At first, it had been frightening, incomprehensible. He had seen scores of shops with placards outside that he could not read. He had seen hundreds of people going about business he did not understand, because he had never encountered a city before. He was hungry, but he did not know how to get food, thirsty, but he did not know where to drink, weary, but he did not know where to sleep. He knew not a soul in the entire world. There was no one who could help them.
And the women. The women were so beautiful and delicate, with their dark, sparkling eyes, full lips, and lovely throats. Many of them smelled so wonderful, like goddesses. He could only stare after them in helpless amazement. They were so much more beautiful than Haru. But why, then, did he still think of her so often? Even after what she had done to him? And it had been so many months since he had seen her. When he saw her face in his memory, her pretty eyes glinting with deceit, he felt such a strange mixture of emotions. Desire, regret, longing, shame. Ken’ishi pushed thoughts of her aside as he passed a trio of lovely girls who had caught him staring at them. They giggled at him, covering their mouths with their hands as he moved away, blushing with embarrassment.
He had never seen so many women before. Something in him wanted to touch them, but he did not know what else to do. More than once, his loins stirred with an aching need he could not describe. So many women around him should make it easier for him to forget Haru, but somehow it did not.
One night, Ken’ishi walked the dark streets. Akao walked close, brushing against Ken’ishi’s legs. The dog’s hair stood straight across his neck, and his tail was tucked against his back leg. They passed windows and heard the musical sounds of women’s laughter, and the deep laughter of men too. They sounded like they were having fun. He knew that he wanted to know women, to laugh with them, but he could not. He did not know how. Once he tried to enter a shop where he heard the sounds of merriment, but a huge man by the door grabbed him and threw him back out into the street. For a moment, anger flared in him, but the man slammed the door in his face before he could get up off the ground. He had been taught to recognize his own frustration and conquer it immediately. So he shrugged it off, picked himself up out of the dirt, and readjusted his ragged accoutrements.
He moved on down the street, passing darkened shops wherein through the thin walls he heard strange, gasping cries, or low, mumbled words. He found himself stopping to stare at the dark shapes silhouetted on paper screens, hidden from the eyes of the world. The streets here were dark and narrow, and some of the men he saw looked dangerous. They looked scruffy and unwashed with prominent scars and hungry, treacherous looks. He saw one man who looked as if his nose had been sliced off years ago. Some wore fine clothes and large basket hats to conceal their features. He gave them a wide berth, but he did not fear them. His teacher had made certain of that. But in an unfamiliar place, it was best to be cautious.
He noticed a rough-looking man coming down the street toward him. The man wore a fine silken kimono, trousers, and a wide-shouldered jacket emblazoned with some family crest. But he had only one sword, a short sword, at his hip. Ken’ishi thought this was strange, as many samurai he had seen—particularly ones who looked as wealthy as this one—wore two swords. He often wished that he had two swords like them, a mate for Silver Crane. The man’s hair was immaculately styled in the traditional topknot, but his eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks were flushed. He ignored Ken’ishi as he shouldered past him into a nearby shop.
A sign above the shop door read, Souls of Samurai Polished Here. In his limited education, Ken’ishi had most quickly learned the characters that applied to him, and he felt a moment of pride at being able to read the sign.
Standing in the invisible air of the man’s passing breath, Ken’ishi caught the smell of sake. Peering around Ken’ishi’s legs, Akao stood hunched and staring, emitting a low growl.
“Can you spare some coin, sir, for an old man?” came a voice from the shadows under the eave of a nearby house.
Ken’ishi looked to see an old man squatting there, with a small wooden cup in one raised hand. His skin was wrinkled and leathery, stretched across his skull, with prominent brows and protruding cheekbones. Pale white whiskers dusted his spotted jaw, and his mouth had collapsed into itself with the absence of teeth. Ken’ishi kept his distance, but he felt a mixture of revulsion at the man’s ugliness and compassion for his plight.
“I was once a ronin like you, boy,” the beggar said. “Until I lost my arm and my eye in battle.” He raised the stump of his right arm, severed at the elbow, and lifted his face out of the shadows to reveal an empty, puckered eye socket. To make his appearance even more unpleasant, he had a large, purplish bulb in the center of his forehead that looked like a cluster of rotten plums stuck to his flesh, oozing down onto his brow.
“I am sorry,” Ken’ishi said. “I have no money.”
“Some food then?”
“I’m sorry. I’m hungry, too. I have no food and no money to offer you.”
“That’s too bad to see one as young and strong as you with such troubles. Good luck to you, young man.” The old man bowed his head to him.
Ken’ishi bowed in return and moved on down the street.
After he had gone about ten steps, a door opened and a loud voice emerged behind him. “Ah, what fine craftsmanship! It looks better than the day it was first polished!”
Ken’ishi turned and saw the rough-looking samurai standing in the street outside the shop he had entered.
The samurai held aloft a katana that glimmered in the light of the street lanterns. “Outstanding!”
The sword polisher, a man approaching late years, stood in the doorway of his shop, bowing deeply. “You are too kind to a man with skills as poor as mine.”
“Nonsense, Masamoto! You do outstanding work!”
At that moment, the old beggar nearby said, “Can a fine, strong gentleman such as you spare some coin for an old warrior?”
The samurai turned toward the old man, noticing him for the first time. A look of disgust appeared on the samurai’s face, then his expression furrowed with dark, cruel lines.
He stepped closer to the old man and, with a lightning quick motion, slashed sideways. The old man’s head tumbled off his shoulders, bobbling across the dirt.
Ken’ishi stared in horrified fascination at the warrior’s cold cruelty.
The samurai glared imperiously as the old man’s body slipped and fell sideways, dribbling dark red blood from the stump of his neck. The samurai’s voice was thick with derision as he said, “Thank you, old warrior, for allowing me to test my newly polished blade. You should have died on the battlefield like a true samurai and spared the world a helpless beggar.” He turned to the sword polisher, who stood frozen with a look of queasy surprise and fear. “Again, Masamoto, I must say you do outstanding work. I hardly felt the resistance of the spine.”
Trembling, the sword polisher offered him a cloth. “To remove the blood, sir.”
The samurai took it and wiped away the little bit of wetness that clung to the gleaming steel. Then with movements like liquid, the samurai sheathed his blade and thrust the scabbard into his obi. Suddenly he turned toward Ken’ishi, his eyes glinting like red lanterns in the darkness. “What are you staring at, boy?”
Ken’ishi stiffened for a moment, then his master’s training took over and he relaxed, prepared for battle.
“What, have you no tongue?” The samurai’s voice grew angry. “You do not approve of me testing my freshly polished blade?”
Ken’ishi’s chin rose in defiance, but he said nothing.
“You have a sword, I see. Where did a whelp like you find a sword like that? Whom did you steal it from?”
Ken’ishi stiffened, and Akao’s growl grew to a snarl.
A cruel leer split the man’s face. “Do you know how to use that weapon, or do you just carry it around for show?”
Ken’ishi glanced down at the old man’s head, lying on the dirt street, dribbling a t
hin trail of blood behind it, the body twitching as it lay crumpled on the ground. Such a senseless death. To have lived for so long and died so badly, so meaninglessly, at the hands of one so crass and cruel. The old man had deserved better.
“You have the look of a young cock ready for his first fight,” said the samurai, squaring his body toward Ken’ishi with bloodlust in his eyes. “Perhaps you should be taught your place.”
Ken’ishi thrust the hilt of his sword forward. Akao snarled and bared his teeth.
“Oho! A young cock you are then! A cock and a dog. But which is which? Perhaps you are both dogs.” The samurai’s words were jovial, but his tone was not. “Perhaps you’re one head too tall as well.”
The other man was accustomed to his harsh words causing others to back down from him. But Ken’ishi was not backing down. He planted his feet and tested his footing.
The samurai started forward and snarled, “Why you little turd, I’ll—!”
Then another voice roared down the street, echoing between the shops and houses like the rumble of thunder. “Goemon! What the hell are you doing!”
The samurai stopped in mid-step and turned.
As the new figure came into the light, Ken’ishi saw he was also a samurai, dressed in robes that were rich, but not opulent, and carrying himself with the bearing of a man accustomed to command. He had strong, handsome features and sharp eyes. His gaze seemed to drill into Goemon, puncture him. The hostility bottled within Goemon began to seep away.
Goemon said, “Captain Mishima. I was just about to teach this rude young cock a lesson in manners.”
Captain Mishima stopped about two paces away from Goemon. “You were doing no such thing. He neither said nor did anything to provoke you. I saw the whole thing.”
Goemon stiffened as if struck.
Captain Mishima continued, his voice steady and controlled. “You are a disgrace. You’re nothing but a drunken bully, and you bring shame to our master. We are retainers to a noble house, some of the highest ranked bushi in the capital! We live to a far higher standard than this! Your disgraceful behavior brings dishonor upon our master, and that I cannot allow!”
“But—!”
“Shut up. I have been looking for you since nightfall. You have gone too far. The owner of a certain sake house sent word of your . . . behavior tonight to my office. You debauch yourself with sake, opium, and whores, and then spend the rest of the night proving your superiority to boys and old men.” He turned his penetrating gaze for an instant on the corpse sprawled in the dirt, and a look of pity and sadness flickered through his eyes, quickly washed away by a controlled rush of anger. “Madame Matsuko has powerful friends, and you have angered her with your ill-mannered treatment of her girls. You are a disgrace. I swear on my oath to our master that you will answer for this.”
Goemon’s chin fell further and further toward his chest, his shoulders slumping at the verbal barrage.
Captain Mishima continued, “I would enjoy the chance to cut you down myself, but you are not mine to kill.”
Goemon’s head rose at those words, and his body tensed again as he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.
Captain Mishima was unfazed, and his voice turned cold and deadly. “Do you think you can fight me? You are drunk, and I can smell the opium on your clothes. Your death would be no better than his.” He pointed toward the old man’s corpse. “Come with me now and you may be allowed to regain your honor with seppuku. It is not my decision to make, however. If it were, I would cut you down like the dog you are. Disobey me and you will be hunted and executed like a criminal.” He raised his arm and pointed back down the street in the direction he had come. “Now, go.”
Goemon released his sword hilt, lowered his head, and trudged down the street.
Captain Mishima then turned to the sword polisher, who stood with his eyes downcast, embarrassed and frightened. “Please accept my apologies, Masamoto. You will have no more trouble from Goemon. My master is grateful for your skilled service.”
The sword polisher bowed. “Your master is too kind to someone with such poor skill as I have.”
Then Captain Mishima looked at Ken’ishi and gave him an appraising glance. Ken’ishi saw the calm intelligence in his eyes and a flash of respect. He blushed at the scrutiny. “You are a brave young man,” Captain Mishima said. “Please accept my humble apologies for the behavior of my underling.” Then he offered a quick bow.
Ken’ishi was nonplussed. No one of such rank had ever spoken to him before with such courtesy. Nevertheless, he had the presence of mind to return the honor with a low bow of his own.
Then Captain Mishima turned, thought for a moment, and said to the sword polisher, “Masamoto, please polish this young man’s weapon. My master would consider it a favor.”
The sword polisher almost hid his surprise, then he bowed deeply. “Of course, Mishima-sama. It would be my pleasure.”
Then the samurai captain followed Goemon down the street.
After he had gone, the sword polisher turned to Ken’ishi and bowed with a feeble smile. “Please,” he said, “allow me to polish your weapon.”
Unsure of what else to say, Ken’ishi said, “Very well. Please do me this favor.” He walked toward the sword polisher, untying his scabbard, then offered it up to the artisan with both hands. The sword polisher bowed low and received it with both hands.
“May I inspect it?” Masamoto asked.
“Of course.”
The sword polisher drew the blade half out of its scabbard and inspected the steel in the lamplight. He let out a long slow breath. “Exquisite! What a fantastic blade!”
Ken’ishi’s ears flushed. “It is called Silver Crane.”
“Did you say—? Ah, but it cannot be. It must be another sword of the same name, but . . . look at the temper line along the cutting edge! It looks like feathers! What technique!”
Ken’ishi could not help smiling.
The sword polisher bowed again, deeper this time. “It is my privilege to polish such a weapon! I will have it finished for you in ten days. Please return then. Until then”—he stepped into his shop with Ken’ishi’s weapon and returned with another weapon, a katana, in its scabbard—“please take this sword to carry until you return. It is hardly more than a piece of trash compared to yours, but a warrior should not be weaponless.” He bowed and offered the weapon with both hands.
Ken’ishi bowed low and took it. “Thank you for your kindness. I will return in ten days’ time.” He tried to ignore the headless corpse lying a few paces away as he slipped the loaner katana into his sash.
He turned to go, but the sword polisher stopped him. “Please, wait a moment. Excuse me, but, are you ronin?”
“I have no master.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Earlier today,” Ken’ishi lied.
The sword polisher nodded. He pointed down the street. “Down that way is a small temple. The chief priest there . . . well, you should speak to him. He might give you a place to stay, for a time, until the sword is finished. Tell him I sent you.”
Ken’ishi bowed again. “Thank you, again.”
“It is nothing,” the sword polisher said.
As Ken’ishi walked away, Akao followed some distance behind him, busily inspecting the corner of every building and small piles of garbage or litter on the dusty street. Ken’ishi thought about Captain Mishima again. He could not remember his father, but he wished that he were like the captain. Strong, confident, honorable, noble, with the skill and conviction to back up his words.
He had spent the next ten days waiting. Polishing a sword was a long and exacting process, just as important as the forging of the weapon. He felt both honored and honor-bound to have Silver Crane polished, therefore he could not have refused the offer. Besides, ronin could rarely afford to have their weapons polished by craftsmen as renowned as Masamoto, unless they were successful criminals.
He and Akao stayed at the temple, and th
e priest there gave each of them two rice balls every day. Ken’ishi accepted his with great discomfort, and Akao with great enthusiasm. Ken’ishi had done nothing to deserve this kindness, and the way the priest looked at him made him nervous. It would only be a matter of time before something bad happened and he would be turned out. People who were kind to him always turned him out, eventually. One of the few times the priest spoke to him, he said only, “I was a ronin once, until I entered the path of peace. You have a good heart. I can see that.” He did what he could to help the priest without being asked. He swept the walks clean of dust. He picked up fallen leaves and sticks and bits of detritus that drifted in with the wind. And he gave a portion of his rice ball every day to the jovial stone god of the central shrine. The priest told him that the god was Hotei, the Laughing Buddha. Ken’ishi thought the god looked like a kind, jolly old man with arms upraised in joy.
When ten days had passed, he returned to the sword polisher’s shop. Masamoto gave him back his sword, bowing deeply and offering it with both hands, an expression of profound solemnity on his face. The sword polisher said, “It has been my great honor to polish this weapon for you, sir. May I ask, where did you get it?”
“It was my father’s weapon.”
“Truly? Who was your father?”
Ken’ishi did not answer. He looked away, took a deep breath, then said, “A great man.”
Masamoto looked at him for a long time, his searching gaze so intent that a prickle of uneasiness crept up the back of Ken’ishi’s neck. The sword polisher said, “Yes, a great man, indeed. Please, young man, hear me now. One such as I well knows that some swords are . . . special. Their smiths, their histories, their lineages, their masters, these things sometimes. . . . Well, I don’t know the secrets of Silver Crane, but I do know this. Wield it well, and it will honor you.”
Heart of the Ronin Page 4