Lord Oda's Revenge

by Nick Lake

  But the soldier didn’t scream – he was a brave one; an idiot. He had something in his hand – Shusaku couldn’t tell because it was still. Then there was a thwup, and Shusaku was aware of something spinning towards him through the night, something that hissed as it parted the air.

  Crossbow, he thought. Well, at least that’s a challenge.

  He waited until the last possible moment and then he ducked, reached out casually, and plucked the bolt from the air – it heated from the abrupt stop, burning his hand, but he registered the feeling as sensation, not pain, and was glad for it. He was already moving, flipping the bolt in his hand, and as he did so he heard another thwup, and two paces later a jolt of pain lanced into his shoulder.

  This one’s fast, he thought. It really will be a shame to kill him.

  Fast as the soldier was, though, there was no way he could string a third bolt in time. Shusaku leaped the fire nimbly and came down just in front of the soldier – though he didn’t stop his forward momentum, just rolled when he hit the ground and came up bolt in hand; stuck it through the soldier’s heart and felt it burst out the other side.

  Whoosh-boom. . . and then nothing. The heart stopped.

  He stood, pulling the barbed bolt from his shoulder and wincing at the pain. He liked the pain – it reminded him that these men would have killed him, if they’d had the chance. It didn’t make their deaths excusable – but it made them inevitable, and that was something he appreciated.

  He knelt and put his lips to the throat of the most recently killed man; he liked fresh blood, if he could get it. There was that always pleasurable moment of tension, as when you touched water in a small vessel and felt the resistance of the surface – and then his teeth burst through the skin and he felt blood splash into his mouth. He sucked it down greedily. He could feel the warmth spreading through his limbs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Jun. ‘Do you want to get yourself killed?’

  Shusaku stood, then shrugged.

  He gestured to where he could hear the air on the cliff. ‘Can you find a way up it?’ he asked. He knew Jun was resourceful – it was why he’d chosen the boy.

  Jun paused. ‘I think so,’ he said finally, though he didn’t sound sure. That was good. Shusaku didn’t like people who promised what they couldn’t deliver. He followed Jun to the rock face.

  What felt like days later, they reached the wall at the top of the cliff. It was a moonless night – Shusaku and Lord Tokugawa had chosen it for that very reason. Shusaku and Jun had been quiet, but not silent. It wasn’t possible to be silent when climbing a cliff, which was littered with stones and earth that could slip and fall.

  As such, Shusaku was not surprised when a hand gripped his arm as he reached the top of the wall and a blade touched his neck, cold and sharp.

  ‘Show me your face,’ said a voice. A torch was thrust towards him; he could feel its heat.

  ‘Ah,’ said the voice. There was a pull on Shusaku’s arm, and he tumbled gracelessly to the ground below the wall. He had tired himself with the climbing. A moment later he heard Jun drop beside him. He concentrated – there were several men in front of them, in a fan. He suspected that guns were trained on them, fuses ready.

  ‘We were expecting you, Shusaku,’ said another voice, a deeper one. It came from a man whose blood beat strongly in his veins – a fighter, though not young. The voice, a deep baritone, was full of authority. ‘Lord Tokugawa sent a pigeon. He told us you would be bringing a gift.’

  Shusaku unstrapped the gun from his back, held it out. He felt someone step forward and take it from him. Then there was a low commotion as the Ikko-ikki gathered around the weapon. Shusaku heard one of them give an admiring gasp, another cluck his tongue against his palate.

  ‘Ingenious,’ said the deep voice – the leader, Shusaku guessed. ‘This part – here – twists back. And when it is released, it strikes the flint – here. The power is ignited by the spark. No need for a fuse.’

  ‘It fires in the rain, I gather,’ said Shusaku. ‘Though the gods know why Lord Tokugawa thinks that’s so important.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said the deep voice, ‘it very much depends on whether it’s raining at the time.’ He turned – Shusaku heard the rustle of his vestments. ‘Can we copy it?’

  Another man – his voice was older, had more of a tremble to it – made an equivocal sound, a sort of humming. ‘I should think so,’ he said eventually. ‘We will need time, though.’

  ‘You won’t have much,’ said the leader. ‘Lord Tokugawa says the guns will be needed soon.’

  ‘For what?’ said Shusaku.

  ‘Lord Tokugawa didn’t say. He never does. And yet he’s rarely wrong, is he?’

  Shusaku sighed. No, he wasn’t, at that. He was never wrong, in Shusaku’s experience. So the guns were significant, but for now he just couldn’t grasp why. Yes, they fired in the rain – but what if you faced your enemy on a sunny day? Lord Oda’s troops, massed at the bottom of this mountain, were armed to the teeth with traditional fuse-fired guns. If they attacked on a blazing summer day, the Ikko-ikki would be decimated, newfangled guns or not. The only way Lord Tokugawa’s plan would work was if there was some way of controlling the weather. . .

  He jerked back into the scene, realizing that someone had just spoken. ‘Sorry?’ he asked.

  ‘We asked if you would like to stay for a while. You look like someone in need of. . . peace. You are hurt, I see.’

  Shusaku bristled. ‘My burns have healed.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to your wounds,’ said the leader. ‘I was referring to your soul. I sense a weight on it. I sense. . . guilt.’

  ‘All evil done clings to the body,’ murmured Shusaku.

  ‘Truer words were never spoken. But we have something special, here on the mountain. You could have a room. Time to meditate. To think on the things you have done, maybe to atone.’

  ‘Maybe one day,’ said Shusaku regretfully. ‘For now I must return to Lord Tokugawa. He has not finished with me. When he has, I may return.’ He turned to where he could hear Jun’s distinctive breathing.

  ‘My assistant will stay, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I nearly dragged him down with me tonight. If I got him killed, I could never forgive myself.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Ikko-ikki leader.

  ‘No! Master! I will come with you, I will—’

  Shusaku waved a hand. ‘I have spoken. You will stay here until I return. I don’t know what Lord Tokugawa is planning, but there will be blood. There’s always blood. And if I can help it, I’d like yours to stay in your veins.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Jun heavily.

  ‘Look after that gun,’ said Shusaku to the Ikko-ikki. ‘I had to kill men to get it here, and I wouldn’t want their deaths to be totally in vain.’

  ‘No deaths are in vain,’ said the leader. ‘I promise you that.’

  At this, a sharp pain shot through Shusaku’s heart, and he let out a ragged breath. He hoped it was true, wished it was true, but feared it wasn’t.

  ‘Till the next time,’ he said. Then he vaulted over the wall, and his hands found purchase on the rock.

  Blindly he climbed downward, towards the sea.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE OLD MONK – it transpired that he was the abbot of the monastery atop Mount Hiei – led the way. His sprightliness surprised Taro. Most of his monks followed just behind, though two of them had stayed with the companions to help carry Hayao’s cart up the steep hill. The abbot had examined Hayao and said that he was in a desperate state, but that with effort, and luck, they might be able to save him.

  Then he had looked intently at Taro. ‘I don’t believe in accidents,’ he said cryptically.

  At the top of a particularly steep section, Taro stopped, not to get his breath but to admire the view laid out behind them – a patchwork of rice paddies, the trees of the grove in which they had been ambushed only twigs from up here. He turned to look up the hillside. He could bar
ely believe that his mother was there, waiting for him. The abbot said she had been living at the monastery since the winter, when she had arrived barefoot, her feet bleeding.

  Hiro came up behind him, breathing hard. ‘Are we. . . nearly there. . . yet?’ he asked. He was leaner now than he had been before, but he was still heavy, and the climb had been hard on him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hana. She turned and faced up the mountainside, pointing to a curving roof, just visible beyond a row of ume plum trees. ‘That’s the Hokke-do.’ The building she referred to was a graceful temple, its roof curved like a dragon’s, scaled with red tiles. And as Taro looked, he realized that from one end of the roof a dragon’s head sprang, while from the other curled a tail. Below the red roof were clean white columns.

  The blossom season was here, with the first warmth of spring, and the trees were covered in a pink froth that fell from the branches when they were moved by the breeze. The tiny flowers lay on the mossy ground and swirled in the air around them, living up to their name of Tsuyu – plum rain. Taro found that he couldn’t look at the beautiful flowers without thinking of the horrific ghost that was draining Hayao’s life energy, killing him slowly with love.

  ‘Is that where the readings take place?’ said Taro.

  Hana nodded. She had explained about the Hokke-do, and how it was there that the Tendai monks of the monastery would hold readings of the Lotus Sutra. The monks carrying Hayao had nodded in approval at her knowledge. She had drawn closer to Taro and Hiro to whisper the next part – that her father had sponsored these readings on occasion, usually to honour a dead family member, and so Hana had spent some time on the mountain. They had decided to keep Hana’s identity a secret for as long as they could. None of the monks seemed to recognize her – she had been a girl the last time she visited the mountain, not a young woman – and it seemed judicious not to tell anyone that she was the daughter of a powerful daimyo, and not only that but one who had developed an enmity with the monks.

  Hana had told Taro and Hiro that there was tension between Lord Oda and the abbot. They were not far from Oda’s province here, and the power of the monks disturbed him more with every passing year. It had been a long time since she or anyone of the Oda household had visited the monks.

  In the time of the last emperor, the Tendai monastery on Mount Hiei had been closed to any outside authorities, and as a result had been swamped with criminals seeking to evade capture. The monks had been forced to learn to fight, and now they were custodians of a great martial tradition, and keepers of many a secret technique. That they were also ten thousand strong in number explained Oda’s nervousness – the monks, in fact, were the greatest power in the land, after the lords.

  Hana was sure that her father wished to destroy the Mount Hiei monastery, and all the monks who lived there. He could not tolerate this challenge to his strength. But, as ever with these things, there had to be a pretext for attack – Oda could not simply lay waste to a revered and ancient institution, without some good reason. So the monastery still stood, on top of this mountain, guarded by warrior monks. And now Oda was dead, killed by Taro’s own hand. There could be no better place for Taro’s mother to hide.

  They passed under the plum trees, the blossoms catching in their hair. At the end of the row, they came to the Hokke-do – a square temple with a graceful, curving dragon-roof suspended over white columns. Surrounding it, casting long shadows over it, were tall cedar trees, their tops high above. The large building was empty, its columned sides open to the elements, giving it the appearance of a cave, or a mouth with long teeth. Taro paused for a moment to give Hiro a chance to catch up.

  ‘Oh, great,’ said his friend, looking upward.

  ‘I thought you might say that,’ said Taro.

  Above them extended a continuous path of steps, rising in twists and turns to crest a brow, where it disappeared for a moment, before reappearing much higher up. All along the side of the cracked, mossy stone steps were regularly spaced prayer wheels, creaking in the wind. Taro followed them with his eyes. Thousands. A person climbing, if they spun every wheel, would let fly into the heart of the universe an extraordinary number of prayers to Kannon, the bodhisattva of compassion.

  But Hana didn’t want to continue the climb just yet. She grabbed Taro’s hand and pulled him towards the Hokke-do. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This is where the scrolls are kept. You have to see them.’ She glanced down the mountainside. The monks carrying Hayao were far behind, deep in conversation with Oshi.

  ‘Scrolls?’ said Taro.

  ‘The Lotus Sutra that Saido copied, when he first came to the mountain. It’s the oldest Japanese copy of the Indian sutras.’

  ‘My mother is up there,’ said Taro. ‘Perhaps we’ll look at them later. . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hana. ‘Yes, of course. We’ll carry on.’

  But her eyes were so bright with enthusiasm as she glanced at the Hokke-do, her passion so beautiful, that he smiled and said, ‘Let’s have a look first. It won’t take long. I last saw my mother in the autumn. I can wait a little longer.’

  She smiled at him then, the most unselfconscious and lovely smile he had seen since they’d met Hayao and a heaviness seemed to have come over her heart. Her hand was warm in his, and he wondered if she could feel how her touch sped his heart rate. And now that he was thinking about his hand, he felt it begin to feel strange and foreign at the end of his arm, as if it belonged to someone else, and then he felt his face flush with heat. He pulled his hand from hers and ran past her, as if he were in a hurry to see the sutras.

  Stepping into the cool gloom of the temple, he was struck by its simplicity. Soaring above, the roof was unornamented, just a graceful assemblage of beams. The room was empty, apart from a number of cushions propped against the columns – ready, Taro presumed, for a reading of the sutras. He couldn’t imagine sitting still for eight days, listening to a monk reading from a scroll, but then he supposed that a lot of things the nobles did were strange.

  ‘Not much to see,’ said Hiro, stepping up beside him.

  ‘Shh,’ said Hana. ‘Have some respect.’

  Hiro rolled his eyes. Hana stood in the centre of the room, looking at a small dais, on which stood eight scrolls. At least, Taro assumed they were scrolls – what he saw was in fact the gold tubes, carved at the top with dragons, in which the scrolls were kept.

  ‘No guards?’ said Hiro.

  ‘No need,’ said Hana. ‘The whole monastery is the guard. There are ten thousand monks here, and they all know how to fight. There are lookouts posted all around – I’m sure they already know we’re inside. You’d have to be mad to try to steal the scrolls.’

  ‘But they must be valuable, no?’ said Taro.

  ‘Extremely. They are very old.’

  ‘It still seems strange, then, that they’re not hidden away.’

  ‘Why? They are holy. To the Tendai, the scrolls are not just the word of Buddha. They are. . . everything. The world. Dharma. It is as if the scrolls don’t just contain the secret of the universe – they actually are the universe. Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Hiro simply.

  ‘Well, it would be unimaginable for anyone to take them. Trust me. They won’t come to harm.’ She reached out a hand to touch one of the gold tubes, then withdrew it. She stood for a moment contemplating them.

  Hiro picked his nose.

  ‘I can see you,’ said Hana.

  Hiro stopped. Cleared his throat.

  ‘This is a special place, you know,’ Hana said, though her voice was more amused than irritated. ‘We’re standing in history. And not just the scrolls – this very hall is where Genji paid for a reading of the sutras, on the forty-ninth day after Yugao’s death. It lasted eight days, one for every book of the Lotus Sutra.’

  ‘Sounds boring,’ said Hiro.

  ‘Who’s Genji?’ said Taro.

  Hana looked at both of them with a sad expression. ‘You don’t know Genji no Monogatari? It’s a g
reat work of literature. Maybe the greatest.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hiro. ‘What happens?’

  ‘Well, there’s this man who’s the son of one of the emperor’s courtesans, and he has several love affairs, and then at one point he’s exiled to the seaside, and then he comes back, and has another love affair, and then the woman he’s seeing dies and—’

  ‘That sounds even more boring than the eight days thing,’ said Hiro.

  Hana sighed, exasperated. ‘Then you’ll have to try reading it one day. Actually, you could, Taro. It’s written entirely in hiragana, because the author was a woman.’

  ‘Great,’ said Hiro. ‘Maybe Taro can read it, and then tell me what happens. Very briefly.’

  Just then one of the monks who had been carrying Hayao peered into the gloom, through the pillars. He frowned at them. ‘What are you doing in there?’ he said.

  ‘I was just showing these boys the scrolls,’ said Hana. ‘They were both very eager to see them.’

  ‘Women aren’t supposed to come in here,’ said the man sullenly. ‘Except on special occasions.’

  Hana looked down – not at all the confident, fearless girl Taro was used to. Taro sensed she was biting her tongue. As Lord Oda’s daughter, she had spent much of her life being made to learn calligraphy and flower arrangement, instead of the riding and fighting she loved. After the freedom of the ninja life, this restriction on account of her sex must gall her. All she said, though, was, ‘I didn’t know. I apologize.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the monk. ‘Now come. The abbot will be waiting for us.’

  Hana gave a last lingering look at the scrolls, bowed to them, and then walked towards the door. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Taro – as if they hadn’t just been told to leave anyway. ‘I’m looking forward to the climb. When he’s panting for breath, Hiro hardly says anything at all.’