out to hone my fighting skills in my own version of a warrior’s pilgrimage.
I first heard of Musashi Miyamoto when I was traveling through China. Fascinated by the tales of the samurai who had never lost a single duel and who had conceived a deadly two-sword fighting style known as the Hyoto Niten Ichi-ryu, I came to Japan with a view to learning this new art from the man himself.
I frowned at the dark waters below. So far, my attempts at convincing Musashi to take me on as a student had failed miserably. I had not taken into account the complex nature of the man; that and the fact that he was as stubborn as a mule when it came to his custom of not taking on disciples he deemed unfit to train.
A voice interrupted my contemplation. I looked up from the busy riverscape.
‘Would you like some choboyaki, friend?’ said a wizened old man with a toothless smile.
I studied the steaming, grilled batter balls in the street vendor’s two-wheeled pushcart. My stomach rumbled. The old man’s grin widened.
I recalled what the man in Kyoto had told me about the inhabitants of Osaka. According to him, they were friendly, laid-back, free spirits with the single-minded focus of cut-throat merchants.
‘Your status as a foreigner will mean nothing to them as long as you show the color of your coins,’ he had said.
He was proved right when I became the happy owner of six choboyaki balls a moment later.
‘Some sake?’ said the old man. He uncorked a clay bottle.
The strong smell of fermented rice hit my nostrils.
I glanced at the late morning sun. ‘A bit early for sake, is it not?’
The old man tut-tutted. ‘It is never too early for sake, young man. ‘Specially if this is your first time to our fair city.’
I ignored the “young man” comment, pulled more coins from the money pouch secured to my belt, and accepted the small cup of warm alcohol he handed me. At the ripe age of sixty-five, I still had the appearance of an eighteen-year-old.
‘By the way, where would be the best place to find samurais here?’ I asked, casually downing the drink.
The old man cocked his head to the side and observed me with a shrewd expression, his rheumy gaze flicking briefly to the katana at my waist.
‘The samurai quarters are to the east of the city, stranger-san.’ He paused. ‘Are you looking for anyone in particular?’
‘Yes. I seek a man by the name of Musashi Miyamoto.’
The toothless grin returned.
‘You’re in luck,’ the street vendor said with some glee. ‘He happens to be staying at the castle.’ He indicated something over my shoulder with a tilt of his chin.
My heart sank. I turned and stared at the rooftops of the extensive fortress on the other side of the river.
‘That castle?’
The old man nodded. I swore. He chuckled, uttered a parting, and wheeled his pushcart across the bridge.
I stood and frowned at the formidable towers in the distance.
It had been two months since I lost the Miyamotos’ trail in Nagoya. Although I wanted to believe it was an accident, something told me that Musashi had finally gotten tired of the unwanted thorn plaguing his side. I suspected Iori had had some say in the matter as well.
Challenging Musashi to a duel in the middle of a public arena was one thing; getting into one of the most guarded castles in the country to do so was a completely different undertaking. I needed a plan to reach the man whom I wanted as my teacher. One that did not involve getting decapitated for being a suspected foreign spy.
I spent the rest of the day walking around the fifteen or so acres of land and the outer moat inside which the estate was built. After studying the formidable seventy-foot stone walls, thick metal gates, and well-staffed guardhouses protecting the castle, I came to the conclusion that I would lose several lives attempting to break into it. That left me only one choice. I was going to have to approach Musashi when he came out of the stone fortress.
It was to be several days before such an opportunity presented itself.
After taking up residence at a public inn in the merchant quarters to the north of the city, I found a good place opposite the west side of the outer moat from which I could observe the foot traffic in and out of the castle. Not long after I got there, on the fourth morning of my arrival in the metropolis, a large group of men set up makeshift tables under some cherry trees on the bank some thirty feet from where I stood and started to play shogi, the game of Japanese chess. I watched them for a while before returning to my daily routine of monitoring the gates.
It was mid afternoon when I spied a familiar figure strolling over the moat bridge.
‘Hello, Iori-kun.’
Iori slowed when he saw me walk out of the shadow of a clump of trees.
‘Oh good gods,’ he muttered with all the aggravation a fourteen-year-old could muster.
He ignored me as I fell into step beside him. We headed into the city, an awkward silence falling between us.
‘Where’s your father?’
Iori remained resolutely mute. I glanced at the money pouch next to his bokken, the wooden training sword Musashi had given him.
‘Off to buy some goods?’
Iori cast a blistering glare my way. I smiled. This seemed to infuriate him further.
I accompanied him as he negotiated the busy streets, curious as to what Musashi had asked the young man to purchase. To my surprise, in addition to stopping at food stalls, he also visited craft shops and bought a selection of ink sticks, washi paper, and some calligraphy brushes.
‘Does your father paint?’
For a moment, it looked like Iori would not answer. ‘Yes,’ he finally admitted. ‘It is part of his bushidō.’
I was familiar with the concept of the “Way of the Warrior,” the moral code by which Japanese samurais lived. I had not realized that Musashi ascribed such importance to the artistic element of its virtues.
Iori glanced at me, as if sensing my unspoken question. ‘There are many paths to the Way.’
Twilight was casting shadows across the land when we made our way back to the castle gates.
I stopped on the moat bridge and handed the young man the packages I had helped him carry. ‘Will you let your father know that I wish to see him?’
Iori frowned. �
�Are you going to challenge him to a duel again?’
I grimaced. ‘Maybe.’
‘Then, no.’
I sighed. ‘What will it take for him to take me on as his apprentice?’
Iori looked down his nose at me, an admirable feat considering I towered over him by a foot and a half. ‘In your case, a miracle.’
‘Iori?’ I called out as he headed inside the fortress.
‘What?’ he snapped over his shoulder.
‘Tell your father I have all the time in the world.’
I waited until he disappeared from view before turning to walk back to the river. I allowed my gaze to wander naturally to the men playing shogi and spied the three figures who had followed Iori and me into the city.
One of them soon fell into step behind me. I stopped in several shops on my way to the inn where I was staying, my pace leisurely and designed to inspire confidence in the man shadowing me. He was very good at masking his aura. Had I been an ordinary man, his presence would have gone undetected.
Although he watched the public house where I had taken up residence for a good hour after I entered the building, the spy failed to notice me when I myself trailed him to a private house in the samurai quarters. I examined the layout of the two-storey building for a long time before returning to my living quarters and retiring for the evening.
The next few days followed the same pattern. Iori would come out of the castle in the afternoon on some errand for his father or one of the other resident samurais, and I accompanied him on his travels. Although he sported cuts and bruises from his training sessions, the young man never complained or showed any discomfort. He grew more relaxed in my presence and remained oblivious to the men who stalked us everyday.
Though I had my suspicions about what the men were after, it wasn’t until the night before the Tenjin Matsuri that I finally gleaned the finer details of their scheme. By then, I had learned their routine and knew they would be relaxing in the hot pool in the garden after their evening meal.
It took but a moment for me to scale a tree next to the fence and drop silently inside the lush gardens surrounding the house. By the time the men came out to sit in the steaming water, I had been lying in the bushes next to the pool for a good half an hour.
‘As we suspected, Musashi and Iori intend to partake of the local festivities with the Osaka Castle daimyo,’ said the man whom I suspected to be the leader of the gang. ‘If all goes according to plan, Musashi will be delayed for half an hour on the second evening and Iori will depart for the riverside after the lord’s entourage has left the estate. It will be the ideal time to snatch the boy. The darkness and the crowds should mask any resistance he may offer.’ He paused, an ugly expression dawning on his face. ‘It will also be easy to dispose of that annoying nanbanjin who has been loitering around him.’
The annoying nanbanjin stayed deathly still for another hour while his would-be killers drank sake and talked about what they would do with the substantial ransom they intended to extract from Musashi and the feudal lords who favored the samurai. That Iori would be executed before any such sum was paid became all too painfully clear. For money was only their secondary aim.
It was almost midnight by the time I returned to the public house. By then, I had come to a decision as to the wisest course of action. I borrowed the necessary writing material I required from the innkeeper and clumsily composed a short letter to Musashi. Learning to speak Japanese was one thing; writing it was doubly hard. Finally satisfied with the gist of the message I had penned out, I took the missive to the castle. The guards eyed me coolly as I approached the gates. Thanks to my constant presence around Iori over the last week, they knew me by sight.
‘Can you give this to Miyamoto-dono?’ I said politely.
The guard I had spoken to looked at the paper as if it were a snake.
‘It is an urgent matter,’ I added with a weak smile.
The guard glanced at his companion. The latter shrugged in a “he-talked-to-you-first, this-is-now-your-problem” kind of way. The guard took the sealed letter between two fingers and disappeared inside the castle grounds. I waited patiently for his return. He reappeared an hour later.
‘Miyamoto-dono wishes me to pass on his gratitude,’ he said with a stiff nod.
I looked past his shoulder, expecting to see the samurai. Silent seconds passed. There was no sign of Musashi.
‘Is that it?’ I said.
The guard nodded.
‘He is not coming out?’
The guard nodded again and indicated that I should leave.
I frowned as I walked back to the inn. What was Musashi thinking? Did he read the message correctly?
I spent a sleepless night pondering what the samurai intended to do about the group of mercenaries hell-bent on kidnapping his son. When morning came, I was still no clearer as to his potential countermove. I had given Musashi details of the men’s location and expected him to have arrested them with the help of the lord of Osaka Castle. But when I headed into the samurai quarters to check on the house, it looked as peaceful as when I had left it the previous night.
The celebrations for the Tenjin Matsuri started early that day. After paying their respects at the shinto shrine dedicated to the festival god, the Osakans filled the streets of the city. Tantalizing smells and smoke soon clouded the air from the many food stalls lining the crowded passages, canals, and bridges. The beats of percussion drums and the cries from outdoor theatre performances competed with the locals in full vocal flow, creating a deafening wall of sound that should have raised the dead from their graves. The street processions of the daytime were followed by energetic music and dancing that carried on well into the evening.
I saw Iori and Musashi only from a distance. The feudal lord’s escort was extensive and none could breach the solid wall of guards around it.
The second day of the festival was busier and louder than the first. A portable shrine occupied the midst of a noisy parade of chanting and cheering locals that moved slowly through the city, pulling in spectators along the way. Colorful giant lanterns and flame torches dotted the streets and waterways as evening fell and the growing crowds gradually converged upon the bridges and banks of the Okawa River. There, boat processions, bonfires, and a night-time fireworks performance would herald the end of the festivities.
The Osaka Castle daimyo left his estate at dusk. The Miyamotos were not among his entourage. I stood frowning in the shadows opposite the moat well after the last guards had crossed the bridge while I contemplated what to do next.
Is that Musashi’s plan? He’s intending to simply not show up?
If that was the case, then I could not intervene in good faith and engage the men intent on seizing Iori.
I was about to leave when I saw the younger Miyamoto appear at the gates. He was alone. My heart sank. I intercepted him when he crossed the moat.
‘Where is your father?’
Iori looked somewhat relieved to see me. ‘He has been detained by an urgent matter.’
I muttered something rude under my breath. ‘Did he get the letter I sent two nights ago?’
Iori nodded. Although he was dressed in a light summer kimono and wooden slippers, he had swapped his bokken for a katana and a wakizashi, the shorter blade that Musashi favored for his two-sword fighting style.
‘Whoever caused your father’s delay is involved in a political plot aimed at creating unrest between the local daimyos and the Tokugawa shogunate,’ I said. ‘The principal instigator is someone who also wishes to take revenge for one of your father’s previous foes. He must be aware of this.’
The Tokugawa shogunate was the ruling feudal military government of Japan. It was currently headed by Shogun Iemitsu Tokugawa, the third hereditary governor of the Tokugawa dynasty, the clan who came to power at the turn of the century.
Iori glanced at me, shadows leaping across his face from the flames of a nearby torch; we were making our way across the crowded bridge wher
e I had stood when I first arrived in Osaka.
‘Yes, he is. The ringleader is a member of a branch of the Yoshioka family, whom Father defeated some years ago.’ Lines creased the young man’s brow. ‘The daimyos of Kansai are descended from families who have served the Tokugawa clan for centuries. On that front, there is no need to fear an uprising.’ He paused. ‘You do not have to look so surprised. I plan to become a vassal of one of the local lords myself. As such, I need to know the political landscape of my country.’
‘I would be very pleased if you lived to see that day, Iori-kun,’ I said in clipped tones.
We had reached a quiet backstreet some fifty feet from the riverbank. The noise of the main crowd was a dull roar to our right.
Iori stopped and looked around the deserted passage. ‘This is the place.’
I frowned as I observed the area. ‘The place for what?’
‘The ambush,’ replied Iori. He shrugged at my expression. ‘Oh come now, there is only five of them. Besides, my father will not be long. He picked this spot himself.’
I stared at him, aghast. ‘Who said anything about five men?’
Iori’s eyes narrowed. ‘You did.’
‘I said fifteen!’
Tense silence descended between us. The shuffle of approaching footsteps reached my ears above the clamor coming from the direction of the river. Shadows shifted at either end of the alley.
‘You wrote five in the letter,’ said Iori between gritted teeth. He unsheathed his katana and wakizashi.
‘I did?’
I stood with my back against his, eyes focused on the men closing in on us. My hands hung loosely at my sides. I left the blades at my waist untouched.
‘Yes!’ snapped Iori.
‘Oh,’ I said, chagrined.
We found ourselves inside a circle of gleaming blades and grim faces just as bangs erupted across the city. The brightly-colored sparks of fireworks painted the sky over the river in graceful arcs.
‘It looks like you decided to stick around, nanbanjin,’ said the leader of the mercenaries. He studied me with a cold, calculating look, his grip light on his katana and tanto dagger. ‘I must admit to being curious as to your association with the Miyamotos. I would very much like to know the reason why you have been hanging around them before we kill you.’