by Paul Kidd
Bifuuko and Daitanishi were carefully hidden amongst the graves, keeping a sharp watch for spies. Tonbo cast a swift glance about the graveyard, but all seemed to be well.
“No. No one’s here but the Ishigi, and the lady over there.” Tonbo watched the old woman carefully. Her face was lined with grief. Of all the mourners here, she was the only one who was honestly filled with sorrow. “She knew him. She knew him well.”
“Yes…” Kuno considered the old samurai woman, who had followed after Sura and Reiju, walking towards the shrine. Kuno settled his swords in his belt and gave a nod.
“Come. Let us speak with her.”
Chiri softly placed a hand upon Kuno, holding him back. She bowed to the two samurai with gentleness and grace.
“Kuno san, please permit me to open the way gently. I shall go and prepare a meeting. I believe this might best be handled with a sympathetic heart.”
Chiri bowed to her two friends, then followed off after the old samurai woman. Kuno was left standing with Tonbo out in the graveyard. He felt rather confused.
“I can be gentle!” Kuno was quite put out. “I am the very soul of sympathy!”
He looked to Tonbo, but the big man merely shrugged.
The afternoon was hot, and the monks had headed off on their affairs. Kuno and Tonbo made their way back towards the temple courtyard, where at least a drink and a seat in the shade might be found. Behind them, Daitanishi and Bifuuko carefully withdrew back through the cover of the graveyard grass, whirring off to seek out Chiri and diligently watch her back.
Late afternoon sun sent golden shafts slanting through the trees. The gardens of the Buddhist temple looked out towards the river, where the island of the Shinto shrine was gleaming in the haze. Little boats drifted here and there: a large barge moved downstream propelled by figures standing and toiling at the oars. In the blossom trees, tiny birds leapt and chased the evening hatch of flies.
The Buddhist temple boasted a shady little hermitage out in the gardens. Here, Chiri had set out a delicate, comforting little tableaux. A charcoal brazier glowed cheerfully away, and a tea kettle bubbled merrily above the coals. Tatami mats had been laid out – fresh flowers were in a delicate vase borrowed from the monks. Sura had organised a tray of delicacies and cakes – quite possibly stolen from the abbot’s own kitchen. The breeze was soothing – the light upon the waters peaceful. Chiri quietly made tea, moving with a perfect, measured grace.
The old samurai woman who had attended the funeral sat just opposite Chiri. She carried a heavy burden of grief, and bore it with great fortitude. As the guest of honour, she was served little delicacies, and then finally poured a cup of tea.
Chiri’s movements were exquisite to behold. Her long white hair flowed down about her, gleaming and pure. She radiated a sense of peace and smiling serenity.
It had been a trying day. The older woman looked at her in gratitude.
“Thank you Nezumi san. Thank you.” The woman was well spoken. She had an educated voice, but her hands showed that she was no stranger to work. “I have never seen tea served with such simplicity and elegance.”
“I thank you, Tanaka san. It is a skill leaned long ago.” Chiri poured out cups of tea for her other guests: Sura, Tonbo and Kuno sat nearby, enjoying the quiet. “My mother was a great fancier of tea, Tanaka san. In the southern lake towns, it has become almost a ritual.”
The old woman sipped at her tea. She closed her eyes and sighed in gratitude, savouring the taste and scent of the leaves.
“Exquisite, Chiri san. You have helped to bring one ray of peace into a most painful day.”
Chiri bowed. She had picked her setting with skill and artistry. The river snaked away into the distance like a wavering silver ribbon. The old woman gazed off along the river gorge, with its tall cliffs, its hill slopes and its quiet trees. The water glittered, perfectly still and yet endlessly in motion.
“The river is beautiful. They did so love their river…” The old woman inclined her head as she was poured more tea. “My husband died just a year ago today. Now with Genjo san gone, I am alone. My daughter has asked me to come and live with her and her husband in the town of Harima. Perhaps I shall agree…”
Chiri spoke gently – moved by the old woman’s sadness.
“Excuse me, honoured grandmother, but were you close to Genjo san?”
“Oh yes, my dear. He was my husband’s one true friend for twenty years. They were as close as brothers, in their strange, silent way.”
Chiri looked at her – puzzled. The old woman nodded to her softly.
“My husband was mute, my child. He could not speak. But he was a dear, dear man. He died too young. Too young. Sixty years old, but he was still as hale and strong as a man of thirty. It still seems like a terrible dream. It seems as if I shall return home to find him there in the workshop waiting for me…”
The woman gazed off towards the river.
“My husband and Genjo san were fishing companions. They fished together every day their duties allowed, rain, hail or sun. They simply enjoyed each other’s company. They knew this river up and down – not that that meant they ever came back with a catch.” Tanaka san seemed sad. “I believe Genjo san needed the sense of peace – and my husband had one true companion who wanted nothing from him but pure friendship.”
Chiri listened in deep, quiet interest.
“Forgive my curiosity, Tanaka san – but how did they meet?”
The old woman looked fondly at Chiri.
“You have never heard of my husband, I see.” The woman glanced over and saw that Kuno had begun to realise. “My husband was Tanaka Jemmu, the greatest sword smith of the age. He mastered the five styles of blade forging and the eight styles of tempering before he was twenty years of age. The Crow spirits themselves taught him how to blend metals into perfect harmony. One day, he hoped even to master the final lesson – the ability to fashion demon-slaying steel. A strange dream told him that it was time…”
The old woman quietly swirled her tea.
“Yes – he was much sought after. My Jemmu would spend more than a year upon a sword - sometimes meditating for months before he began a blade. Mighty warlords would become most importunate in clamouring for his work. But to Jemmu chan, swords were spiritual. They were an art form that allowed him to blend the best of heaven and of earth. Not toys made just so that samurai could spill more blood.”
The Spirit Hunters all listened quietly. The old woman nodded softy as she told her tale.
“The samurai lords often insist that new swords are tested upon the bodies of executed criminals. An unsightly job, but one that Jemmu always oversaw. One day, Jemmu had made a blade he considered to be his masterpiece – the ‘Blue Serpent’. But the criminal to be executed had swallowed a great diamond! When the sword was tested, the blade was chipped and marred. When the lord who had demanded the blade witnessed this, he berated Jemmu, calling him a cripple. Genjo san answered for him, saying that it was a poor soul who could not look past a surface flaw and find the soul within. From that day forth, my husband and Genjo san were friends. The ‘Blue Serpent’ sword remained here with Genjo san as a keepsake of their first encounter.”
Chiri leaned quietly forward.
“Honoured grandmother – how did your husband die?”
“With no mark upon him, Chiri san.” The horror of Tanaka san’s husband was still upon her. “He lay dead in his workshop on the eve of the festival of the dead, one year ago. His face was frozen in an expression of absolute terror. All the finished swords in the workshop and the house were gone.”
Sura came forwards with a new tray of refreshments. She had been listening intently to the old woman’s story.
“Did your husband ever master his final lesson, honoured grandmother?”
Tanaka san gave a frown.
“Perhaps he did, priestess. But he told me that he had undergone an insight. He believed it was not yet time for the world to have such a sword at hand.”
The sun was setting: soon it would be dark. The old woman set aside her cup and bowed to Chiri. Tanaka san rose to her feet, leaning upon Sura’s proffered arm. She set her robes straight.
“I must make my way home, Spirit Hunters. I hope I have helped you. It is good to know that Genjo san and my husband still have such friends.” She turned towards the shrine. “One of the young Ishigi retainers will escort me home. Lord Ishigi has been most kind to me.”
Chiri gave a deep, respectful bow.
“Honoured grandmother, we thank you for your attention at so difficult a time. Please know that we shall strive to bring justice to Genjo san – and to his most treasured friend.”
The Spirit Hunters all bowed to the old woman. She bowed again, then moved off towards the temple. A young Ishigi samurai came forth, bowed to her, and accompanied her off and away towards the town.
Left in the little pavilion, the four Spirit Hunters sat and looked off towards the river. Tonbo nodded slowly, scratching at the stubble on his chin.
“Swords. This is about swords.”
Kuno quite definitely agreed.
“First the sword maker, and then his friend. Were the murderers looking for something – perhaps the sword given to Genjo san?”
Sura’s tail swished. Her suspicions ran far deeper.
“Perhaps. It is a theory at least.”
Sunset was beginning. The light streaming down the river took on a tinge of orange-gold. Kuno turned and gazed back towards the graveyard, deep in thought, watching the lengthening shadows of the graves.
Genjo’s death had moved him. The man had been a quiet soul, a fisherman, a devoted friend. After a long while of silent thought, Kuno spoke.
“I feel a great sympathy for this man, Fukose Genjo. He performed an unpleasant duty to the best of his ability. He was loyal, even though his duty closed him off from friends, and placed his life in constant danger of revenge.” Kuno gripped his sword. “Fukose Genjo deserves my strongest efforts.”
Kitsune Sura bowed to Kuno in respect.
“It shall be done.”
The group all stood, gathering weapons and equipment. Sura peeled her way out of her formal robes, folding them away. She slipped her short little leather breastplate back on, and picked up her beloved spear.
She frowned, considering new ideas.
“So!”
“So.” Tonbo thought carefully, then gestured towards the town. “We must return to the start of the trail. Let us re-examine Genjo san’s house in far more detail.”
It was a sensible thought. The team headed off towards the temple gate. Sura flitted briefly back, gathered up the last of the remaining delicacies, and then followed the others off into the streets.
Chapter 4
Fukose Genjo’s house lay still and dark in the gloom after sunset. The Spirit Hunters lit hand lanterns, and then struck a light to the household lamps. They moved quietly and carefully into the house, staying together and minutely examining every tiny handbreadth of furniture, ceiling, walls and floors. This time, they pulled up the tatami mats to examine underneath. Daitanishi trundled along the exposed floorboards peering minutely down into the cracks, while Bifuuko searched along the upper walls. It was all done with utmost attention to detail. They started at the porch, and moved carefully through into the main living room, working together with infinite care.
The little grey housekeeper came into the room, looking about at all the disarray. The poor woman was horribly careworn and anxious, burdened down with grief. She stood wringing her hands until she could catch Kuno’s eye, then bowed.
“Samurai san – please forgive me. A message has arrived. The sword polisher has finished his task for Genjo san, and wishes to be paid.” The woman was quite in despair. “The household has so many bills, and there is no money in the house! Since there is no next of kin, what must I do?”
Kuno was immediately interested.
“Wait – sword polisher? Genjo san had given a sword to the polisher?”
“Yes, samurai san! His best sword has to be very carefully handled. Genjo san had only his second best blade with him here in this room.”
Kuno nodded. He placed a comforting hand upon the woman’s shoulder.
“Lord Ishigi’s household will take care of the bills. Please bring them to us, and we shall arrange it. We shall also make sure that your own needs are seen to.” His voice radiated competent calm. “We shall deal with the sword polisher ourselves. Where may he be found?”
The housekeeper seemed relieved. A great burden had been lifted from her soul.
“In Bridge Street, samurai, beside the gate with three lamps.” The woman bowed, then bowed again. “Thank you! Thank you, samurai. Thank you all.”
The housekeeper departed. Sura moved forward, spear in hand, suddenly alive with delight. Her tail flashed as it swirled behind her.
“They have the wrong sword!” The fox waved a hand towards the sword rack. “If someone came here to steal the ‘Silver Serpent’ blade, then they must have the wrong sword!”
Kuno nodded, utterly satisfied.
“The sword polisher will have it still!”
Daitanishi had never ceased his glowering search along the cracks between the floorboards. He suddenly spied something of interest. The scowling little rock circled the find, inspecting it this way and that, then cast a meaningful glance towards Chiri. The rat came immediately over to the elemental’s side, kneeling down to join him. She took a fine knife out of a case attached to her natagama sheath, and carefully levered a tiny sliver of gleaming metal up and out from between the boards.
“Friends! Look here!”
The rat spirit laid the find out carefully upon her palm.
It was a small steel needle – viciously sharp – with a minuscule tuft of fluff fixed to its tail. The tip was slightly discoloured. Chiri sniffed carefully at the dart, creasing her fine brows into a frown.
“A blow dart. There is dried blood on the tip.” She narrowed her eyes. “The executioner was killed with a poisoned dart. That would explain his facial expression. It might be a poison that contorts the muscles…”
Kuno stroked slowly at his moustache.
“Who would use such a weapon?”
Sura suddenly slammed her spear upwards, driving the vicious tip right up into the ceiling boards. She shoved and twisted the blade, giving a feral snarl as she jabbed upwards with the blade.
Nothing happened. No blood came cascading down. Tonbo, Chiri, Kuno and the elementals all stared in Sura, looking quite mystified. Sura gave a shrug, and withdrew the blade from the ceiling.
“I thought I heard something. Eh - maybe it was a cat.”
The others nodded and turned away. Suddenly Sura lunged upwards with her spear again, plunging the blade up into the ceiling mere inches from her previous spot. Kuno dodged aside, scowling and affronted at the damage to the ceiling.
“Must you?”
The fox shoved the spear in deeper, twisted it about, then pulled the weapon free. She grumbled, flicking out her tail.
“Yeah, you say that now. But wait until we get a nice fresh cat on the table…”
Sura withdrew her spear and inspected the blade. It was utterly unblemished. Tonbo eyed the fox, and looked pointedly at the sheath for her spear blade that hung carelessly at her belt – Sura was forever neglecting to cap the weapon when in crowded public places. But both Chiri and Sura were carefully watching the ceiling – their tails moving warily from side to side.
Sura moved back towards the door.
“Welp! Nothing here! We’ll go to the sword polisher first thing in the morning and see what we find.”
Chiri kept her gaze upon the boards overhead.
“I agree, Sura san. At least we have a lead to follow in the morning.”
Kuno and Tonbo moved towards the door. Sura and Chiri followed with the elementals hovering closely beside them. Chiri’s hand moved, fingers entwining – shaping the first portions of a spe
ll.
The team exited out into the yard, moving to the gate that led out into the street. More and more air elementals silently materialised in the darkness, moving into protective positions at the Spirit Hunters flanks. As Tonbo fiddled with the gate’s bar, Sura leaned in to whisper into Kuno and Tonbo’s ears.
“Head to the Ishigi mansion, then out the back stable and get to the sword polisher’s – quick.”
Kuno flicked his gaze toward the house behind them. “What? Why?”
“We’re being followed.”
Sura was already out through the gate. She flicked a glance along the dark night-time road, and then moved forward with Tonbo moving behind her. As Kuno and Chiri followed, the little swarm of air elementals crept subtly through the shadows beside them, flitting silently through the gutters and eaves.
As the team turned a corner into a long, shadowed lane, they saw a woodcutter’s cart sagging in the middle of the road. One wheel had come loose, and bundles of kindling had spilled into the dust. Six woodcutters were busily at work trying to retrieve their wares. The group looked about and nodded a hasty bow towards the Spirit Hunters, and then went straight back to work.
Sura led the way past the cart. She passed by the woodcutters, then suddenly whipped down her spear and lunged forward, driving her blade clean through a woodcutter’s chest.
The other woodcutters were already flashing weapons out from hiding – short swords, sickles and short spears hidden in the wagon. Kuno drew his sword in a blinding blur of steel, slicing up through one man and down through another. Tonbo slammed his tetsubo down on the up-thrust end of the cart, catapulting the other end upwards, slamming one woodcutter aside and scattering weapons on the ground.