Ken’ishi and Kazuko walked together at the head of the small procession. Akao ranged ahead as he often did, scampering from bush to bush, sniffing here and there, weaving in and out of the foliage in a never-ending cycle. Hatsumi was still in too much pain to walk any distance, so she rode on the stretcher. They sent the four original bearers back to their own village and borrowed four more from this one. Kazuko sent them off with generous rewards for their labor before the party continued its journey.
As they walked, Ken’ishi felt Hatsumi’s gaze on his back, and for some reason it set him ill at ease. Now that the swelling in her face had diminished, he saw she was not a pretty woman. Her features were too broad and blunt, her eyes too small, and she had the teeth of a horse, even dyed black as they were. Kazuko’s teeth were not dyed black, and he wondered why. That was customary among most women, especially those of means. Perhaps Kazuko was still too young. He could not fathom many customs, no matter how hard he tried. He liked Kazuko’s fine, white teeth. Today it seemed that she walked a little closer to him than before. He could almost feel her warmth on the skin of his forearm. Perhaps this was why Hatsumi watched them so closely. But he sensed something else that he could not give a name. Perhaps this feeling was the voices of the kami, as Kaa had said. As the day progressed and the feeling persisted, Ken’ishi found himself growing ever more uncomfortable, a buzzing or tittering in his gut. He never glanced to see if she was watching. He did not have to.
Kazuko said, “You said that until you left Kaa’s tutelage, you could remember seeing only one person, one human. Was that the person who gave you the flute?”
Ken’ishi nodded. “It was about two years before I left the mountain. He sent me down to fish from the river.”
* * *
The boy sat quietly on the bank of the river, watching the waters of the river slide by, feeling the cool stiffness of the grass, the moist firmness of the earth under his backside. The long bamboo fishing pole rested between his knees. Its end bobbed faintly with the tug of the string as the water tugged on his hook and bait. The whispered ripple of the water soothed him, allowed him to feel a kind of calm that Kaa’s incessant harping would not. The sounds of birds and insects echoed along the river valley, and there were no other sounds. That is, until he heard something strange yet vaguely familiar, but unlike anything he had ever heard in nature.
What was that sound? It grew louder. It whistled like birdsong, but the tones were strangely related, rhythmic, melodious. He looked upriver, toward the opposite bank. A head emerged above the tall rushes, the shaven head of a man. The man looked like he was blowing on one end of a bamboo stick, holding the stick in both hands as he walked.
The boy stared as the man grew nearer and the sounds grew louder. The man stopped opposite the boy, lowered the stick, and turned to look at him. The man spoke, but his words and inflection were strange and alien, and he spoke so quickly that the boy could only pick out a few words.
The boy said, “I cannot understand you. Who are you?”
The man spoke again, and his expression changed, his forehead growing all wrinkled. The boy could not remember the last time he had seen a human face, and this one with the shaven head fascinated him.
“You talk too fast,” the boy said. “Who are you?”
The man listened intently, then nodded. He thrust himself through the rushes and down the riverbank to the water. Then he stepped down into the river and began to cross. The river was not deep or wide, but it was cold this time of year, chilled by fresh snowmelt. The water rose to his chest, but the cold did not appear to bother him as he sloshed across.
Soon he stepped up on the riverbank a few paces from the boy, dripping wet. The boy put down his fishing pole and stood up. The man bowed. The boy returned the gesture.
The man spoke, but the words were gibberish.
The boy said, “I cannot understand you. Who are you?”
The man listened intently, then nodded with a broad smile. When he spoke again, his words were slow and methodical. “My name is Doshin.”
“My name is Boy.”
The man smiled widely, and his eyes sparkled. “I did not expect to see anyone here. Do you live nearby?”
“Yes.”
“How big is your village?”
“I don’t have a village.”
“Strange to see one so young all alone in the wilderness.”
“I am not alone. I have my teacher.”
“Oh? And where is he?”
The boy turned and pointed up the mountainside. “He is up there. I am fishing for us.”
“He is your teacher, eh? What does he teach you?”
“The sword and the bow.”
“Those are the tools of the warrior. You must be a fierce lad. My own tools are not so fierce.” He raised the bamboo stick in his hand. It was almost as long as his arm, as thick as his wrist, and the boy saw that it was hollow, with a line of holes on the side.
“What is that thing?”
“It is a shakuhachi, a bamboo flute.”
“It makes that pretty noise?”
Doshin nodded, then brought one end of the flute to his lips and began to play.
The boy was enraptured, motionless, listening with every fiber of his being. After a while, the sounds trailed off, and the boy blinked as if waking from a dream. “Are you a god?” he asked.
Doshin laughed, and his eyes sparkled with humor. “No, I am not a god. I merely serve them. I am just a simple monk.”
“How do you serve them?”
“Through my faith, and by chanting sutras for others that they might reach paradise, and by playing music.”
“What is paradise? It is a place?”
“There are many paradises, just as there are many hells.”
“What is it like? Why do people want to go there?”
“It is a place of peace and plenty, without suffering and want. With music and—”
“Music? There is music there?”
“Certainly.”
“Like yours?”
“Why, yes, only much better. The music of the heavens could make the gods themselves weep.”
The boy’s mind raced, trying to imagine such a thing.
The man continued, “Music is a gift from the gods. That is why I play this flute.”
“Can you play some more?”
“Of course!” Doshin sat down on the ground and began to play. The boy sat down in front of him and listened.
The day wore on, and the monk played. The shadows of the mountains on the riverbanks grew longer. The boy’s fishing pole sat forgotten next to him, and the lilting, melancholy emanations from the monk’s flute washed over the boy, echoed down the riverbed. For a long time, the boy sat motionless, oblivious to everything else around him.
When at last the monk stopped playing, the boy sighed deeply. “How does it work?”
The monk answered, “You blow in this end and place your fingers over these holes. The holes change the note. Would you like to try?”
The boy’s chin flapped up and down.
The monk smiled and handed him the flute. The boy took the flute, studied it, held it as he had seen the monk hold it, and began to blow. A shrill bleat burst out of the flute, and the boy jumped.
The monk chuckled. “Not so hard. Blow softly.”
The boy blew again, softly, easing his breath into the bamboo tube until a tone formed itself in the air. A thrill of elation swept through him.
The shadows grew longer still as the sun sank to touch the mountains with incredible swiftness. The monk instructed the boy in how to play the instrument, to create tunes, to let the music flow. He pointed at his lower belly. “Remember that the belly, the hara, is the seat of all emotions. Breathe with your hara. Play the flute with your hara. Do not play the flute with your mind or your fingers. Play with your belly. Good, that is better! You learn quickly!”
Finally, the boy noticed that the day had almost fallen into night. His teacher
would be furious with him! He had caught no fish!
The monk noticed his alarm. “I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.”
“My teacher will be angry.”
“I am sorry to hear that I have kept you from your duties. Please take the flute as recompense.”
The boy’s heart leaped. “Truly?”
The monk nodded. “I made that one. I can make another.”
“I’m sorry. I must go now.”
“Then go, by all means.” His smile of farewell was warm and gentle.
The boy bowed to him, then snatched up his fishing pole. He turned to hurry up the riverbank, when he felt a tug on his line. He thrust the flute into his belt and took the fishing pole in both hands. Something was on the line!
The monk said, “Perhaps you need not go home empty-handed after all.”
The boy pulled on the pole and drew in his line. In the clear water, the sleek dark shape of the fish writhed on his hook.
The monk said, “My! That’s a big one!”
The boy backed up the riverbank, drawing the fish closer to the water’s edge, then with a mighty pull, he dragged the fish up onto the ground, where it flopped and thrashed. The fish was as long as his arm. The boy pulled out his small knife, leaped down upon the fish, and stabbed it in the head before it could flop back into the water.
“What a fine catch!”
The boy grinned at him. “Do you want to eat with us?”
“No, I couldn’t. I do not eat living creatures, but thank you for the invitation. I must be moving along. I have a long way to travel before I reach paradise.” The monk bowed.
The boy bowed in return, then grasped the fish by the gills with one hand, his fishing pole with the other, and dashed up the riverbank, running for the trail leading up the mountain to the cave he called home.
He often pushed himself to run up the mountain faster and faster, and his lateness made this game seem more important. When he finally reached the cave, he was puffing with exertion, and the day had gone away to darkness. Kaa was waiting for him, and Ken’ishi saw by the puff of his feathers and the angle of his head that he was both worried and irritated.
“That is a fine fish, monkey-boy!” Kaa said, his harsh voice even more shrill than normal. “It took you all day to catch it?”
The boy said nothing as he offered it up.
“What is that you are carrying?” The tengu turned his sharp, dark eyes on the flute in the boy’s rope belt.
The boy’s ears reddened. “It’s a flute.”
“Where did you get it?”
The boy hesitated, unsure if he should speak of the monk. Finally, he said, “I found it.”
“And I suppose you learned how to play it all by yourself. Don’t look so surprised. How could I fail to hear all that terrible squawking? Next time that shaven-headed monkey calling himself Doshin helps you ‘find’ something, you better see your work done first!”
The boy froze. “Do you know him?”
Kaa’s eyes blinked, and he preened the feathers on his shoulder with his beak before his spoke. “We have been acquainted. He may not remember me, though. When he saw me, I looked a bit different.”
The boy looked at him for a moment, then he said, “You were playing a trick on him!”
The tengu’s eyes closed in silent laughter. “It amuses us to play tricks on humans. Especially monks and priests. They think they are so wise.”
“Why? Isn’t it bad to play tricks on others?”
“Humans worship so many strange gods and things that sometimes it is amusing to act like one of them. The looks on their faces when we reveal the deception are priceless! It makes the losses my race has suffered over the centuries more bearable.”
“So you do it for revenge?”
“Perhaps,” Kaa admitted. “Trickery is less dangerous—and less painful—than war, isn’t it?”
“Yes, teacher.”
“You are lucky you caught that fish before you came back, or you would have been in for a beating.”
“Yes, teacher.” He looked at the ground, then said, “Were you watching?”
“My powers extend to more than mere ‘watching.’ You would do well to remember that.”
“Yes, teacher.”
“Very well. Let us eat!”
* * *
After Ken’ishi ended his tale, they walked in silence for a while. They occasionally passed tradesmen or itinerant merchants who prostrated themselves as the procession passed. They could tell from the richness of Kazuko’s clothing that she was a noble lady.
The procession passed a filthy beggar who knelt out of their path, touching his forehead to the ground. Ken’ishi’s nose wrinkled at his horrible stench. The man smelled as if he bathed in a cesspit and rinsed with urine. His cheeks were gaunt, and his ears were too big for his head. Sparse wisps of hair spotted his unwashed pate. His face was pressed against the dirt of the road.
The beggar’s sobs wracked his spindly frame as he spoke. “Oh, noble gentleman and lady, please spare some money for a wretched beggar! My wife is ill unto death and I have no money to buy her medicine. Please, be merciful and kind to a poor creature such as myself.”
Ken’ishi glanced at Kazuko. Her face had gone white, and she leaned unsteadily on her naginata. Her eyes held the look of one about to retch.
Ken’ishi felt the man’s powerlessness at being too poor to help someone he loved. The man’s stench was almost overpowering, however, and Ken’ishi had to clamp his teeth down upon his own revulsion.
The beggar cringed away from the silence hanging pregnant in the air, as if he now regretted opening his mouth at all, as if he feared that the silence was a precursor to being spurned. He tried to withdraw into himself, make himself smaller like a tortoise.
Kazuko had composed herself. She stepped forward, and her voice was shaky but resolved. “I am sorry for your plight. Please accept this. Your wife should have the medicine she needs.”
Hatsumi whispered from the stretcher, “Kazuko! Don’t touch him! You’ll be polluted again! Get away from him!”
Kazuko ignored her. She reached into her money pouch and tossed several copper coins onto the road near the beggar. The beggar began to weep and gathered the money in his hands. His tears dripped into the dust of road. “Thank you very much!” he repeated over and over, sobbing.
“Now,” she said, “go and buy medicine for your wife.”
The beggar scrambled to his feet and ran away up the road.
Kazuko smiled wanly at Ken’ishi. Then she looked at Hatsumi, and her tone grew serious. “The Buddha speaks of compassion for all things, Hatsumi, even filthy creatures like that beggar.”
“Yes, lady,” Hatsumi said. “I am sorry.” Her bruised cheeks reddened. “My concern was only for your welfare.”
Kazuko said, “I know, and thank you. But your concern should be for the beggar.”
Hatsumi lay back on the stretcher, turning her face away.
Ken’ishi thought he heard her mutter something under her breath. He could not make out her words, but her tone set his teeth on edge.
Kazuko appeared not to have heard.
Ken’ishi said to her, “You are very kind.”
“Perhaps I can do more to be kind to those below my station. Perhaps I should do more. Until I met you, I never thought of them at all. Thank you for opening my eyes.”
“I did nothing,” he said.
“You have a broad belly, a wide spirit, Ken’ishi. You would make a good retainer for any lord.”
“I’m happy you think so.”
“I will try to arrange a meeting for you with my father,” she said and smiled at him again.
As they walked on, he thought about the beggar for a long time, and the strange mixture of repulsion and pity that had left Kazuko frozen.
* * *
As she lay upon her crude palanquin, Hatsumi thought about the beggar as well, but she burned with anger at Kazuko’s rebuke. That filthy beggar had
accosted her lady, and even worse, made Kazuko displeased with her. Hatsumi silently chastised herself for forgetting Kazuko’s kind-spiritedness. She should have realized Kazuko would react as she did. How could she convince Kazuko that her feelings for the ronin were wrong, hopeless, useless, if the girl was angry with her? She would have to be more careful from now on.
Hatsumi wondered why she felt so ill tempered, almost as if it were in spite of herself. Her groin still throbbed and ached, but it was no longer a searing agony. She covered her eyes to protect them from the beating sun. The uncertain step of the peasants bearing her stretcher made her queasy, and her head hurt. She almost believed she would feel better now if she walked herself. She craned her neck to look at Kazuko and saw her walking closely beside the ronin. Too closely. Her fists clenched.
“Kazuko!” she called, keeping her voice carefully beseeching.
The girl turned and looked at her with that beautiful smile, as if nothing had happened. Could she have forgotten so soon? “Yes? What is it?”
“May we stop and rest for a bit?”
“Certainly, Hatsumi,” Kazuko said.
Hatsumi noted the scowl of impatience on the ronin’s face and quietly enjoyed it.
The bearers lowered Hatsumi’s conveyance so that she could step off, and she sighed with relief. “My dear, could you help me?” She held out her hand to Kazuko, who moved to help her off the stretcher.
Hatsumi glanced at the bushes, and Kazuko nodded in understanding. Hatsumi no longer needed the help, but she was grateful for Kazuko’s touch. When they were out of sight of the rest of the party, Hatsumi turned to her.
“Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have been so rude to that beggar. You were right.”
“There is no need for forgiveness. You were looking out for my welfare.”
“As I always do. I am forever your humble servant.”
Kazuko smiled. “You are more like my sister than a servant!”
Hatsumi smiled back, and for the first time in too long, she felt real warmth and love. The bitter darkness receded. She almost felt like she could chat with Kazuko just as she always had, but there was still something between them.
Heart of the Ronin Page 17