by Adam Baker
‘Yes, I think so. They, whoever they are, are out in the tree line right now, watching our every move.’
The girl took a surreptitious glance at the back of the hall. The wall had collapsed leaving the rear of the hall open to the forest. The deep shadows between the trees were pregnant with menace.
‘I can feel eyes on me.’
‘Heightens the senses, doesn’t it?’
They continued to trade blows.
‘Be calm. Let your reactions become instinctive. I can read your thoughts. I can see every move before you make it. I can see your muscles clench as you prepare to strike. Try to be unreadable.’
She relaxed, let tension drain from her arms and shoulders, let her face become an impassive mask. She would become like wind, like water.
‘It comes from down here,’ he said, patting his gut. ‘Not up here.’ He tapped his temple.
They continued the fight. Their sandaled feet rasped and scuffed on crooked stones. Their poles cracked as they slammed together.
‘In some ways I’m sad to see you with a weapon in your hand,’ said the samurai. ‘I wanted you to have a long and happy life.’
‘My life. My choice.’
She sliced at his ankles. He evaded the blow with a light skip but signalled a halt until a brief coughing fit had passed.
‘To be a samurai is to live with death, to be ready to step out of life anytime,’ he said, like he was lecturing himself. ‘Only then can you act without hesitation, without fear. That’s what my master used to tell me. I don’t think I fully understood what he meant until now.’
The girl nodded and parried a blow. The impact made her hands ache.
‘Don’t allow yourself to be lulled into a rhythm,’ advised the samurai. ‘Your opponent will use it against you. The moment he feels you adopting a smooth back-and-forth flow, he’ll pull a quick double-strike and take you down.’
She drove the stick straight at his belly. He knocked it clean out of her hands. It clattered across flagstones.
‘That’s enough, for now,’ he said throwing his staff aside. His shoulders sagged as if weighed down by age and illness. They faced each other and bowed low, then headed back to the campfire.
‘Are you ready for combat?’ asked the samurai.
‘Yes.’
‘You may have to fight a man face-to-face. You will enter that strange zone where time comes to a standstill. The prolonged moment when your will to survive is pitted against his. It lasts an eternity, and it is over in an instant.’
‘Understood.’
‘The moon. Is it quarter, half or full? No, don’t turn round and look. Just tell me.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You should notice,’ said the samurai. ‘You should notice everything. ’
She nodded.
‘When it’s time to fight, keep the light behind you, if you can. You will be nothing but a silhouette. Your opponent won’t be able to read your face, whereas you will be able to see your opponent in detail and anticipate his every move.’
* * *
They sat round the camp fire. The samurai addressed Ariyo.
‘It’s your turn to cook.’
Ariyo snorted in derision and spat into the flames.
‘Everyone takes a turn,’ said the samurai. ‘I cooked yesterday. Masaie cooked the day before that.’
‘Women’s work,’ said Ariyo, gesturing to the girl. ‘What about her? She can boil a pot.’
‘She’s not your maid.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Tameyo, trying to diffuse the argument.
‘No,’ said the samurai. ‘It’s his turn.’
Ariyo stared the samurai down like he wanted to kill the man. The samurai calmly stared back. Neither of them moved. Exquisite stillness as each of them waited for the other to snatch their swords from their sayas. Ariyo broke the moment. He got to his feet and turned his back like he intended to walk away.
‘Don’t,’ advised the samurai. He gestured to the treeline. ‘Don’t go out there alone.’ Ariyo looked at the moonlit forest and moment then reluctantly sat down. Tameyo filled a pot with water from a skin and hung it over the fire to boil rice.
‘Can’t say I’m hungry,’ said Masaie.
‘Eat anyway,’ said the samurai. ‘We’re being watched. We need to act as normal as possible.’
They sat round the camp fire and ate a while.
‘The forest has gone quiet,’ said the girl. An expectant hush had settled on the woodland around them.
The samurai nodded. ‘They’re here. I can feel them. They’ve moving in close. Probably only a few yards away from us. They’re ready, waiting for the moment to attack.’
He looked around at the men. Anxious faces lit by flame light.
‘You want to run, don’t you?’ he said. ‘I can see it in your eyes. Each of you tempted to flee into the woods, abandon the mission, abandon everything. I understand. A perfectly reasonable instinct. A rational man will always seek to avoid danger. But you need to put it from your mind. This is hostile territory. None of us stand a chance on our own. Our only hope is to keep together and act like soldiers.’
The convicts reluctantly nodded agreement.
‘Good luck, everyone,’ said the samurai. He got up and stretched before raising his voice. ‘Well. Goodnight.’
He retreated to the deep shadows beneath a wall. He unfurled his bedroll and lay down.
‘What if they have archers?’ said Masaie, prodding the rice in his bowl, pretending to eat.
‘Then this will be a short fight,’ said Ariyo. He glanced at the moonlit treeline while discretely adjusting his obi and sword.
‘I should have worn a chest plate,’ muttered Tameyo
They sat in silence a while.
‘We ought to talk,’ said the girl. ‘We should make an effort to look relaxed.’
‘So talk.’
She contemplated her companions. Frightened faces lit by firelight.
‘So what will you do?’ she asked. ‘All of you. If you make it through this, if you get back to Kyoto and receive a pardon. What will you do with your lives?’
Tameyo shook his head with a wry smile.
‘If you were Emperor, what would you do with men like us if we returned from a clandestine mission? Let us tell our tale in tavern after tavern? Convicts. Lowlifes. The kind of scum who will take a solemn oath of silence, swear on all they hold dear, then next day break their vow for the price of a drink. No. We are dead men, no matter what. Our reward for undertaking this mission is this moment, right here and now. We should have been executed. Instead we enjoy a few more days of life. That’s all we get.’
‘I’m not giving up that easily,’ said Masaie. ‘I heard they keep our families in the debtor’s prison next to the river. I’ve seen the entrance. It’s poorly guarded. A couple of bored sentries manning a gate. If I make it back, I’ll snatch my wife and son then flee Kyoto. Don’t know where I’ll go after that. Maybe I can find work on the coast. A new name. A new life.’
The samurai listened to his companions talk. He lay on his side and scanned the tree line. He watched shifting shadows, moonlight projected through branches disturbed by the wind. He squirmed deeper into shadows hoping the attention of any unseen observers would be focused on folk sitting round the fire. He crouched and drew his sword. He got to his feet and stood with his back to the wall. He looked away from the fire and surveyed the darkness surrounding the camp. Crumbling walls overwhelmed by rot and forest growth. He picked a central spot and stared. A technique he had been taught by his master: if you are searching for an enemy in low light, use the periphery of your vision. It is more sensitive to movement than the central focus of your gaze.
There it was. A tell-tale shift in shadows twenty paces to his left. Plenty of twigs and vines were shaking in the wind but something moved among them with controlled, muscular deliberation that betrayed the presence of man stalking prey. The samurai slid along the wall. He padded silently to
wards the shape. He insinuated his way through shadows, each foot finding firm purchase on buckled stones before he lifted the other.
He watched an archer crouched on the top of the toppled money god draw back his bow. A look of grim determination as he took aim at the silhouettes seated round the campfire. He was unaware of the samurai hiding in shadows to his left. He prepared to loose his arrow then gave a muffled choking cough as he samurai lunged and drove the tip of his katana clean through the archer’s thorax.
Moonlight allowed the samurai to see the expression of astonishment on the archer’s face. The man turned towards the samurai like he intended to speak but then his eyes rolled and he toppled forward. He released the bow. The mis-aimed arrow buried itself in the fire sending up a shower of sparks.
The girl and the convicts rolled clear of the fire as arrows whistled from the treeline. They scrambled to put themselves behind a clump of underbrush and covered their heads as arrows sliced through the thicket splintering bamboo.
* * *
Ariyo crawled the length of a large toppled trunk, knife in hand. He looked up and saw an archer above him silhouetted against the stars. The man was trying to thread a bow with trembling hands. Ariyo reached up, gripped the man’s ankle and pulled him from the trunk. The archer emitted a terrified scream as he fell to the ground meeting Ariyo’s knife on the way down. The tip drove beneath his chin up into his brain. Ariyo wrenched the knife free. The man was dead but Ariyo took out his eyes with a quick double-stab anyway. He looked around for the next assailant.
* * *
Masaie drew his sword, screamed and charged. He hurled his katana so it became a spinning, scything wheel of flickering moonlight. His opponent ducked. Masaie barrelled into the man and they hit the floor. They wrestled. A wretched looking creature. He stank. His clothes were rags.
Masaie sat on the man’s chest and pummelled his head, punching left and right, breaking cheekbones, breaking teeth. The man flailed then his movements grew feeble as he began to lose consciousness.
Masaie sat back a moment. His knuckles were abraded raw and dripping blood. He picked up a rock and shattered his opponent’s skull. The stricken man’s body trembled. His legs danced – last signals from a damaged brain.
Masaie experienced a sudden flashback to the time he saw a young fisherman dive for the wreck of a ship that went down off the southern coast carrying a cargo of porcelain. The man dove deep, too deep, and went into spasm when he reached the surface. He thrashed and flailed on deck while his friends tried to hold him down. After a while he lay still, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. He was taken back to the fishing village where he lay in bed for days, spoon-fed, staring at the ceiling, until he developed a wracking cough and died.
Masaie looked down at his hands. They were slick with blood black as tar in the moonlight. He wiped his hands on the dying man’s cloak and got to his feet. He stamped on the bandit’s shattered head as a mercy.
* * *
Tameyo drew his sword and stood circling at the centre of the ruined hall. ‘Get out here,’ he screamed at shadows. He twirled the sword and cut the air. ‘Come on. Face me.’
Bushes were thrashed aside and a man emerged from the undergrowth holding a knife. He was emaciated, his face part-obscured by a veil of greasy, matted hair. He took a couple of hesitant steps towards Tameyo and adjusted his grip on the knife.
‘Ready to die?’ screamed Tameyo.
The man threw down his knife and fled. Tameyo gave chase. He hurled his sword. The blade tangled the man’s legs and brought him to his knees. The man scrambled to his feet and glanced behind him in terror as Tameyo approached. He whimpered in fear. He resumed his flight, ran headfirst into a wall and knocked himself out.
* * *
The girl watched the battle unfold. A moment of adrenalin-fuelled indecision as she tried to decide which fight to join. Instinct told her to run to the samurai, but he would be least in need of help. She should back up the convicts and make sure they didn’t get jumped. She took a couple of steps towards Masaie but a man stepped from shadow and blocked her path. She backed up and found herself hemmed into a corner, the intersection between two buckled, vine covered walls. Cold dread sapped her strength and left her trembling. The man held a sword. The blade reflected moonlight and shone like he was holding a staff of pure, white light. He approached the girl with his sword raised.
‘Please,’ she whispered. She edged left, putting the moon at her back and got a clear view of the man’s face. He looked starved and exhausted. The man took a couple of steps forward to match her retreat and stumbled on a lose flagstone. The girl gave a banshee scream, unsheathed her sword and drove the katana into the man’s belly. He stepped back in surprise. He looked down at the spreading red stain above his belly button. He dropped his sword and clumsily tore at his clothes like he intended to plug the wound. His legs gave out and he sprawled on his back. The girl stood over him, sword gripped tip-down like a dagger. She screamed and stabbed him in the chest five times in quick succession. He convulsed each time the blade punctured his lungs. The last stab drove straight through his heart. He gave a final, bubbling exhalation as he died.
* * *
Masaie crouched and looked around. He tried to estimate numbers, tried to assess how many attackers they faced. Not many. A handful of weak, unfed bandits. He felt a sudden pang of disappointment as he realised the fight would be over almost as soon as it began. He was hungry for another kill.
He glimpsed movement on the other side of the courtyard. He could see someone in the shadows, observing the action, trying to judge whether they should attack or retreat. It looked like the man’s attention was fixed on Ariyo. He was trying to summon the courage to run at Ariyo while his back was turned and drive a blade into his spine.
Masaie dropped his knife. The dead man beside him had a longbow and a quiver of arrows. He snatched up the bow, strung an arrow and fired at the figure. He heard a distant yell of pain. Branches thrashed as the injured man fled into the forest. He looked around. He saw Tameyo chase a man across the courtyard. Masaie snatched up his sword and ran in pursuit. Tameyo’s quarry ran into a wall and knocked himself out. Tameyo stood over the prone man unaware that two figures had emerged from the moonlit treeline behind him, knives drawn.
‘Dogs,’ yelled Masaie. He picked up a chunk of flagstone and hurled it at the men. They fled back into the undergrowth.
‘Thank you,’ said Tameyo.
They examined the unconscious man sprawled at the foot of the wall.
‘He’s still alive.’
‘Let’s see what he has to say.’
They grabbed an arm each and dragged the bandit back towards the camp.
* * *
The samurai stood at the centre of the derelict space with his sword raised and listened to the forest silence around him. He studied the treeline. No movement. The skirmish was over. The remaining attackers had fled back into the woods. He wiped his sword clean on a dead man’s cloak then re-sheathed.
‘We did it,’ said Tameyo, face flush with victory. ‘We won.’
The samurai nodded. ‘Is anyone hurt?’ he asked.
They looked around. Each convict stood alone in the moonlight, victor of their own personal battle.
* * *
They threw the unconscious man by the fire.
The girl sat cross-legged beside the bandit she killed, sword in her lap. The samurai stood beside her and regarded the corpse. The bandit lay on his back, multiple stab wounds, chest wet with blood that steamed in the cool night air.
‘Do you remember the first time you killed a man face-to-face?’ she asked.
‘I was a boy,’ said the samurai, crouching down beside her. ‘I left my village and became a traveller. I went place to place, studied bushido when the chance arose. One day I was walking down a track between towns when I met a boy much like myself. He challenged me to duel and I accepted. It was the life both of us had chosen – the life of a bugeisha. Trav
el, seek out a worthy opponent then fight to the death. So we prayed together, then fought by the side of the road, fought with wooden staffs. He landed a few heavy blows. He swung low and nearly broke my legs. Thought I was out-classed. Thought I was a dead man. But he dropped his guard for an instant, let his concentration flag. So I hit him on the side of the head. Later, I dug dirt with my hands and buried him by the side of that road. Never even knew his name.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘Exhilarated to be alive. For the next few days the grass was intensely green and the sky impossibly blue.’
She nodded.
‘It’s cold,’ said the samurai. ‘You should sit by the fire.’
‘Do you think they’ll be back?’ asked Tameyo.
‘No,’ said the samurai. ‘We killed most of them. The remaining men won’t be foolish enough to try again.’ He looked up at the starlit sky and tried to estimate time by the revolution of the constellations. ‘It’ll be a while before sunrise. We had best stay here until first light. Put more wood on the fire. I doubt any of us will sleep tonight.’
Masaie contemplated the bodies sprawled on the buckled flagstones.
‘Look at them. Desperate bunch. Starved. Filthy.’
Tameyo nodded. ‘Almost feel sorry for them.’
‘Wish we had some wine. Whole lake of wine.’
‘We should move these corpses. Don’t want to be looking at them all night.’
They grabbed the dead men by the wrists, hauled them to the trees and dumped them in undergrowth. They sat round the fire and stared into the flames. Five faces lit by dancing light. Post-battle euphoria: each of them exhilarated to be alive, every sensation painfully sharp.
‘We should keep look-out,’ said the girl. ‘Just in case.’
The samurai nodded. The remaining bandits wouldn’t attack. Not unless starvation and despair had left them yearning for death. But the convicts were in hostile territory and he couldn’t allow them to become careless. A true warrior should be constantly on guard. Waking. Sleeping. Always on the battlefield, the samurai’s master used to say. Always on the battlefield.