by Ben Stevens
‘Empress, you have always thought that it was Sesshu who cured your near-fatal illness – but really it was he who made you so sick in the first place. And he has been steadily poisoning you ever since, in both body and – mind…’
With this last word my master fell silent, his gaze fixed upon the floor.
‘Curse you, Ennin – curse you!’ yelled the wretched monk, still struggling vainly against the two massive samurai who were holding him.
Doubtless all that had just taken place had proved too much for the Empress. For it was at this moment that her eyes rolled back in her head and she pitched slowly sideways, quickly being caught by a courtier who was sat beside her.
She had lapsed into unconsciousness.
8
So desperate was the situation concerning the Empress, that for the next few days I scarcely had time to contemplate the shocking fact that my master was in fact alive. On a number of occasions he sent me (on horseback) to some mountains on one side of the Imperial City, there to pick a variety of wild flowers and herbs which he described to me by color and appearance.
These I quickly gathered and brought back to the palace, where my master made a number of tonics and pastes from what I gave him. These were then taken to the Royal Chamber, and dispensed by my master to the Empress who was lying close to death.
‘Sesshu first managed to poison the Empress so that she almost died,’ my master informed me one day. ‘The Royal Physician was not able to relieve the Empress’s symptoms in the slightest – until Sesshu ‘cured’ her by, in fact, simply providing her with the poison’s antidote.
‘But since then, secure like a limpet by the Empress’s side, he has been stealthily feeding her small amounts of a number of different poisons. Not enough to cause death – well, not straight away, anyway – or to cause serious illness, but still given in sufficient quantities so that the Empress’s body became seriously weakened over just a few months.
‘Doubtless, Sesshu had it in mind for the Empress to ‘naturally’ pass away in the near future, so that he could then fulfill this apparent prophecy concerning him becoming Emperor…’
…For several days and nights, the situation looked grim. Only my master was permitted to attend to the Empress; and due to his ceaseless and highly-skilled ministrations, she at last began to recover.
One afternoon, I went with my master to see the Empress.
‘You have been as instrumental in her recovery as I,’ declared my master, somewhat generously. ‘After all, it was you who made those trips to the mountainside, to gather the various plants and herbs that I required. And so the Empress would like to see you.’
This time, the Empress was sat upright in a bright, well-ventilated room. Gone was the trembling, and the voice that was barely a whisper. She looked favorably, but still somehow sternly upon my master and then me. We continued to kneel on the tatami mat before her, of course, although we had already been given permission to raise our heads.
‘Ennin-sensei, it seems your cunning knows no bounds,’ declared the Empress, two members of her bodyguard knelt in seiza just behind her – and Noami the courtier seated to one side, recording all that was taking place on a scroll placed upon a tiny low table.
Noami could scarcely contain his glee, at having risen to such a lofty position within the Imperial Court since Sesshu’s downfall. Already he’d visited the room shared by my master and me, so to give his earnest thanks – and also to state that the way in which my master had ‘faked’ his own death was fast becoming legend across the entire country...
‘…To request permission to go outside to compose your ‘death poem’, and while there to catch, kill and secrete inside your kimono some small creature, which would bleed plentifully when you cut into it with your knife,’ continued the Empress, a ghost of a smile around her mouth. Already, she seemed an entirely different woman from the sickly creature who had greeted us upon our arrival at the palace, the manipulative monk sat by her side.
‘I hope you can forgive me, Empress,’ said my master, bowing his head. ‘I do not like to kill anything, but so desperate were the circumstances…’
‘Yes – I recognize now that they were,’ returned the Empress, and so hard was her stare that I quickly averted my own eyes. This was a woman, I knew, who would never again be close to anyone. She had become tough, solitary...
‘I owe you a great debt, Ennin-sensei, for I see now that you have saved far more than just my life,’ said the Empress. ‘You quite possibly saved Japan itself from having a cold-blooded schemer and murderer ascend the Chrysanthemum Throne, quite against the natural order of succession…’
She paused. I admired her candor for speaking so. She had as good as admitted the terrible hold which Sesshu had had upon her. I could see that she was determined to put this whole unfortunate incident behind her, and to proceed into the future well-armed against anyone else who might seek to bend her will, or influence her thoughts.
‘I would gladly offer you a position here, at the Imperial Palace,’ said the Empress now. ‘You and your servant, Kukai. But I know I can no more expect you to remain in one place than I can expect an eagle to remain in a cage. But still – I hope you will return here on occasion, Ennin-sensei, during the course of your travels.’
‘You honor me, Empress,’ returned my master – and I could hear from his voice that he was, indeed, deeply moved by her words. ‘Thank you.’
‘I hope to see you again, Ennin-sensei,’ said the Empress, clearly giving a farewell. ‘I really do…’
It was a beautiful, golden evening, as we rode out of the Imperial City sat upon two fine horses. A gift from the Empress, along with…
Well, suffice to say that she had been more than generous.
Some source of worry, of concern, still gnawed at my master, however.
‘You see that the consuming affection which the Empress once had for Sesshu was not totally destroyed, Kukai,’ said my master to me, as we rode side-by-side.
‘I must confess, master – I was certain he would be executed. Or be compelled to commit seppuku himself,’ I returned. ‘But lifetime banishment to one of Japan’s most distant islands? That hardly seems sufficient punishment for all that he did.’
‘I suspect that you could abandon Sesshu on the moon itself, and still he would find his way back to the Japanese mainland. I narrowly defeated him this time – but this is not the last I will hear of Sesshu. Of that I am certain.’
My master stared at the horizon, as though trying to somehow peer into the future…
Then he gave a slight laugh.
‘I must say,’ he said, ‘I hope that is the last time I have to occupy a coffin – at least while I am still alive.’
‘It must have been a torment for you, master,’ I replied, remembering his claustrophobia.
‘I doubt I was in it for anything longer than twenty minutes,’ observed my master. ‘But they were, I think, the longest twenty minutes of my life.’
‘And the… animal, master?’ I asked hesitantly.
‘A young rabbit, quickly caught using an improvised snare,’ replied my master. ‘I wrote my death poem while waiting for a creature to run into this snare – which choked it to death. I then tied the rabbit tightly to my abdomen, its shape concealed by the folds of my kimono. When I cut into its belly with a knife… Well, it was highly unpleasant, but it had the desired effect. Thankfully, you naturally had no desire to examine my supposed ‘area of injury’ too closely.’
‘No, master, I did not,’ I returned. ‘And then you entered the palace via a drainage tunnel, master?’
‘Yes – one which empties directly into the river. I have already advised the leader of the palace samurai that this tunnel should really be obstructed with some sort of metal grill, to guard against any other unauthorized entry into the palace…
‘In any case, it was somewhat unpleasant to have to crawl up this filthy tunnel, but I soon found myself within the palace again. Then I had o
nly to make my way unobserved to the dining room…’
We rode on a little further in silence.
‘It’s strange…’ I said then. I was basically just pondering aloud.
‘Strange, Kukai?’ questioned my master.
‘Well… The power, or maybe I should say the influence, which one human being can have over another – or in this case, a man can have over a woman. I suppose that Sesshu had a formidable intellect, shaped and sculpted into an evil tool of manipulation; and that handsome face of his no doubt also assisted him…’
‘There was something else, too, I believe,’ said my master.
‘What was that, master?’ I asked. Maybe some special potion, I conjectured, used by Sesshu to gain control over people’s very thoughts and actions…?
‘I heard this rumor along with the ones which concerned Sesshu murdering various people,’ said my master. ‘It was a rumor well-known among certain young women, and it went something like this –
“When Sesshu sits down, three knees protrude.’’
It took me a moment to realize what my master was saying – and then I looked sharply at him.
My master met my gaze with a slight, mischievous smile, before again turning his head to face in the direction we were riding.
The Ninja
The crickets had stopped their chirping.
The samurai guard named Hanzo gazed out into the darkness, trying to ignore the sudden sensation of fear crawling deep in his belly. Down there, around the moat surrounding the daimyo’s castle, something had caused the crickets to cease their nocturnal noise…
Hanzo gazed around him; up at the castle walls towering above. Little moonlight tonight. An ideal evening for a black-clothed figure to suddenly drop down upon him, or a shuriken to come spinning out of the inky blackness and bury one of its metal points deep in Hanzo’s throat…
Hanzo swallowed deeply, trying hard to control this creeping sensation of terror, his right hand on the hilt of his long sword. He was a good warrior – an excellent fighter who’d been commended on his swordsmanship by the daimyo himself – but…
But he knew, as did all warriors, that when faced with the ninja all his skill was useless. He was merely facing certain death. And if a ninja was out there tonight…
Suddenly the crickets resumed their racket. Usually the noise irritated Hanzo, but now it caused him to feel a sharp, undeniable feeling of relief.
Idiot! It had just been some large animal – perhaps even a monkey – that had caused the crickets to stop chirping. His confidence rapidly returning (also assisted as the moon now emerged from behind a cloud), Hanzo even smiled as he recalled the ninja who’d been trapped inside the castle some five years before…
See? They weren’t that incredible, after all. Certainly, that black-clothed man had evaded the guards patrolling outside and entered inside the daimyo’s grand residence…
But then, stealing along one darkened corridor in search of the daimyo, whom he undoubtedly planned to assassinate, the ninja had suddenly found the floor giving way beneath him, so that he fell into a deep pit carefully constructed so that it offered absolutely no hope of escape.
A security device, installed in secret by the daimyo who knew he risked such attempts on his life. Hanzo had been one of the guards ordered to drag the ninja out of the pit, unclothe him (and naturally remove all his many weapons and other items he carried on his person), tie him up and carry him down to the castle dungeon.
And there they’d begun to skin the ninja, bit by bit. He screamed himself hoarse, but would not give up the name of the person (most likely another daimyo) who’d employed him to try and assassinate the daimyo of this region.
Finally – on the order of the daimyo himself – the ninja’s torturers tried a new tactic in a bid to obtain the desired information from the by-now naked and much-bloodied man.
In another part of the dungeon, the ninja was first tied to a crudely-constructed wooden frame. He was secured in place as though seated in a squat, his knees placed tightly against his chest. In such a position (which he was entirely unable to change even in the slightest), he was then hoisted over a sharpened bamboo stake.
Water was thrown on the rope holding the frame and the captive ninja up in the air. As it got wetter, this rope stretched – slowly. But still the ninja’s anus lowered to meet the sharpened bamboo point…
As he began to scream again, the guards throwing buckets of water onto the rope, the daimyo offered him a deal –
‘Give me the name of the man who employed you – who asked you to come here in darkness and kill me,’ said the daimyo, ‘and I will give you a quick death. No more pain, no more suffering.’
But still the ninja did not speak. Insanity! As the sharpened bamboo point slowly disappeared into the man’s backside, Hanzo almost shamefully considered that he would have given up his own mother, if this was required in order for such torture to stop.
The dungeons were located deep down in the castle. They flooded sometimes, being situated lower than the moat. As such, they were usually almost completely soundproof.
But that night, the ninja’s screams rang out so loud that they were heard in the town surrounding the castle on all sides – from the large homes of the senior samurai to the outer, squalid buildings occupied by those who labored in the fields.
Yes – those screams served as a warning, which was heard and understood by everyone who suffered under the greedy and tyrannical daimyo. Any rebellion – and certainly any attempt upon the life of the daimyo himself – would be met with similar, bloody punishment.
The ninja died some hours later. His body was carried out of the castle and unceremoniously deposited halfway up a mountainside, there to be devoured by wild animals.
If he had any family – anyone who knew who he was – then they did not dare to come and retrieve his corpse, so that it might be decently buried…
1
I stood by my master’s side, staring down at the twisted face of the fat daimyo. The eyes were fixed wide-open, and curiously cloudy in appearance. I’d worked alongside my master long enough to know that this was a sure sign that the daimyo had been poisoned.
But how? This was evidently the reason why my master (and thus I) had been summoned, from the inn where we were staying in this wretched town that surrounded the now-deceased daimyo’s castle. The majority of the townspeople looked utterly miserable and half-starved, while the daimyo’s samurai rode their horses through the streets with hard, threatening expressions…
‘See what damage a greedy, evil daimyo can do to the area he governs,’ my master had remarked quietly to me just the previous evening, as we sat dining in a private room at the inn.
‘There is no reason for us to remain here,’ my master had said then. ‘We will leave tomorrow morning.’
But before we could, two samurai had arrived to demand that my master and I come with them to the castle. They were curiously vague as to the exact reason why my master was wanted, but I understood that this was a ‘request’ which my master could not refuse.
So having paid the bill at the inn, we then mounted the two horses the samurai had brought with them and set off along the narrow, muddy roads through the town, the houses that we passed only becoming larger and less squalid in appearance the closer we got to the castle…
…And now here we were, stood inside the personal chamber of the daimyo himself. Who lay on an opulent bed – not a futon, but a bed whose base was constructed from carved wood – and who had obviously been killed by poison.
‘You did not bring me here to tell you the cause of death, anyway,’ declared my master, to the senior samurai – a sturdy, not overly-intelligent looking man who’d given his name as Yamada – and the daimyo’s physician.
‘No, we did not,’ said the physician readily, a small, sour-looking man with a large mole on one side of his nose. It was obvious that he didn’t approve of my master’s presence here, regarding it as an affront to his aut
hority.
‘How, Ennin-sensei, was my lord killed like this?’ said Yamada, the senior samurai, then. He was looking almost plaintively at my master, obviously agonized that something like this could have happened to his daimyo. The deceased ruler of this region may have had something of an evil reputation; and yet his most senior samurai didn’t look to be a bad man himself. I suspected that Yamada was an expert fighter, and doggedly loyal to anyone he deemed to be his superior.
‘You said that you yourself were stood guard outside the door to this room?’ asked my master.
Yamada nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My lord always said that he felt safest when I was on guard, although I rotated the night-shift with several other senior samurai. Also, my master locked his door from the inside, as an extra precaution. So even had I been overcome by some enemy, for example, and a knife put to my throat with the order to open this door, I could not have done so.’
My master nodded slowly, looking around the room. It was not overly large, but on the wooden ceiling, directly above the bed whose luxurious silk sheets were half-covering the daimyo’s corpse, there was a somewhat striking feature. A beautiful painting of a Chinese-style garden, with dragons and great birds of myth circling above it.
‘My lord always demanded that his bed be positioned exactly below that painting,’ said the samurai Yamada. ‘He liked to gaze up at it as he drifted off to sleep…’
‘Indeed?’ murmured my master, the pupils of his eyes like pinpricks.
‘Something has struck you, Ennin-sensei?’ demanded the physician, who for all his surliness was evidently no fool.
‘The door to this room was locked – it had to be forced open this morning when the daimyo failed to open it himself,’ began my master. ‘The sliding window of wood and paper to this room has six metal bars placed outside of it, meaning that even if someone was able to climb the sheer stone wall rising one hundred feet from the ground up to it – a feat that is obviously next to impossible – they still could not enter inside this room.