by Steve Bein
“But not to bury her,” Katsushima said. “These Shinto priests are notoriously prickly about contaminating their gods.”
Daigoro wasn’t sure notorious was the right word. Here of all places, the kami were at their most pure. A dead body was the ultimate pollution. But Katsushima was right: gods were entombed here, not assassins.
“He must have had her cremated somewhere else,” Daigoro said. “A Buddhist temple, probably. Then he came here to have a priest say prayers over the ashes.”
“Why?”
“‘A worthy foe deserves a worthy funeral.’ It was one of his maxims.” Daigoro continued to live by it. His brother Ichiro shared a tomb and a death poem with his murderer, Oda Yoshitomo.
“There’s wisdom in that,” Katsushima said. “It seems to me the cremation would have been enough, though. I’ve never known a dead man to fuss over his funeral rites.”
Daigoro shrugged. “Maybe demons are different. I don’t know. Truth to tell, I’m not even certain my father ever came here. We got that from Jinichi, and that man is far too credulous for my liking. By the Buddha, Goemon, he asked me if I could change into a bear.”
Katsushima shook his head and laughed. “You should have said yes. Maybe he’d actually set Kenbei straight if he thought he had a bear at his heels.”
Daigoro forced a laugh too. It sounded desperate even to his own ears. “You see my point, neh? This whole voyage might be for nothing.”
“That’s the dog talking. Defeated by the squirrel before the fight even began. You remember the story?”
“Yes.”
“Then show a little spirit, will you? I didn’t come all this way just to hear you whine.”
Daigoro willed himself not to blush. Katsushima was right: bellyaching would get him nowhere. He led his mare to the nearest fountain, then dismounted so he could purify himself. The water chilled the bones in his right hand, reminding him of the old pain there. He held the reins of both horses as Katsushima performed the purification rite, then stepped up into the saddle again. “Let’s suppose Jinichi had it right,” he said. “There’s no use supposing otherwise. If Father was here, if this really was the place where he cut down that thief … well, a fellow running off with a tanto stuck in his heart isn’t the sort of thing that’s easily forgotten. Someone must have seen something, or heard something, or overheard it secondhand. If we ask enough questions, we’ll get to the truth.”
Katsushima gave him a satisfied nod, and together they ventured deeper along the wooded paths. Their horses’ hooves clipped and clopped on the flagstones. Now and then a cold droplet from an overhanging branch would slip right down the back of Daigoro’s collar, making him shiver. Katsushima seemed undisturbed by such surprises. Then again, at thrice Daigoro’s age he’d had a few extra decades to bring his body’s unconscious responses to heel.
As they came across each shrine, one of them would dismount and step inside to make a few discreet inquiries. Usually it fell to Daigoro to do the asking; despite his lame leg dragging at him each time he stepped in and out of the saddle, he was not as heavily encumbered as Katsushima, who found the questioning quite embarrassing. Talk of demon assassins and magical knives was all too provincial for a ronin who had spent most of his days in sprawling cities like Ayuchi and Kyoto.
Late in the afternoon, in a beautiful broad-roofed shrine surrounded by ironwoods, Daigoro found an acolyte scrubbing the ancient floorboards. He was middle-aged, and therefore much too old to be charged with such trivial chores. Daigoro guessed the man must have been born into some other occupation at first, taking the cloth only later in life. He regarded Daigoro with an inquisitive, somewhat surprised look in his eyes, as if he were unaccustomed to seeing armed and armored men in this peaceful place.
“What is your business here?” he asked.
Daigoro didn’t often hear such brusque tones from a member of the priesthood. Then he remembered: the world did not see him as samurai anymore. He was an undersized, overproud boy armed not with daisho but with two grossly mismatched swords. His cloth was finely spun but in dire need of washing, which called into question any right he might have to dispense haughty looks.
“I come seeking rumors,” Daigoro said, adopting the soft manner of a peasant. “Perhaps you’ve overheard them, or know of someone who has. There was once a battle in these woods, or so I’m told, one samurai against a pack of thieves.”
“And one of the thieves was struck through the heart,” said the acolyte.
“Ah! So you’ve heard the story.”
“No, but I’ve heard of the two riders asking around about it. Word travels quickly here, even among those who oughtn’t gossip.” The acolyte gave him a sheepish grin.
Daigoro returned it with a little bow and a kind smile of his own. “Can you tell me where I might turn to find my answers?”
“My uncle may know. He is the head priest at Daimatsu Shrine, and has been for some time. He would have been here when your story took place. It’s not half a ri from here; I’ll lead you if you like. Only … well, you’ll have to wait for me to finish scrubbing my floors.”
Daigoro was in no mood to dawdle. “I wouldn’t think to trouble you. If you’d be so kind as to point me in the right direction… .”
“But of course.”
The acolyte ushered Daigoro outside, where Katsushima minded the horses. He pointed them in the right direction, then vanished back inside. “A very helpful fellow,” Daigoro said. Then they were off.
“Helpful?” Katsushima asked a little while later. “The fool doesn’t know his left from his right.” In fact he and Daigoro had to double back more than once; the acolyte was hopeless when it came to giving directions. In the end they finally stumbled across Daimatsu, an imposing two-story shrine whose sweeping roofs were twice as wide as the sanctuary itself. Its stout timbers had grayed with age and its roof tiles were heavy with lichen.
Walking along the veranda was a senior priest who bore a strong resemblance to the acolyte. They shared the same lean body, the same high cheekbones and strong chin. They might have passed for twins, if only twins could be born fifteen years apart. The priest’s back was bent, his steps shuffling. He strained his neck forward when he saw Daigoro and Katsushima ride up to his shrine, squinting to make the most of the failing light.
“Good evening,” he said in a reedy voice. He wore long white robes, bright purple hakama, and a ceremonial black hat that made Daigoro think of a shark’s fin. His sleeves were so long that they almost touched the floor. “If you’ve come for the wedding, I’m afraid you’ve just missed it.”
“Wedding?” Daigoro said.
“They’ve all gone into the city.” The priest gestured vaguely toward the south. “If you hurry, you may yet catch them.”
Katsushima frowned and turned in his saddle, seeming to study the empty space where the priest had pointed. Daigoro’s attention remained with the priest. “As it happens, I believe you’re the one we’ve come to see. Are you the high priest of Daimatsu?”
“I am.”
“Your nephew sent us. He says you’ve heard tell of a thief who survived after taking a knife through the heart.”
The priest’s eyebrows popped halfway up his forehead. “Well, now. I know the tale, yes, but we don’t talk about it here.”
“I’m not looking to stir up any old ghosts; I only want to sort out a few of the details. I promise it won’t take long.”
The priest weighed it over for a moment, then welcomed them inside. Even before they entered, he apologized for the rather empty feeling of the temple. The groom was one of Daimatsu’s priests, he explained, and very popular with the rest of the staff. As such, they’d all gone to the wedding reception, leaving the high priest in sole custody of the shrine. “Come, sit,” he said, ushering them into a little room for private worship. “I’ll come back with some tea.”
It was impossible to sit down while wearing Glorious Victory Unsought, so Daigoro unlimbered the great sword and
laid it along the back wall of the little room. He couldn’t help but notice that Katsushima kept both of his blades. Out of old habit the ronin flicked his katana back and forth in its scabbard with his thumb.
“What troubles you?” Daigoro asked.
Consternation wrinkled Katsushima’s brow. “Hoofprints,” he said.
“Hm?”
“There weren’t any. The priest said we’d have to hurry to catch the wedding party, but there’s no evidence that they were on horseback. So why should we hurry to catch up with them? They’re on foot; we’re mounted.”
“Maybe they left a while ago.”
“No. He said they’d just left. And did you see the altar?”
Daigoro shook his head. “No.”
“No sakaki branch. You and Aki laid a branch on the altar when you married, neh? This couple didn’t.”
“Come now, Goemon. Couldn’t the priest have—?”
Daigoro cut himself short. He had been about to say “disposed of it already,” but that couldn’t be right. The sakaki branch was a sacred symbol of matrimony. It would be burned with all the rest in a dondoyaki ceremony at the turn of the New Year, not tossed aside like an old chicken bone. Perhaps Daimatsu Shrine had a cupboard set aside for such ritual objects, but even so, it would have been indecorous to take it from the altar so soon. Atsuta was not the place for such impropriety.
“Now you’ve got me worried,” Daigoro said. “Probably over nothing, but still …”
“You see?” Katsushima kept his voice low. “Something’s amiss here.”
Daigoro thought about the strong resemblance between the high priest of Daimatsu and the acolyte from the previous shrine. They could pass for twins—or even for the same man, if he were sufficiently skilled at feigning old age. And, of course, if he could fly like a falcon between one temple and the next.
“The botched directions,” Daigoro whispered, thinking aloud. “What if he deliberately steered us awry, to give himself time to race over here? Then … then nothing. This is silly, Goemon. We could just as well suspect our horses of playing us false.”
“Did our horses arrange for an entire temple to be empty but for one man? Or did one man beat us here, and then—”
“Then what? Kill every last priest? Leaving no sign of struggle?” Katsushima nodded, apparently quite satisfied. Daigoro scoffed in reply. “Oh go on, Goemon. Think of what you’re saying. Is it so strange for a man to look like his own nephew?”
“Is it so strange for one of Shichio’s bear hunters to dress as a priest instead of an assassin?”
“Only if he wants to dress himself to lose a sword fight. Even if he were armed, how could he draw a blade with those dangling sleeves? He’s more likely to fly away on them.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Katsushima kept his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This much we know for certain: he was quick to explain why this shrine is empty, even though we did not ask. He was quick to rush us in here, behind closed doors, rather than let us roam around. You said ‘no sign of struggle.’ I say it’s better to look around and see what we can find.”
He started to stand, but then they heard the priest returning to the door. “Drink nothing he offers you,” Katsushima whispered, barely audible. “Let us see how he reacts.”
The priest knocked gently, then slid open the shoji. The smell of hot green tea preceded him into the room. Daigoro studied him closely, trying to convince himself that this couldn’t possibly be the acolyte from the other temple. He failed. Daigoro’s experience with shinobi was limited, but he could not help but remember a certain agent of the Wind, one who had saved his life many times over. That one could pass for a corpse at will, or even pass for Daigoro himself when the need arose. Daigoro had seen him do both, in full view of Toyotomi archers, and not one of them saw through the ruse.
“Please, enjoy,” said the priest, kneeling before them and filling their cups. His black shark-fin hat was so tall that Daigoro had to move his head aside when the priest bowed toward him to offer the tea. “Now then, you had a mind to discuss that old tall tale. The fellow who survived a blade through the heart.”
“Yes.” Daigoro picked up his teacup but did not drink. “But this tale’s not so tall. Many people here have told me it’s true. What do you know of it?”
The priest shrugged. “Not much. But more than most, I suppose.”
“Tell me about the thief. Where did he go after he was stabbed?”
“Sounds to me like you’re more interested in the knife than the thief. Do you mind if I ask why?”
No harm in asking, Daigoro thought, if only Katsushima didn’t have me on edge. But now that his hackles were up, he realized the priest hadn’t answered any of his questions. Daigoro didn’t know what to make of that. The abbot of Katto-ji was just as inscrutable. Was it a clergyman’s duty to ask enigmatic questions? Or was this priest concealing something, as Katsushima suspected?
Only one thing was sure: Katsushima distrusted the man. Daigoro had never known his friend to be wrong in such matters. He raised the cup to his lips to judge the priest’s reaction. There was none. “Still too hot for my liking,” he said, lowering the cup once more. “If you don’t care to discuss the knife or the thief, we can talk about something else.”
“Such as?”
“A different tall tale,” Daigoro said. “In this one, you and I don’t meet by chance. You’re told a story about a boy whose sword is too big for him, a boy with a keen interest in the blade known as Streaming Dawn. You were told to wait for him at the Shrine. But you never expected him to appear so quickly. You thought to look for him some days from now, but this afternoon you spy a young man fitting his description. He wears no house insignia, so you have to ask him about the blade. It’s the only way to be sure you’ll strike the right target.”
“Target? I am no arrow, sir.”
“No? Perhaps your role was simply to mark me out for hidden archers.”
The priest’s face soured. “No doubt my young lord is tired from his long journey, and that is why he speaks to a high priest of the Shrine in such a rude, suspicious tone. Perhaps a little tea might refresh his body and temper his spirit… .”
“You see, that’s just it. We never mentioned any journey to you.”
“Nor did you need to.” The priest maintained his stern, paternal facade. He was a masterful liar, or else a wronged and innocent man. “It’s your accents. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“Oh, but I do,” said Katsushima. “I was born not ten ri from where we sit.”
“I don’t care for your tone either,” said the priest. “A man your age should have more sense. What do you make of your friend’s story? Do you think the hallowed ground of Atsuta is crawling with archers? Was I to paint a red circle on the young man’s chest when he entered the Shrine?”
Katsushima’s only answer was to loosen his katana with a flick of the thumb.
The priest stood in a huff and made for the door. “Insult me if you will, sir, but I will not stand for being threatened. I’ll leave you two to enjoy your tea—and to speak spitefully about me behind my back, I have no doubt.”
It was the fact that he was pretending to leave that made Daigoro drop his guard.
It was only for the blink of an eye. Daigoro had been watchful from the moment he voiced his suspicions. So long as the priest continued to feign innocence, he remained a threat. It was only in that brief instant when the priest turned to remove himself from the room that Daigoro relaxed.
The blade of the priest’s foot struck him in the throat.
Daigoro went flat on his back. He could hardly breathe.
Katsushima was already in motion, his katana snapping out like a whip. Somehow the priest was faster. He spun in a low whirl; his long sleeves flew like wings. One white sleeve caught Katsushima’s sword. With a quick twist, the priest wrapped up both the katana and the arm holding it.
Daigoro rolled to his knees. The priest’s heel
caught him in the temple. Daigoro blacked out. He came to an instant later when his face struck the floor. He saw Katsushima struggling to pull his sword free. The priest jammed his thumb into Katsushima’s eye socket, and Katsushima had no choice but to retreat or be blinded.
He reeled away and drew his wakizashi and tanto. Daigoro had never seen his friend fight two-bladed before. No one had ever taken his katana before.
Katsushima sprang to the attack, a hurricane of flashing steel. The priest was a typhoon of swirling white. The two storms collided. Blood flew; Daigoro could not tell whose.
He knew he needed to join the fight, but his head was foggy and his body was slow to respond. He snatched up Glorious Victory Unsought, then realized her great length was only a liability in such close quarters. That was too bad; now more than ever, Daigoro needed her power. He drew his wakizashi and crept around to flank the priest.
Suddenly Katsushima was airborne. Daigoro had to fall flat or be impaled. He dropped to his back. His friend sailed over him trailing blood, and stove in a wall when he landed. An instant later his katana flew after him, straight as an arrow. Daigoro managed to knock it spinning. It careened through a shoji window and disappeared.
Daigoro scrambled to all fours, keeping his wakizashi between him and his opponent. The priest’s white robes were striped with blood, none of it his own. Daigoro meant to change that.
The priest stood back and allowed him to stand. It was an act of the highest contempt; he feared Daigoro so little that he was willing to give him the advantage of fighting on his own two feet. A tiger would not have been so gracious, but Daigoro was not facing a tiger; he was facing a veritable god of war.
The priest hadn’t even troubled to arm himself. Daigoro was an even match for any two men, Katsushima for any four, yet this one treated them like paper dolls. “You were right not to drink the tea,” he said. “You were right about the other question too: I had not thought to see you here so soon. I salute you. Not many victims force me to rush.”
He bent low to pick up the teapot. It was a moment of vulnerability, but Daigoro was too intimidated to make good on it. “I hurried in playing my hand because your reputation preceded you.” The priest—no, the assassin gave him a regretful wince. “I’m sorry to say the stories vastly outstrip your actual prowess. You’re not your father’s equal. The story is true, by the way. He stabbed me right through the heart. His only mistake lay in not withdrawing the blade. But you? You’ve made nothing but mistakes from the moment we met.”