Takenaga said, “You should keep your dog quiet, ronin scum. Or perhaps his skin will make a nice drum.”
“He speaks as he chooses,” Ken’ishi said, “and save your threats.”
When they passed beyond the boundaries of the village and the road lay open before him, Ken’ishi suddenly dropped his pack and spun, switching his sheathed sword to his left hand, loosening the blade with his thumb. The arrogant smile on Takenaga’s lips drew into a taut line, and he stopped, hand on his hilt poised to draw.
Takenaga said, “You would be wise to keep walking.”
Ken’ishi’s anger crackled inside. “You would have been wise to leave us alone. I am too young to be wise. And my honor would still be stained.”
“Ronin scum like you know nothing of honor,” Takenaga growled. The vivid white scar twisted his features into a sneer.
The young man’s belly filled with fresh heat. “I am not ronin by choice. My family was slain by treacherous, hateful men, much like you.”
The man stiffened, and his arrogant gaze shifted to cold calculation.
Ken’ishi continued, “I have dreamed of my father’s murderers, and they look much like you. He would not stand for the treatment you have shown me. No better than a dog!”
“I would have fed a dog.”
Ken’ishi whipped Silver Crane free of its scabbard, an action Takenaga followed a split heartbeat later. Ken’ishi tossed the scabbard aside and said, “If you choose, you can watch the sunset today. Your defeat will satisfy me, but your death is not necessary.” Silver Crane was warm in his hands. He hardly felt its weight. It was an extension of his body, like a long, lethal limb.
“One fewer ronin will make the sunset brighter, after all. I’ve killed ten men twice your age, stripling! And three others have no hands, masterless scum wandering the countryside begging for scraps! All better men than you.”
Ken’ishi raised his sword, assuming the stance taught him by his old teacher, legs braced apart, body turned sideways, sword blade upturned with the point aiming for his enemy’s throat. His teacher had told him this was a master stance, unusable by anyone without the highest degree of skill. And it gave Takenaga pause.
Takenaga’s sword was held straight out before him, the point aimed at Ken’ishi’s throat.
Ken’ishi allowed his anger to seep away, his jaw loosening, his shoulders relaxing, his muscles motionless. The immediate past melted away as well, leaving him in the present, the moment, the instants of one moment after another. The two men faced each other, and death was in the air.
* * *
Takenaga leaped forward, his blade flying up, then slashing downward in a stroke meant to sever at least one of his opponent’s hands. Ken’ishi’s small movements rippled like the water of a suddenly disturbed pool as the crane struck its prey, allowing the enemy’s stroke to pass him by in the timeless instants between heartbeats. Only when Takenaga’s missed stroke made a sufficient opening did Ken’ishi move, and Silver Crane flicked outward like the crescent of a crane’s beak.
Takenaga grunted and stumbled backward, clutching at his throat. Bright, wet crimson pumped between his fingers. His eyes bulged with rage and surprise, and his scar blazed white across his blunt features. He struck at Ken’ishi again, but his swing was weak and off-target. Deflecting it with ease, Ken’ishi watched as the other man fell backwards on the dirt path, gasping through the blood gushing from his mouth and nose.
Ken’ishi stared at the bright blood as it spurted into the air, spreading across the dirt path, darkening the soil. Takenaga’s body fought to breathe, to live, even as the realization dawned in the man’s eyes that his life was finished. With a terrible sickness in his belly, Ken’ishi watched the light in the constable’s eyes diminish like a starving candle.
Ken’ishi forced himself to look away from the moment of death. He noticed that dozens of villagers had watched the confrontation. They stared at him, their eyes wide. Some ran for their homes. He wiped the blood from the tip of his weapon, then, with slow deliberation, sheathed it and tied the scabbard to his belt.
Yohachi thrust himself through the crowd. The headman’s weak face contorted, and he picked up a large stone and threw it at Ken’ishi. “Get out of here, criminal!” he shrieked.
The stone fell short, but other villagers followed his example, taking up more stones and the cry of, “Criminal! Criminal!”
A fist-sized stone struck Ken’ishi in the chest, shoving him back a step, driving the breath out of him. Ducking another hail of stones, he leaped to the fallen corpse, patted for the man’s coin purse, snatched it, spun away, grabbed his pack, bow, and quiver, and fled down the road, stones bouncing around him and off his back.
* * *
As the ronin disappeared into the forest, Yohachi could only watch him go, feeling a mixture of fear, rage, relief, and wonder. Fear at having seen the cold, brutal face of death so closely. Rage at the loss of the village’s protector, and Yohachi’s carefully cultivated benefactor. Relief that the strange young ronin had fled. And wonder at how Takenaga had been such a formidable warrior, renowned for his swordsmanship, yet the young ronin had slain him almost effortlessly. Takenaga was known for his brutality and his hatred of ronin. Perhaps there was also some relief that Yohachi would never again live in fear of one Takenaga’s drunken rages. But Takenaga’s penchant for violence was only one of the reasons Yohachi had cultivated the samurai’s friendship for so long. He was also an influential vassal of Lord Nishimuta no Jiro. Lord Nishimuta had given Takenaga this village to oversee because it was prosperous, to reward Takenaga for his faithful service, but also because it was several days’ travel from Lord Nishimuta’s estate, keeping Takenaga’s rough demeanor at an acceptable distance.
That young bastard! The nerve of that scurrilous vagabond! He must be dealt with! Yohachi knew that his voice was not one to inspire the villagers to righteous fervor, but he had to do something. He cried out, “Everyone, listen to me! We must capture this ronin and punish him!” He looked at the men standing around him and saw the same range of emotions in their faces that he felt. They were afraid, but also outraged. “Find Takenaga-sama’s deputies and bring them here. They must help us. Everyone, gather your weapons quickly. We must chase this ronin down!” Seeing the fear on their faces, he added, “Don’t worry about having to fight him. When he sees all of us, he will turn coward and submit. He will not have the courage to face all of us. Now go! Gather your weapons. We must not lose him!”
The villagers dispersed to gather up whatever makeshift weapons they could find, clubs and pitchforks, even a few rusty spears left over from the wars of fifty years before. The three deputies arrived, Taro, Kei, and Shohei. They carried the only weapons Takenaga would allow them, jitte, unsharpened parrying weapons about half the size of a sword with a long straight “blade” and a shorter, parallel prong designed to catch and hold a sword or a spear. The deputies approached the lifeless body of their master, and their faces went slack.
The eldest, Taro, stood over the body. He had always been a good boy, Yohachi thought, and now he looked so shocked and solemn that Yohachi could not imagine what he must be thinking. Takenaga had chosen his deputies from the strongest and most reliable of the village’s young men, but he was not a kind man and had often treated them harshly. What must they be feeling now, Yohachi wondered. Shock, anger, sadness, and . . . relief?
While he waited for everyone to gather, Yohachi approached Takenaga’s body, staring at the gleaming blade clenched in the dead man’s fist. Swords had always fascinated him and had been a favorite topic of conversation between him and Takenaga. The constable had often boasted about the fine quality of his weapon. It was a gift from Lord Nishimuta, made in the new, heavier katana-style, rather than the more delicate antique tachi-style, and it had seen more than a few battles against bandit gangs over the years. Takenaga had never let him touch it, and he had always wanted to feel its heft, to experience the power of a true warrior’s weapon. Yoh
achi had never been a strong man. He had been gravely ill as a child, the long sickness leaving his body weak and twisted, unable to work as hard as others, unable to wield a weapon. His inability had fueled his fascination with the tools of the warrior. Now he knelt down, untied the scabbard from Takenaga’s sash, and pulled it out. Then he pried the dead man’s fingers from around the well-worn hilt of the katana and picked it up. It felt so heavy. He stared at it in wonder. Then he slid the blade into the scabbard and prepared to thrust the long sword into his sash.
A sudden voice stopped him. “Wait.”
Yohachi turned to face the young man standing beside him.
“Are you able to use that, Yohachi?” Taro’s voice was heavy with caution. “Takenaga always said that when you put on the swords, you become dead. Are you ready to die?”
Yohachi looked hard into the young man’s face. In fact, he had heard Takenaga say those very words, but had never considered their meaning. But he liked the feel of the sleeping steel in his hands. “Takenaga-sama would want someone to use his weapons to avenge his death. This blade will taste that ronin’s blood!”
The villagers standing nearby nodded, and a few voiced their agreement. Already Yohachi felt the power of the sword coursing through him. He stood a little straighter. His fingers caressed the silken cord wrappings, the roughness of the ray skin under the cords.
Taro said, his voice hardening. “Do you truly know how to use those? Or do you claim them because you are selfish? I am Takenaga-sama’s chief deputy. He has no heirs and no immediate family. I am strong, and I know how to use them. Give the swords to me, and I will see that Takenaga’s death is avenged.”
Yohachi snorted. “But I am the headman here!”
“Yes, and the village needs you. You must be alive to lead. I ask again, are you ready to die? Because that’s what it means to wear those swords. If you are not, Takenaga’s shade will know, and he will curse you for a coward.”
Yohachi gasped and dropped the sword. It clattered on the ground. He had not thought of that. His greed for the swords had made him forget that Takenaga’s spirit was still about, and doubtless angry.
Taro bent to pick it up. “You are a wise man.” He thrust the sword into his own sash and tied the cords. The two other deputies stared at him as he bent to retrieve the short sword as well, placing it in his sash alongside the katana.
A mob had gathered around them, but Yohachi could only stare at the face of the heretofore quiet young man. What emotions were churning behind that solemn mask? The determination was evident in his bearing. Taro had meant what he said. He would do everything in his power to find the ronin.
When the crowd looked as if it had grown as large as it would—some forty-odd farmers and villagers and three deputies—Yohachi looked at the faces of his friends and neighbors, people he had known all his life. “That ronin must be punished for what he has done. We will find him and bring him back. Then we will decide what sort of death is best for him!”
Agreement murmured through the mob. “Let us go quickly! He has a head start!” Then Yohachi led them down the road in pursuit of the criminal.
* * *
Ken’ishi did not stop running until the village was long out of sight in the forest behind him. The sun-dappled road was deserted in both directions. He stopped beside a small roadside shrine, his breath huffing in and out like a smith’s bellows. He let his pack, bow, and quiver hang loose in his grip, resting one hand on his knee as he tried to catch his breath, the other hand rubbing the painful bruise on his chest inflicted by the hurled stone.
Akao stopped beside him, his tongue lolling. He looked back down the road toward the village. “Coming.” His deep brown eyes, slanted like a fox, searched the road behind them, his pointed red ears erect, his nose lifted into the wind.
Ken’ishi nodded. “How far?”
“Go soon.”
“I am weak!” he growled. A swirling, leaden sickness in his belly drowned the remnants of his previous hunger. What would his dead father think of his actions just now? Would he be proud that his son had won the duel? Ashamed at the theft of the man’s money? Neither? Both? “I am sorry for my weakness, Father!” he said, choking on his shame. He had fought the duel to defend the honor of his family, then he had soiled it himself just as quickly. For that matter, what would his teacher say? What about his foster parents? He could almost hear his foster mother clicking her tongue at him, as she used to do so often when he made some terrible blunder. Then her disapproval would be followed by some great kindness to show him that his errors were forgiven. Tears of shame trickled down his nose. He missed her kindness now. He missed a friendly face amidst a land full of strangers who did not care if he lived or died. He wanted to throw the money away, but he was so hungry and had been for so long.
His mind reeled as he tried to conceive of some way to atone for his misdeed. Would robbing the dead offend the kami?
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he said to Akao. “I couldn’t bring you any food.”
The dog smiled, then padded closer and nudged Ken’ishi’s knee with his nose. “Not hungry now.”
Then a new voice piped up, small and high-pitched. “Who’s talking down there?”
Ken’ishi looked around. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and his gaze stopped on the nearby shrine.
“Who’s there?” he said.
No reply.
Inside the shrine was a little statue of one the Seven Bodhisattvas. Had the small stone god spoken to him? He wondered what the shrine’s significance might be, why people sometimes built these small structures filled with gods and offerings in the most unusual or out-of-the-way places. There was a wooden placard inside with some writing on it, but he recognized only a few of the characters.
Then he noticed a sparrow sitting on the roof of the shrine, watching him with its small black eyes. “Did you speak to us?” Ken’ishi asked. Perhaps the bird could help him. Sparrows were good fortune.
“I did. You surprised me.”
Ken’ishi bowed. “Good day, Mr. Sparrow. I am sorry to have startled you.”
It smoothed its ruffled, pale breast feathers and said with some surprise, “Good day to you, big hairy man. How is it that you can speak my tongue?”
“I learned from my teacher.”
“I have never heard of a man who could understand birds. Or dogs, for that matter. Do you have any seeds? I am hungry.”
It was so difficult to speak to such small birds. Their minds flitted back and forth as if thoughts were branches. “I am sorry,” Ken’ishi said. “I don’t have any seeds.”
“Do you have any stiff grass? I am building a nest for my wife.”
“Again, my apologies. I have none.” But perhaps he could offer the sparrow something, not only to atone for his earlier misdeed, but also because he could certainly use a bit of good fortune. His hair, tied into ponytail, symbolized his status and his nature as a warrior. “Perhaps I could offer you some of my hair.”
“What an excellent idea! An auspicious gift! You are very helpful.”
Ken’ishi drew his knife, sliced away a generous lock of hair from his ponytail, and laid it at the sparrow’s feet.
The sparrow bowed and said, “Thank you, strange big hairy man. I am in your debt. For your kindness, I think I will repay you with a bit of good fortune.”
“Thank you, good bird, but there is no need to repay me. You have helped me to avoid my own despair.”
“Too late. The good fortune has already been granted. You will meet it very soon. I hope you use it wisely. Why were you running? Is something chasing you?”
“No,” Ken’ishi said, “I run from myself.”
“What a silly thing to say! If you run from yourself, you are caught before you raise a wing! Have you any seeds?”
“No, kind bird. I’m sorry. What lies further down this road?”
“My nest is here! What lies down there does not matter to me!”
“For
give me, I am being rude.”
“If you have no seeds for me to eat, then be gone! You have wasted enough of my time, and I am hungry. I do not live as long as you!”
“Thank you, Mr. Sparrow. I’ll move on.” The demeanor of small birds could shift so suddenly. They forgot kindnesses so quickly and remembered wrongs for so long. In that respect, they were much like people. Ken’ishi shrugged his belongings onto his back, then he paused. He pulled out Takenaga’s coin pouch and plucked out the largest, shiniest gold coin. Then he placed it at the feet of the small stone god and clapped his hands twice, as he had seen others do to get the attention of the spirit of the shrine, bowed, and asked the shrine god for forgiveness for his deed. He received no response. With a heavy sigh, he moved on.
The smells of the forest, vibrant with life, helped to soothe the pain in his belly for a while, but as he walked, the constable’s silken coin purse bumped into him with each step, driving him deeper and deeper into despair. His ears burned with the cries of “Criminal! Criminal!”
He did not feel like a criminal for killing the constable. That had been a duel of honor, and he had offered a chance to decide the duel without death. His teacher had prepared him for battle, but not for the reality—the finality—of it. In his mind, he saw Takenaga’s pale face again, haloed by the expanding pool of blood, gasping, meeting the dying man’s rage- and terror-stricken eyes. Ken’ishi shuddered. He knew the memory of the duel would be burned into his mind until the moment he died, and perhaps carry into his next life. His anger at Takenaga’s insults was gone, drawn away with the departure of the man’s life. But he thanked the kami for his own life.
Heart of the Ronin Page 2