Cave of the Shadow Ninja: Part I

by David Parkin

  The Imperial Palace of Pylo was a series of great ballrooms, staterooms, offices, and living quarters, built across the sheer side of the eastern cliff. “The creeping palace,” as many referred to it resembled a beautiful vine growing up the flat rock, sprouting leaves of clay and wood, tendrils of walkways and ladders, and flowers of thousands of glowing orange lanterns. At night, when only the lanterns were visible, the palace blended seamlessly into the sky, appearing as though the whole cliff had vanished. The unique architecture of Pylo was not just a marvel of beauty and engineering but also made the palace one of the most unforgiving military strongholds on the continent.

  Ping let the sweet sense of nostalgia erase his worries if only for a moment until his thoughts drifted to the man who lived inside Pylo. Emperor Han of the great Shing Po Dynasty was the latest in a family of leaders who ushered in and carried on nearly half a century of peace with their sworn enemies across the Crescent Sea. The war between Bushan and Kaito had lasted for so long, through so many generations that, when asked how or even when it had began, each man, woman, and child in either part of both worlds would offer a wildly different answer.

  The era of peace, ushered in almost half a century ago, started when Emperor Han’s father, Mako, broke precedent for the first time in history and requested a peace summit. It was then, in a palace built on The Backbone, that the two leaders from both worlds stood in a room together for the first time. Nobody knows what was said. The men only spoke for fifty-three seconds before coming out together and commanding their armies to stand down.

  Since that day, the Shing Po Dynasty had brokered an ever-strengthening relationship with Bushan, which the people of Kaito didn’t know until the end of the war, consisted of many countries, each with a diverse and exotic people of their own. A healthy trade was established and, with the exception of the occasional border skirmish and civil bickering, the peace had remained in place.

  As the palace in the distance grew larger, Ping and his men passed through the open gate at the border and entered the outskirts of Paoyang. Instinctively, with the sound of their convoy, moving shapes began to rise together in the shadows of the village slum known as “The Ratway.” They stepped into the rain from alleyways and pieced-together shacks offering hungry eyes and outstretched hands.

  “Ahh, here we are,” Shilo, groaned from behind Ping. “It doesn’t matter what time of day we come through here, they always seem to find us. It’s like they can smell money.” After suffering such a humiliating defeat, Shilo had kept quiet for the entirety of their ride. Ping knew the boy well enough to understand his shame and exhaustion were coming to a head. “I can smell something, but it’s definitely not money,” Shilo continued with a sour look on his face.

  Below him, Ping spotted an old woman with cloudy eyes as she collided with the grumpy soldier’s shin guard. “Hey watch it!” Shilo cursed, pulling back on the reins as his horse reared on its hind legs, almost throwing him completely.

  Fortunately, Shilo’s skills kept the animal beneath him; unfortunately, the horse’s rider still required a bit more taming. “You filthy, groveling . . . !” Shilo screamed with fire in his eyes.

  Captain Ping didn’t bother turning around. He earned his place at the head of this armament because, unlike Shilo, he knew how to stay his tongue. This situation required no yelling and no embarrassing example-making discourse. In fact, in one quick motion, Ping put the situation to an instant conclusion.

  As the flames behind Shilo’s eyes reached white-hot, the sound of a single coin landing in one of the dozens of tin cups surrounding them shut the soldier down in mid-sentence. That small sound was all Ping needed to deliver a scolding so harsh Shilo would no doubt lose a well-deserved night’s sleep rehearsing an apology. “In fact,” Ping worried, “I might have been too hard on the boy.”

  In response to the quiet scolding, Shilo cleared his throat, took a breath, and placed a coin in every outstretched hand he could find, especially the old woman’s. “I’m sorry,” he admitted to her. “It’s been a long ride.”

  Shilo was a good soldier and, in actuality, a very selfless man. His fault came in his inability to take a loss with quiet dignity. Perhaps, Ping thought, it’s my fault for not exposing him to failure enough.

  As the guards moved from the outskirts through the city center, Ping felt like the shadow of a sundial, crossing over the years and decades of his life. The city in the shadow of the creeping palace was a place of extremes. From those who lived in Pylo above to the poor and needy choking the streets below, Ping was one of the very few who had lived under each side of that coin.

  Turning back to the palace, Ping caught sight of his home from the top of the hill. No doubt his wife and children were sleeping comfortably in their beds, ignorant that he was watching over them from such a short distance. Ping pulled the reigns, turned, and relieved all of his men but Shilo to receive the much-needed familial and/or medical attention they required. As his regiment broke and scattered in all directions, Ping tried to shake the feeling that this might be the last time he would lay eyes on his home.

  Past the narrow streets stood the Paoyang Temple of the Ancient Ones, as stable as the rocks upon which it was built. Ping hoped some answers might be there, perhaps wafting in through the banners of prayer flags at the precipice.

  After dismounting at the palace stables, Ping and Shilo ascended the grand staircase at the base of a cliff and crossed the large drawbridge. They waited as the monstrous set of green doors slowly cranked open and a palace greeter gave a silent bow, signaling the two men to enter.

  As the doors clanged and rattled closed behind them, Ping and Shilo moved through the darkened hall, their footsteps echoing against the ancient tile floor. In the quiet room, Ping sensed Shilo nervously shifting in his armor and gestured to a bench by one of the massive pillars flanking the door. “We might as well sit,” Ping suggested. “It’s not very respectful, but then again, neither is waking the emperor past the witching hour.”

  Ping felt the freeing aches take over his back and legs as he sat and rested his head against the millennia-old stone. Beside him, he sensed Shilo attempting to find the courage to speak. “Something to say, son?” Ping asked, generously opening the door for him.

  “I . . . I need to apologize, Captain,” Shilo said, as softly as he could.

  “No need,” Ping said, “It’s been a hard few days.”

  “It’s not just what I said to the old woman,” Shilo continued, “but why.”

  Ping closed his eyes, an old hand at questions and concerns like this. “We were all defeated, Shilo, not just you.”

  “I understand that, but there’s something more. I know why he picked me to deliver the note.” Ping raised an eyebrow, keeping his eyes closed as he felt Shilo look away in shame. “I was afraid,” the young soldier continued. “I let it show on my brow and the Nin—” Shilo stopped himself suddenly, unwilling to say the word out loud—“ the thief saw it.”

  Ping opened his eyes and looked toward the ceiling, so high above them the darkness swallowed it completely. “You know, this room is very special to me,” the captain said. “Half a lifetime ago, the palace celebrated its two thousand-year jubilee. As the top in my class at the academy, I gained special permission from the emperor to attend. I positioned myself on this very bench so I’d have the first look at the attending girls as they arrived. That night, I saw a beauty, the likes of which I had never imagined.”

  “Did you talk to her?” Shilo asked, obviously happy to be discussing something else.

  “Not a chance,” Ping said causing Shilo to snort. “I followed her around the village for two years with all the nerve of a lost kitten.” Ping allowed himself a smile at the memory as he continued, “Some say, the academy is where men go to learn courage. I say, ‘True bravery only comes while staring into the face of the one you love.’” Shilo nodded in agreement. “Five years after the first time I saw her,” Ping reminisced, “I knelt in this very room
and asked her to be my wife.”

  After a moment to embrace this sacred memory, Ping turned to Shilo with a solemn look in his eye. “The thought of my wife’s smile is something I usually save for the times when things appear their darkest. But tonight, as I passed my home on the way to the palace . . . ”

  Shilo’s eyes moistened as if he already knew the end of the sentence that Ping could not finish. “After I deliver this message to the emperor,” Ping said, starting again, “I’ll ride to my home, hold my children, and embrace the girl I first laid eyes on right here for what I’m sure will be the last time.”

  Ping placed a hand on Shilo’s shoulder, looked into his eyes, and spoke with all the sincerity he could muster, “If fear only touched your brow last night, Shilo, then I assure you, you were chosen to take the note because you were the bravest of us all.” Ping felt Shilo’s tension deflate beneath his fingers as the doors opened behind them.

  “Go home,” Ping said proudly. “See your wife. I’ll deliver your message.” Shilo nodded a tearful “Thank you,” and headed for the front door.

  Behind Ping, the emperor’s adviser, the very neat and proper Jin-Po, entered from an elaborately decorated room. Ping turned to greet the portly man, trying his best to hide his weariness.

  “Captain Ping, so glad to see you,” Jin-Po lied. “We do so look forward to your visits.” The slightest bit of contempt moistened the advisor’s words as he sneered at Ping’s muddy and dripping clothes. “Perhaps you’d like to clean up before addressing His Eminence?”

  Ping looked Jin-Po up and down, sneering back at the dry silk robes and slippers of a man who had never known a day of hard labor in his life. “If this floor didn’t get dirty once in a while,” Ping responded, “you’d have nothing to do.” Jin-Po held back a scowl as he signaled Ping into the sitting room with a bow.

  Moments later, Emperor Han entered through an elaborately carved wooden archway across the dimly lit sitting room. The emperor was bald and dressed in a sleeping gown beneath an untied robe. Instinctively, Ping greeted the man by kneeling and touching his head to the wooden floor at the emperor’s feet.

  “Don’t fall asleep down there, old friend,” the emperor said in a surprisingly cheerful mood for the lateness of the hour. Ping stood and the two men embraced as old friends.

  “I have bad news, my Emperor,” Ping said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard.” The emperor sighed. “Even your horse cannot travel faster than bad news in Kaito.” Han signaled to two empty chairs by the large windows. “Silk worms are stolen every year. You find them and get them home. However, I can’t say I remember ever getting a wakeup call in the middle of the night to hear about it.”

  “This was different,” Ping relented, struggling to keep his rising panic in check.

  “Well then,” the emperor continued, “please, tell me how the world will end.”

  Han rested his chin in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, churning the implications in his head as Ping recounted the events at the silk plantation the night before.

  Once he had finished, the emperor stood, grasping in the dark for the right words. “If any other man in the empire told me the same story, I wouldn’t believe a word.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ping responded gravely. “I’m prepared to go after him, but I wanted you to hear this from me first and—” Ping caught his breath—“ see my wife and children one last time before I go.”

  The emperor exhaled through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need you here to guard our interests in case this opens a floodgate.”

  “My Emperor, Ping interrupted, “I tell you now, that note was not a threat. It’s better I go than—”

  “Ping!” The emperor cut him off, looking surprised, “you’re the toughest man I’ve ever known, yet you talk about this ‘Ninja’ like a frightened mouse describes a hungry cat.”

  “Have you ever known me to exaggerate?” Ping begged. “He’s headed for The Backbone now, no doubt. The way he moves, he could be there already.”

  The emperor disregarded Ping with the wave of his hand. “I already put the word out to anyone willing to hear it. The bounty is so big, this thief’s own mother would turn him in.”

  “It won’t be enough,” Ping said.

  “As we speak, The Silken Way is flooding with a river of hunters, cutthroats, and brawlers all looking to get rich,” the emperor added.

  “It won’t be enough,” Ping said again coldly.

  The emperor stomped his foot in frustration. “What am I to do?” he demanded. “Let him sell his treasure to Bushan? They may just be caterpillars, but they’re worth more to Kaito than every scrap of gold on the continent! Do you know what would happen if we lost even one?”

  Ping stood to match the emperor’s gaze. “There is a chance, Han.”

  Suddenly the emperor turned to Ping, surprised. “You haven’t called me by my first name since we were fifteen years old,” he said.

  “I haven’t been so afraid of what you’d say to me since then,” Ping responded.

  “Go on,” the emperor relented.

  “There are three brothers,” Ping said with a shaking voice, “samurai from Bushan.”

  As Ping had feared, the emperor threw his hands in the air at the mention of Bushan. “Maybe I should send you for this ‘Ninja’ after all,” he said. “It’s either that or my executioner with a suggestion like that.”

  “Han,” Ping begged.

  “You faced this man for less than ten seconds and you write off every warrior on the continent?” The emperor pointed through an open window toward his homeland stretching out beneath the darkened sky.

  “Han,” Ping said again.

  “Stop calling me that!” the emperor shouted.

  At the sound of shouting, Jin-Po entered the room. “Everything well, my Emperor?” he asked.

  “Why even go outside, Jin-Po?” Ping demanded. “You’ve been eavesdropping on us since we were kids!”

  “You know what else I’ve been doing since you were kids?” Jin-Po responded. “Respecting my Emperor enough to not upset him with ghost stories in the middle of the night.” The emperor turned and walked away a few paces as if distancing himself from Ping would do the same with the problem at hand.

  Ping took a breath, not bothering to respond to Jin-Po, and turned to the emperor. “They’re the Sons of Sato,” Ping offered with a renewed, apologetic tone. “Their father is the most respected—”

  “I know who the Sons of Sato are,” the emperor said, cutting off Ping as he looked out the window. For a moment, he stared into the night, contemplating as he often did.

  “After my father died,” the emperor finally said, “you approached, offered your condolences, and asked me to let you train as a member of the Royal Guard. It was an affront so egregious, I could have sentenced you to death right where you stood. That was the last time you called me ‘Han.’”

  “Do you regret your decision?” Ping asked.

  “It was my first as emperor and still the best one I’ve ever made.” Ping gave the emperor a slight bow, thanking him for the compliment. “Are the samurai here?” the emperor relented.

  “At the temple,” Ping said. “I sent a runner three nights ago. By this evening they were already here.”

  “I’ll tell you what, old friend,” the emperor offered as he signaled to Jin-Po, “I’m sending a detachment to kill your samurai.” Ping stepped forward, upset, as Jin-Po nodded and exited the room with a smirk across his jowls.

  “If they truly are Kaito’s only hope,” the emperor continued, then they will defeat the six guards, and I will send them after this ‘Ninja’”

  “The Sons of Sato will know those men are coming before they do,” Ping answered confidently.

  After a long silence, the emperor yawned, growing impatient. “Well,” he continued, “if they can make it past the gates and through the guards to this very sitting room, I will beg your forgiveness and make each of
them rich with palaces and concubines of their own.

  All they have to do is walk through those doors. If not,” he said dangerously, “you’d better come up with a more suitable plan. Because if the memory of my family name is insulted by a crook selling my grandfather’s worms to Bushan, I’ll waste no time turning a half century of peace into a fifty-nine year gap between two endless wars.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Yes, I saw the worm,” Ichi complained to himself, thinking of the tiny wild silkworm he had seen moments ago, inching its way across the ornate ceiling in the elaborately decorated Kaitian temple.

  With experience perfecting his frame and stress shortening his temper, the eldest of the three Sons of Sato sat between his brothers, attempting to embrace his chi through meditation. “Let this be a test,” he concluded. “If something so small could affect my brothers, then perhaps we don’t deserve this job after all.”

  The three bald-headed samurai sat in a row inside the open-air Temple of the Ancient Ones beside the base of Pylo Palace in Paoyang. They wore matching simple robes the color of summer wheat with a flexible fit and breathable loose-weave fabric, the samurai uniform that hadn’t changed for a thousand generations.

  The most important tradition of their ilk lay on the mat before them, their clean, modest and incredibly well crafted swords, each resembling a solid bamboo reed, polished and simple, with only a series of painted stripes differentiating them, one stripe for Ichi; two for Toji, the second-born; and three for Ozo, the youngest. Aside from the clothes on their backs, their swords were these samurais’ only possession. As a rule, the blades were never further than an arm’s length at all times.

  To his right, beside a whitewashed archway, Ichi felt his pragmatic brother Toji shifting and struggling to attain the secrets of the universe. “Is it the worm already?” he wondered. How many times had their father told Toji that finding his chi shouldn’t be a struggle? “Fighting with yourself is the opposite of peace,” he would say, over and over, creating more tension with his commanding tone than any internal struggle could ever supply. “Speaking of internal struggles,” Ichi reminded himself, “you’re creating one right now. Think of nothing.”