Heart of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  “Then why do you teach me the bow?”

  “You’ll be living among them! If they fight with bows, you must fight with a bow.”

  The boy thought about this for a few moments. His teacher always made his distrust and dislike for humans plain. At those times, the boy had felt guilty to be born one. Then something occurred to him for the first time. “If you so dislike humans—”

  The tengu interrupted him, “Why did I raise you?” Kaa often finished the boy’s statements for him, almost as if he could read the boy’s mind.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Because of who your father was. A great swordsman. A great samurai. So famous among your people that even I had heard of him. Most warriors these days concentrate on using bows, but your father was part of a new school among warriors. He was a master of the sword. I am a master of the blade, and the thought of a monkey calling himself a master of the sword made me angry. So I sought him out. I wanted to test his skill. Because he was a man, I expected little from him. I expected to humiliate him, to put him in his place. So I challenged him to a duel. It was a close match, but in the end, he defeated me. I lay on the ground at his feet, at his mercy, wounded. He could have killed me. He did not. Instead, he bowed to me, and thanked me for the chance to prove his skill against a true master.

  “My opinion of your race was raised that day. To think that monkeys could come so far in only a few hundred years! But it seems if one monkey rises above the others, the others must drag him down. Your people have a saying, ‘The nail that sticks up must be pounded down.’ When his enemies came for him, I could not save him or your mother. I could only save you. Your father was a man of honor, and a man of true strength. And so will you be, if you listen to what I teach you.”

  “When will you give me his sword?”

  “When you are ready. Not before. You will use the bokken until that day. Your father’s sword is special.” Kaa paused to smooth some feathers on his breast with his hard crimson beak.

  The boy had asked this question before, but he tried again. “Please, will you tell me his name? What is the name of my family?”

  “You have no family. Your family was wiped out when you were three. You were reborn into a new life.”

  “What is my name?”

  “Names have power. You have no name, except Boy, and no power, except what you make for your own. On the day I give you your father’s sword, you can choose your own name. And you must make of that name whatever you can.”

  * * *

  “For a long time,” Ken’ishi said, “I thought about what name I wanted. But I didn’t know any human names. I only knew the names of birds and trees and fish. I thought I would choose the name of a fearsome animal, like ‘Kuma’ or ‘Tora,’ but I never decided on one.

  “When Kaa told me the day had finally come, he gave me my father’s sword and sent me to the village a couple of days’ walk from my mountain home. He warned me that the people would think me strange, that they did not like strangers. He told me to be careful, but I was too excited to listen. I was venturing into the world for the first time! I was such a fool.” He touched the small jagged scar on his forehead that traced up and merged with his hairline.

  Thirteen

  O moon,

  Why must you inspire my neighbor to chirp

  All night on a flute!

  —Koyo

  The young man’s long trek through the mountains toward the village neared its end when he found a footpath winding through the pine forest. The path was too wide to be a game trail, and it pointed in the general direction he believed the village to be. Excitement surged in him, and his heart began to pound. He would see people again! It had been so long.

  He walked faster through the thick forest. He heard and smelled the village before he saw it. So many strange scents he could not begin to identify, scents that did not exist in the wilderness. He heard voices calling out to one another, but too muffled by the forest to discern the words. He heard the river down the slope, the same river he had fished from and sought for comfort most of his life. He did not know if the river had a name, only that it passed near the mountain where he had lived until two days ago.

  Silver Crane hung from his rope belt, banging against his left hip, and his bow and arrows hung from his back beside his traveling pack. With each step, feeling the weight of the steel weapon against his leg, he felt a beat of pride. He had waited for so long, dreamed of these days he was now living. He was free to see the world and to carry his father’s blade. He sometimes feared he must be inside a dream, and that he would wake up to find himself sleeping in the cold, dark cave. The sword’s weight still felt unfamiliar to him, but that would change.

  He tried to think about what he would say to the people he found. How would they respond to him? His teacher had told him to be cautious, so he would be cautious, but friendly. He felt like a lost child, coming home.

  The forest ended suddenly, and he emerged into the outskirts of the village. The path wended its way along the earthen embankments between rice fields toward the group of perhaps forty houses and buildings straddling the river. He saw a wooden bridge crossing the river among the houses. On the far side of the village, the mountains again heaved up out of the earth to create a deep green wall of pine forest, the trees with their long, naked trunks topped by bushes of green needles, a backdrop for the plain, wooden houses with their thatched roofs and weathered sides.

  Then he noticed a man in one of the rice fields beside the path. The man squatted on his haunches, working, so that only his conical straw hat and his shoulders were visible in the sea of green. The bright green rice plants rippled in the breeze, with the kernel heads just beginning to form on the grassy stalks.

  The young man walked toward him and stopped on the path perhaps ten paces from him. He said nothing, but watched the farmer. He wanted to speak but did not know what to say. His teacher had little use for even simple greetings.

  Then a voice cried out from the village. The farmer’s straw hat jerked up and looked around. The farmer’s eyes fixed upon him, and then almost bulged out of his head. The young man smiled at him. The farmer’s face convulsed with fear, and he said something unintelligible. Two other men and a woman stood on the path, watching, frozen with expectation.

  “What did you say?” asked the young man. “I did not understand you.” His teacher had told him that men had many different tongues and often could not understand each other. Now he wondered if he would be able to communicate with these people at all.

  The farmer jumped to his feet, turned and ran toward the village as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. The young man could only watch him go. He called out to the villagers, “I’m not going to harm you.” He waved and walked toward them.

  When the farmer reached the others, he stopped and turned to watch the young man’s approach. The four villagers watched him, appearing to grow more fearful with each of the young man’s steps.

  He stopped. He did not know what to do. He tried smiling wider and showing them that he had no weapons in his hands. This appeared to change nothing in their demeanor.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement. He turned to look, just in time to spot another young man behind an embankment near a rice field, just in time to spot the fist-sized stone as it sailed toward him. The stone struck him squarely in the forehead. A blaze of searing pain, then nothing.

  * * *

  The young man awoke to a cock crowing and a splitting pain in his head. Opening his eyes was an act of sheer will. His eyelids felt as if he had been asleep for a year. His mouth was as dry as a bed of fallen pine needles, and his entire body felt as weak as a sparrow hatchling. His blurred vision took in the dark, thatched ceiling of a house. He heard sounds of incomprehensible activity around him. Voices outside the house, movement inside, the laughter of children, the rhythmic beat of a hammer somewhere. A hunched human shape sat near him with its back turned. He licked his lips
, and a dry rattle escaped his throat.

  The person sitting nearby turned toward him and became a shaven-headed man dressed in simple linen robes. His face was broad and weathered, and he had many wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looked strange to the boy. Then the man smiled, and a look of kind concern shaped his features into a smile. He said something that the young man did not understand.

  He moved toward the young man, bringing a bowl with him. He lifted the bowl to the young man’s lips and poured a trickle of cool water into his mouth. It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He gulped at it.

  The old man spoke again, and this time the young man thought he heard the words “. . . eyes . . . bright. . . .”

  Another shape moved into view behind the man. A woman, her back hunched as if from a great weight, wearing simple clothes like the man, with her hair hidden by a scarf. Her face was lined and wrinkled like the man’s, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

  The young man wondered what they would do with him now. Was he a prisoner? Somehow, he did not think so. But why had the villagers been so afraid of him?

  The woman spoke, and the young man heard the words “. . . look like . . . Ainu . . . dangerous. . . .”

  The old man spoke: “. . . don’t think so. His face . . . Ainu . . . wrong.”

  The young man said, “Please, more water.” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

  The old man smiled. “. . . speaks!” Then he poured more water into the young man’s mouth.

  The young man said, “I cannot understand you. You speak strangely.”

  The old man listened, appearing to think about the young man’s words. Then he nodded as if he understood. He spoke slowly. “My. Name. Is. Takao. I am a priest in this village. I am sorry . . . frightened of you . . . not dangerous . . . to me. This is my wife, Kayo. We have tried to heal you. You have . . . since yesterday.” This time the young man understood.

  He reached up to touch his head and felt it swathed in cloth. The cloth across his forehead was stiff and caked with dried blood.

  “Be careful. Your skull was cracked. You must rest and heal a while longer.”

  “Thank you for not killing me.”

  Takao laughed, and his eyes sparkled. “No need to worry about that now. No one will harm you. . . .”

  The young man allowed himself to slip into blackness again, where there was no pain in his head.

  * * *

  His periods of wakefulness grew longer each time. The priest and his wife fed him broth and rice porridge, and the next day he was able to stand without being toppled by dizziness. He was still afraid to go outside, however, for fear of another stone to the forehead.

  The old priest tried to put him at ease, telling him that he was so heavily armed and looked so fierce that the villagers thought he was a robber or an Ainu raider. The young man understood. He might have done the same thing in their place.

  “What is your name, boy?” the priest asked him one day.

  “I don’t have a name.”

  Takao’s eyes widened in surprise. “No name? Have you no parents?”

  “I have no parents.”

  “An orphan? Living in the wilderness? That is terrible!”

  The young man did not know what to say.

  “Would you like to have a name?”

  He nodded.

  “What kind of name would you like?”

  “I don’t know any names. Perhaps I could be called ‘Bear,’ or ‘Wolf.’ ”

  Takao laughed, and the lines around his eyes seemed to grow deeper. “Kuma? Okami? Do you want everyone to be terrified of you?”

  “No.”

  “Then those names just will not do. They are too fierce. Your name should be strong but not fierce.” The old man thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. “May I give you a name?”

  “Yes, please do.” The young man nodded earnestly.

  “Then you will be called ‘Ken’ishi.’ You came to us with little more than a sword, and you have been trained to use it. ‘Ken.’ And a stone brought you to my house. ‘Ishi.’ You shall be called ‘Ken’ishi.’ ”

  The young man repeated it to himself a few times, trying to get the feel of it on his tongue. “Is it a good name?” Ken’ishi asked.

  “Yes, it is a fine name!” The old man’s smile widened, and his gaze seemed to look into the distance.

  “Thank you, Takao. I am Ken’ishi.”

  “I am pleased to meet you for the first time, Ken’ishi!” Takao said, chuckling and bowing.

  Ken’ishi smiled in return and bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, too.”

  “Come, let’s go sit outside. There is a nice breeze.” Ken’ishi followed him and they sat down in the shade of the house. A pleasant cool breeze wafted over them.

  Takao picked up a stick. “Here, watch this. I’ll show you how to write your name.” In the dirt, the old man drew two complicated-looking characters. “There. This is your name. ‘Ken.’ ” He pointed to the first one. “This character can also be read as ‘Tsurugi,’ but I think ‘Ken’ sounds better, yes? Simplicity.”

  Ken’ishi nodded.

  Takao pointed to the second character. “And this one is ‘Ishi.’ Stone. Let me show you.” He put the stick in Ken’ishi’s hand, adjusted his grip. “Gently. Pretend it’s a brush.”

  “What’s a brush?”

  Takao paused, then said, “Never mind. Just hold it this way.” Then he took Ken’ishi’s hand in his own and guided him through the first character’s fifteen separate strokes, scratching the character into the dirt. They repeated this process a few times, and then Takao erased all the previous attempts with his hands. “Now, do it yourself.” Ken’ishi’s hand seemed to remember the order and direction of the strokes, and he repeated it flawlessly. Then they repeated the process with the much simpler second character.

  This is my name, he thought. I am Ken’ishi.

  “Good! Well done!” The old man chuckled.

  Ken’ishi smiled, swelling with pride.

  They sat in silence for a while. The young man thought about his new name, scratching it over and over into the earth. Ken’ishi. Let the power begin here, he thought. Let my name draw its power from the symbols in the dirt.

  Then Takao said, “How long have you lived in the wilderness, Ken’ishi?”

  “For as long as I can remember.”

  “Alone?”

  Ken’ishi told him the story of how he had been raised by his teacher. The priest was surprised that a tengu had been so kind to raise a human child, and that one lived so close by. Tengu were uncommon, but not unheard of in these parts, and were given a wide berth to avoid any instances of unpleasantness. There were old stories of conflict between men and tengu. The tengu race’s dislike for humans, along with their sometimes-foul temper, was well known. Takao said it explained the young man’s lack of etiquette and manners, as well as his strange dialect. He told Ken’ishi that he could stay here as long as he liked. As soon as he was healed, Takao would teach him many things. Takao questioned him about his family, but he could provide no answers.

  Takao explained that the villagers thought Ken’ishi to be one of the Ainu people, a strange race who had been driven out in ancient times. The Ainu now lived in lands far away, but they sometimes raided villages in the north in attempts to reclaim their ancestral territory. They were ancient enemies, and the hardy villagers were always on the lookout for them.

  Before long, Ken’ishi felt hale and strong, and he began to work around Takao’s house and the small shrine where the priest practiced his rites to the kami of the earth and sky and water, the guardian kami of the village, the spirits of the mountains and forest. It seemed like a lot of effort to please such capricious entities as the kami, but Ken’ishi understood it. He had learned well how to listen to the voices of the spirits. The priest had much responsibility to keep the village safe and prosperous, and if the kami were displeased, the village would suffer.

 
; Every day, Takao made him sit down and learn new characters. Characters for numbers and things and gods. It was slow and difficult, and Ken’ishi often wondered about the purpose of writing, but he was glad that he could write his name. And something about it felt magical, as if the strokes of the characters gave order to unharnessed power.

  He liked living in Takao and Kayo’s house. It was warm and comfortable, and he had food to eat. He tried to allay the villagers’ distrust and fear by behaving well, and it seemed that as the summer moved toward autumn, they began to accept him, and to become more at ease in his presence. But he could hear whisperings of the kami in the back of his mind, telling him that he could not stay here forever. The villagers might tolerate him, but they would never accept him.

  He acquainted himself with the other young men in the village. He sensed the mutual distrust. They were afraid of him, because they had no weapons like his. And he remembered the face of the young man who had felled him with a stone. That young man’s name was Ryoichi, and he was the leader of the young men. Ryoichi considered himself one of the protectors of the village, and to him Ken’ishi was a threat that must be contained. Some of the younger boys were friendly and tried to talk to him, but they eventually stopped coming to see him, and when Ken’ishi saw them in the presence of Ryoichi, they looked away sheepishly. This made Ken’ishi angry. He wanted to fight Ryoichi, to defeat the boy who had become his enemy, but he knew that he did not dare harm anyone. That would only make things worse.

  He could not remember ever seeing a girl before he came to the village, but recognized them by the things that his teacher had said. He often watched them, trying to study how their bodies and faces were different from his. Sometimes their beauty entranced him. Like the young men, the young women were afraid of him too. He could sense their eyes on him when he was not looking, but when he smiled at them they ran away. Sometimes when they ran away from him, they giggled; sometimes their eyes were wide with fear. All except for one.