Lord Oda's Revenge

by Nick Lake

  This lust for adventure, he realized for the first time, is like a curse.

  Although, beside his mother, what was there to keep him here? There was the abbot and his so-called secret, but what a load of nonsense that had turned out to be. He took the scroll from his pocket and turned it idly in his hands. It was just an old story about a man and a harp – he was sure he’d heard it before from his mother. Irritated, he dropped the scroll on the ground.

  There was a gentle cough beside him and he turned to see Hana, smiling at him. He was sitting down, but his heart was still able to stumble. He smiled back uncertainly. Hana sat down on the grass.

  ‘The abbot told me you would be here,’ she said.

  Taro shrugged.

  ‘He spoke highly of you. Said you were trying to help Hayao.’ Her smile was brighter than the sunset.

  ‘Oh. Y-yes, yes I am.’ He blushed. Then he realized that she was probably only concerned for Hayao, not admiring of his charity, and he looked down at the grass.

  ‘He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?’ he asked. ‘Hayao, I mean.’

  Hana frowned, surprised. ‘Yes. . . I mean, no. He taught me to fight, when my father decided I was no longer safe. He treated me like. . . like I wasn’t a girl. I liked him for it. But this thing with the ghost – it’s not him in particular. I just think it’s sad. Don’t you? This girl, she really loved him, and now she’s killing him, even though she probably doesn’t even want to. It’s tragic.’

  Taro made a noise that could have been agreement. He was thinking about what Hana had said – that Hayao had treated her like she wasn’t a girl. And here he was, mooning over her, blushing at the things she said, gazing at her beauty. He couldn’t be less like the thin, pale samurai.

  ‘He’s handsome,’ he said, with false absentness. ‘I mean, he must have been. Before the ghost.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Hana. ‘Yes.’

  Taro felt that he would like the cliff to move closer to him, and drop him off the side. He hadn’t known what a mistake it would be to come here. Already he barely saw Hana – she was always having discussions with the monks that he couldn’t possibly follow, conversations about arcane points of Buddhist law. Either that or she was admiring the temples, or joining the monks in painting birds and drawing kanji characters with perfect, sweeping calligraphy.

  Doing all the things that, as a peasant, Taro could never do. He wanted to pick up the abbot’s idiotic scroll and tear it up, but he just sat there with his hands folded over his knees.

  ‘So. . .,’ said Hana, after a while. ‘What is it you’re doing, exactly?’

  Wearily Taro pointed to the couple. ‘I’m watching them. The abbot said there must be something tying them together. Some object that is making the karmic bond stronger. But I can’t see it, if there is one.’ He sighed.

  ‘Describe her,’ said Hana.

  ‘Who, the ghost?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me what she looks like.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She has dark hair. . .’

  ‘All Japanese women have dark hair.’

  ‘Er. . . yes. Her eyes are large. They are black inside – all black. The whites of her eyes are black too. Do you know what I mean? It’s like someone poured ink in her eyes.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Hana.

  ‘It’s horrible. And she’s very, very pale. White, really. Also, she has a beauty spot on her cheek. She has full lips – I wouldn’t have expected that, from a ghost. She is a little older than you, I think. Small ears. What else do you want me to tell you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hana. ‘What about her clothes?’

  ‘She’s wearing a blue kimono. Clogs.’

  ‘What kind of kimono? Silk?’

  ‘Ah. . . I. . .’ He peered closer. ‘I would say no.’

  ‘And the clogs. Are they worn? I mean, on the bottom. Can you see, the way she’s sitting?’

  He could. The girl was sitting cross-legged, like him, and he could see where the wood of the bottom of the geta clogs had been scoured by contact with the ground. ‘Yes, they’re worn,’ he said.

  Hana nodded. ‘She was not rich, then. What about jewellery? Rings?’

  He examined the hand that was stroking Hayao’s cheek, and the other, laid demurely in her lap. ‘No.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘I said she had dark hair.’

  Hana rolled her eyes and patted his arm. ‘I was thinking of how it was arranged. Tied up? Down?’

  ‘Um. Tied up. No, pinned up.’ He stood, to get a better view. Hayao didn’t even register their presence. ‘There’s a clip – like a butterfly.’

  ‘Made from?’

  ‘The clip? I’d say. . . ivory. And mother-of-pearl.’

  Hana clapped her hands. ‘That’s it!’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘I have seen such clips. They come from China – the Portuguese bring them by ship to Nagasaki. They are very expensive.’

  Taro looked at her blankly. ‘And. . .?’

  ‘And she is not rich. We have established that.’ Hana stood quickly and grabbed his hand – something like an electric shock went through him at the soft, unexpected touch. He felt as though a wild animal – a doe, maybe – had just, against all reason, put its nose to his hand. She pulled him to his feet and dragged him along.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘To find the abbot,’ said Hana.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t you see? Hayao must have given her the hair clip. It is the thing that is binding them.’

  Suddenly Taro could see. No wonder Hana would never be interested in marrying him – he even thought like a peasant. He could not reason in the same way, make observations and draw conclusions from them.

  Hana stopped and he ran into her, and for one thrilling moment he had to hold on to her waist, to keep from falling.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Hana, looking behind them. ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  Hana pointed to the scroll, the one the abbot had given him, lying on the ground where Taro had thrown it. He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 16

  TWO NIGHTS LATER the abbot stood with Taro under the plum tree where Taro’s mother spent most of her time. The others had gone to bed, but the abbot had asked Taro to stay awhile, and then had led him out into the courtyard.

  ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Oshi went to the grave. They disinterred the plum rain girl. In her hair they found a clip, in the shape of a butterfly.’

  ‘Will Hayao be all right?’ asked Taro.

  ‘I believe so, yes. Oshi spoke to the monk who introduced Hayao and Tsuyu – he is distraught by the whole affair, as you can imagine. He confirmed that Tsuyu began wearing the butterfly clip in her hair soon after she met Hayao. He noticed it at the time, but he thought that by keeping them apart he was doing the right thing, and he didn’t know how powerful these tokens can be. He believes now that Hayao gave it to her, as a symbol of his love, during their brief meeting. That’s just the kind of thing that would bind her to him even more strongly – it contained a part of him, his love for her, and so it allowed her to come to him, even past the o-fuda and the golden Buddha, and all the sutras I chanted.’

  ‘The clip,’ said Taro. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Destroyed it,’ said the abbot. Then he gestured to the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. A man stepped forward – Hayao.

  Taro’s mouth dropped. He’d only ever seen the man peering into the face of the ghost-girl, muttering. Already the samurai’s face showed more colour. He smiled at Taro. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He bowed.

  Taro bowed back. ‘There is no need. I only said what I saw.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry about Tsuyu. You must have loved her very much.’

  ‘I did. I do. But she was killing me. I don’t remember very much. . . yet the abbot has told me what happened. I am very grateful to you for your help.’

  ‘I di
dn’t do much,’ said Taro. ‘I just saw her.’

  Hayao sighed. ‘So did I, to my cost. She did not mean to hurt me,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of that. Anyway, we will see each other again. In the next life.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Taro.

  ‘For now,’ said the samurai, ‘if you ever need my help, you will have it. Ask for Hayao. I am known in these parts.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Taro. He paused. ‘Actually, there is something.’ He turned to the abbot. ‘Could you give us a moment alone?’ he asked.

  The abbot bowed, then melted into the darkness.

  ‘There is a girl here,’ said Taro. ‘I don’t know if you remember her. She was with me when I first met you.’

  ‘Hana?’ said Hayao. ‘It seems to me I saw her, but then again it feels as though it could have been a dream.’ A faraway tone that Taro didn’t at all like had crept into the man’s voice.

  ‘Yes, Hana. She’s here on the mountain. But listen – no one knows who she is, you understand? No one knows she’s Lord Oda’s daughter, and we need it to stay that way. Please, don’t tell anyone. And call her Hanako, if you can.’

  ‘Why?’ said Hayao. ‘What is she doing here? Has something happened to Lord Oda?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Taro. ‘I would rather not speak of it.’

  Hayao bowed, a little stiffly. ‘Very well. I cannot hide that I know her – but I will not reveal who she is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Taro.

  ‘He would have died,’ said the abbot conversationally. When Hayao had left, to look at the night sky, he said, the abbot had reappeared at Taro’s side, almost as if he had known when to come back, as if he had been listening. But that was paranoid, Taro knew.

  ‘You saw how the ghost was draining his flesh. How his skin was hanging from his cheek. Eventually he would have simply wasted away. Of course, the man is one of Lord Oda’s samurai, which complicates matters. But I hope that our. . . intervention might reach the lord’s ears. Soften his attitude towards us, perhaps. For the moment the lords besiege only the Ikko-ikki. Their opinions are more controversial than ours. But I expect they will attack our temple, one of these days. There are some who wish to rule Japan all on their own. We are too powerful to let such people sleep soundly.’

  Taro licked his lips. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. He was wondering if anything would reach Lord Oda’s ears – as far as he knew, the man had died on the stairs of his own tower. But he said nothing.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the abbot. ‘For now Hayao is simply a stranger who found comfort here, and healing. He will go out into the world thankful to the monks of Mount Hiei. I am grateful to you. And you should be proud of what you have done.’

  Taro nodded. He did feel proud – for so long he had brought only death to those around him. Now he had saved a man, and it had been simple. He could do it again, he thought.

  Something appeared in the abbot’s hand, and he passed it to Taro. ‘I believe you mislaid this,’ he said.

  Taro looked down at the scroll in his hand. ‘I – yes. I must have left it somewhere.’

  ‘Indeed. Somewhere like the ground?’

  ‘Perhaps I dropped it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Taro flushed. ‘I read it. I didn’t understand. It was just a children’s story.’

  ‘Children’s stories are not just anything,’ said the abbot. ‘Don’t you know that?’

  For a horrible moment, Taro wondered if the man was referring to the story of the Buddha ball, the story Shusaku had dismissed as a children’s tale, and that had turned out to be utterly, terribly true. But the abbot just smiled. ‘Read it again,’ he said.

  Taro sighed. ‘Very well.’

  The older man touched his arm. ‘There really is a secret,’ he said. ‘I’m not lying to you. The problem is that I can’t tell you what it is. You have to come to the understanding yourself. That’s why I gave you the scroll. The story. . . helps.’

  ‘Right,’ said Taro, unconvinced. ‘It seems like it would be a lot quicker if you just told me.’

  The abbot grinned. He pointed to the scroll in Taro’s hand. ‘This is the secret, then.’ He waved his hand, and Taro was no longer holding the scroll. Taro stared down at his empty palm. He turned, searching the ground around him. ‘It’s simple,’ said the abbot. ‘There is no sword.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Taro.

  The abbot reached into his cloak and drew out a katana. He raised his hand; there was an impression of movement. The air fluttered in Taro’s hair. The abbot gestured to the ground. Lying there were several tiny pink flowers, each of them cut neatly in half. They had been falling from the cherry tree, he realized. The abbot had cut the blossoms even as they fell.

  ‘That is what you will be able to do,’ he said, ‘when you understand that there is no sword. Now, try it.’ He handed the sword to Taro.

  Taro settled into his stance, then struck – hard – at the falling blossoms. The sword slashed uselessly through the air. He cursed, tried again. Failed.

  ‘You were right!’ said the abbot, a little more sarcastically than Taro would have liked, for one of his age and wisdom. ‘I told you the secret, and now here you are – a latter-day Musashi. Your speed defies belief.’

  Taro grunted, irritated. He gave back the sword. The abbot replaced it in his hand with the scroll.

  ‘Read it again. You never know when enlightenment might strike.’ With that, the abbot disappeared into the darkness, much as Hayao had done. Taro thought about looking for Hana, to tell her that he had helped Hayao – that the samurai was recovering. But he thought she probably knew already. No doubt they were somewhere in the temple complex, catching up on old times.

  Cursing, he stalked off into the night.

  He was a vampire, wasn’t he? A vampire and a peasant. Well, he should stay outside then.

  And hunt.

  The deer passed below Taro’s branch, nuzzling at the small yellow flowers that grew amid the mossy stones at the edge of the small clearing. Taro judged his moment, then dropped, aiming for the deer’s back.

  Something, some ancient survival instinct, made the deer look up, and then it was gone, a flash of springing legs.

  Taro rolled when he hit the ground, and in the same movement he was up on his feet, following the dappled fawn as it sprang into the shadows, flashing through the trees. A human wouldn’t have had a chance at following it on foot, but Taro was quicker and more agile than any ordinary mortal. He barely glanced at the rocks and roots as he leaped over them, switching left and right, avoiding the trees. His arm hit a branch and he spun, winded, but a moment later he was running again, the scent of the deer – musk, scat, and mud – strong in his nostrils.

  There was a cliff ahead and the deer paused, before ducking its head down and launching itself to the left – but that momentary halt was enough for Taro to leap, and trace an inexorable trajectory through the air.

  He slammed into the deer with all his weight, his hands going to its short antlers. With a sharp twist, he broke its neck – he believed in being merciful.

  The deer was dead before it hit the ground.

  Taro knelt beside the body, his knee on the rock of the precipice. He bent his head and bit down on the creature’s neck, drawing its still-hot blood into himself, feeling his strength growing. It was as if a fire were being lit in his stomach, purging him of his cares and his weakness. He felt invincible.

  There was a bang and he barely paused, so used had he grown to the gunshots from the Ikko-ikki fortress. But then he stopped feeding. He looked up. That shot had been close.

  For the first time, he truly took in his surroundings. He was crouched at the top of a cliff – though its height, and the sharp stones at the bottom, did not worry him. What drew his attention was the valley that spread out below, a long inverted V, with its narrow end tapering to a gulley that led almost directly to the top of the mountain Taro was on.

  Camped in this valley, crowding to its
edges, was an army.

  The valley was long – at least two ri to its other end, where the fat end of the V spilled out into gradually descending, rolling countryside, as if the valley were a kind of river of emptiness that had run out of violent energy as it broke down from the mountaintop, laying waste to the rock and earth in its path. Where the valley petered out, the facing mountain rose, lower than Mount Hiei but with a craggier top. Here, on the peak, Taro could just make out a castle, smoke rising from the dwellings inside its high, serious-looking walls.

  The Hongan-ji; the lair of the Ikko-ikki. Yet the army in the valley below was not facing that mountain. Ranks of troops – thousands of them – were moving slowly up the hillside, in full armour, towards Taro’s mountain. Towards the Tendai monastery. At the rear was a small cavalry section, but what drew Taro’s horrified, fascinated stare was the front rank – a row of hundreds upon hundreds of men with rifles.

  All marching towards him.

  Above the heads of the troops fluttered flags, hoisted high on poles. On them, black against white, was the mon of Lord Oda.

  Lord Oda’s army was attacking. Taro thought of the pigeon, and the strange delay before it reached the ninja mountain. Kenji Kira. Somehow Taro knew what had happened.

  He had been lured to this place to die.

  CHAPTER 17

  TARO BURST INTO the hall where the monks slept, banging his katana against the bell as he ran past it.

  ‘Up! Up!’ he shouted. ‘The samurai are coming!’

  He heard confused cries, men asking one another questions, their voices blurry with sleep.

  ‘The samurai!’ he shouted. ‘Get ready to fight!’

  The abbot had told him that every monk on the mountain was trained, and every one was armed with a sword. In emergencies, the monks could muster thousands of men in minutes, all deadly efficient fighters.