by Adam Baker
Raku fell across the mounded earth of fresh grave. The samurai knelt and cleaned his sword on the hem of the dead man’s shirt, then re-sheathed. He left the village and headed north.
The company trudged single file as the sun rose over dormant rice fields. Paddy water mirrored the sky. They followed the earth berms which marked each sector of cultivation. Mist hung heavy. There were no more hills, no more valleys. They had left the highlands behind and were traversing an agricultural plain; infinitesimally small figures crossing a vast patchwork landscape. The girl walked at the head of the team.
‘What if your samurai doesn’t re-join us?’ shouted Masaie from the back of the group.
‘He’ll join us,’ said the girl.
‘But what if he doesn’t? You expect us to keep going? The four of us?’
‘Maybe we should go our separate ways,’ said Tameyo. ‘I’d head back to Kyoto, see if I can snatch my family from under the watch of the Imperial Guard. You folks can do as you please.’
‘What about her?’ said Ariyo, nodding towards the girl.
‘A little girl won’t stop me choosing my own path.’
‘She can start a new life under a new name,’ said Tameyo. ‘She has no ties. She’s free as a bird.’
‘She would make someone a good wife, if she can swallow her pride,’ said Ariyo. ‘What do you say, girl? I wouldn’t mind a wife. Someone to keep me warm. Think about it. You could do worse.’
‘Why are we even walking?’ said Masaie. ‘We should stop, make some kind of decision.’
‘We keep going,’ said the girl.
‘For how long?’
‘For as long as the sun is in the sky. He’ll join us, sooner or later.’
‘I appreciate your faith in the man, but he’s a cripple. If he faced down a bunch of men on his own, then he’s already dead. We need to make other plans.’
‘He’s alive and he’ll be here soon. There’s nothing to discuss.’
The girl kept walking. She thought about the man she killed. This was the morning he would never see, the chill, invigorating air he was destined never to breathe. It would be the same for her, the same for everyone. Sooner or later the sun would rise and she wouldn’t be alive to see it. Dogs would bark, birds would sing, the world would continue regardless. But she would be nowhere, a soul returned to that mysterious dark realm that had been its home before she was born.
She had killed a man and would probably kill more men before the mission was complete. She wondered if people could smell it on her. If she walked into a village, would they know they were in the presence of a killer? Would they fling rocks and drive her away? Too many thoughts. She yearned for sundown and sleep. She watched a heron stand motionless in the middle of a flooded rice field. She contemplated the way the paddy water reflected clouds. After a while it seemed like she was walking on the sky. She threw her head back and let cold air caress her face. She enjoyed the world like she was seeing it for the first time.
‘That’s it,’ said Masaie. ‘I’m not taking another step.’ He came to a standstill, shrugged off the pack of explosives and sat on the edge of a paddy berm. He unlaced his leather sandals and massaged his feet.
‘We should keep going,’ said the girl. ‘We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.’
Masaie shook his head. ‘No. The mission is over.’
She tried to reason with him: ‘The more we stop and sit around, the harder it becomes to get going again.’
Tameyo and Ariyo took off their packs and sat beside Masaie.
‘I don’t intend to get going,’ said Tameyo. ‘Look at us. We’re not about to storm a castle. Assassinate a general? We wouldn’t get close. This was a fool’s errand even when we were under the samurai’s direction. If he were here now I would look him in the eye and ask if he thought, for a single moment, we had any chance of success.’
‘Looks like you’ll get your opportunity,’ said the girl, gesturing to a distant figure striding towards them across mist-shrouded fields. ‘Here he comes.’
* * *
The samurai ordered the men to walk. Ariyo intended to argue but was silenced by droplets of dried blood across the front of the samurai’s kimono.
The team marched single file. The samurai walked at the head of the column. The girl walked behind him. The three sullen convicts brought up the rear.
‘Are you going to tell me about that hole in your kimono?’ she asked.
The samurai looked down at his chest and fingered slashed cotton. ‘Caught it on a thorn.’
‘Must have been a very sharp thorn.’
The samurai stopped and squinted at the sky, trying to locate the sun. ‘We are moving into Hida,’ he said, pointing north-east. ‘That way is Sekino, capital of Etchū, the general’s official seat. It’s tempting to head that way for food and shelter; a chance to rest before we continue our mission. But I suggest not. The more we delay, the greater the chance of discovery. Besides the snows are coming. If we delay much longer we’ll find ourselves marooned. I say we head directly north and make for the castle. Do what needs to be done.’
The men nodded reluctant agreement.
‘We don’t have much further to travel,’ said the samurai. ‘It won’t be long before we reach our target.’
They resumed their journey. The convicts reluctantly adjusted pack straps and followed the samurai deeper into hostile territory.
* * *
By early afternoon Masaie was lagging behind the back of the group. He complained his feet hurt. The samurai appeared to pay him no attention but when they reached a tree-lined river bank he said:
‘Maybe we should build a raft. We can float downstream, spare ourselves a little exertion.’
‘Anyone know how to build some kind of boat?’ asked Ariyo.
Tameyo nodded. ‘I grew up by the sea.’
‘I can’t swim,’ said Masaie.
‘Then you’d better not fall in the water.’
They kicked through bracken for thick lengths of bamboo they could trim and lash together. They dragged bamboo from the underbrush and began to assemble the raft on clear ground. The convicts were glad of the activity. They had started the journey euphoric to escape execution. The threat of imminent death had been lifted. They had spent weeks corralled in the prison compound with no hope of release, but suddenly they had been freed. They were through the prison gates, out on the open road, enjoying the changing landscape and wide spaces. But now they were nearing their goal and it seemed as if their death sentence was gradually re-imposing itself. Each step on their journey brought them closer to enemy swords. A growing sense of dread. They were glad of any delay.
They laid two bamboo trunks on the grass for a raft frame. They laid shorter lengths of bamboo across the trunks to form a platform on which they would sit.
‘Are you sure this will carry us all?’ asked the samurai.
Tameyo nodded. ‘My uncle’s boat sank years ago. He was fishing in a calm sea when the hull split below the waterline. The boat sank in moments and three crewmen were left floating in the water with no land on the horizon. They lashed wreckage together. Sections of mast, sections of deck. Bamboo, not unlike this raft. They floated for many days and rode out a storm before tides carried them ashore.’
‘Then it should do for our simple purpose.’
The samurai used his knife to cut the fibrous branches of a willow for cordage. They lashed the raft together.
‘Is it finished?’ asked Masaie, looking at the raft. He seemed downcast like he hoped there was more to do, some reason to further delay their journey.
‘Yes, we’re finished.’
They roped the packs to the raft making sure the consignment of explosives was well-wrapped and secure. The girl watched as the men each took a corner of the raft and carried it down to the water’s edge. It hit the water with a heavy splash. She climbed aboard and gripped reeds to keep the raft moored as the convicts waded knee deep then took a seat.
/> Tameyo pushed them away from the bank with a bamboo pole. The raft drifted mid-stream then was caught by the current and drawn down river. They sat cross-legged gripping the edge of the raft white-knuckle as it rode the swells. After a while they realised the bamboo platform was unlikely to capsize. They relaxed and watched the river bank slowly pass by.
After a couple of miles they turned a corner and saw a man crouching among reeds scooping handfuls of water to drink. He stood and watched as they drifted past. The samurai saluted the man.
‘Wave,’ he said quietly. ‘All of you. Wave.’
They waved and smiled.
‘Good afternoon,’ called the samurai.
The man didn’t respond.
‘A farmer,’ said Tameyo. ‘He won’t report us to the local militia. Not unless we give him reason.’
‘Don’t turn around,’ said the samurai. ‘Don’t stare at him. Travellers heading north. That’s all we are.’
They drifted onward, each of them staring resolutely ahead, acutely aware of the stranger on the river bank behind them observing their progress.
* * *
It was late afternoon. They continued to drift downriver. Low sun turned the water shimmering gold. Trees lined the bank. Beyond that lay miles of unseeded paddy fields.
‘It’s getting late,’ said Masaie. ‘We should camp.’
‘We’re making good progress,’ said the samurai. ‘We can cover a few more miles before nightfall.’
‘The temperature is dropping. We need a fire. We’ll freeze if we stay on the river.’
‘And I’m hungry,’ said Ariyo. ‘I’m not taking a vote. I’m telling you. We stop right now.’
‘Hush,’ said the samurai, suddenly tense.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Ariyo, bridling at the samurai’s brusque tone, balling his fists like he had beaten men to the ground for less.
‘Shut up, all of you.’
They slowly turned a bend. A bridge spanned the river. The span was supported by pilings bedded in a mound of rubble midstream. There were bamboo guardhouses either side of the bridge. Motohide’s black sun standard flew from the roof of each guardhouse. The team were approaching Etchū. Once they were on the other side of the bridge they would truly be in enemy territory.
‘Everyone. Quiet as you can,’ urged the samurai.
They could see the silhouette of a sentry leaning against a guardhouse.
‘There’ll be more inside,’ whispered Tameyo.
‘We’re dead men,’ muttered Masaie.
‘Think they’ve got archers?’
‘Shut up. All of you,’ hissed the samurai.
They drifted closer to the bridge expecting movement from the sentry, a shout, a demand that they stop and identify themselves but nothing happened. They drifted beneath the bridge and Tameyo used the bamboo pole to push the raft clear of the rubble piling. They emerged from the bridge shadow. They looked up and saw the sentry slumped against his naginata. His hat was crooked.
‘He’s asleep,’ whispered the samurai.
They sat in silence, no sound but the gentle slap of water against the side of the raft as the current carried them downstream. The raft slowly took a bend in the river. They looked back and watched the distant sentry doze against his naginata. Then they turned the corner and the bridge was eclipsed by trees.
‘The gods must favour us,’ murmured Masaie.
The samurai shook his head.
‘Human frailty favours us. Lack of preparedness favours us. That should be the lesson we take from it. Let General Motohide and his men betray themselves by weakness, by indolence. We will maintain focus. We will not make a single mistake.’
Commander Raku woke in darkness.
Am I sealed in my tomb? Is this what lies beyond death? Cold nothing? Or maybe I have been reincarnated. Maybe I am a worm, squirming through the soil. Is that all I deserve? After a lifetime of service? To be reborn as a worm? Yes. I failed my master. I intended to warn him of imminent attack but succumbed to vanity. I took on the assassins and lost. So now they continue their journey to Nakatomi Castle unopposed. I am no better than a worm.
He struggled to open his eyes but they were gummed by crusted blood. He slowly plied the lids apart, tried to wipe his eyes clear but he had no hands. He could see his arms silhouetted against the starlight above him, his forearms terminating in stumps. He felt head-swimming horror. He was lying on a grave.
He wanted it to be over. He wanted to be below ground and gone from this life. He didn’t want to be alive, defeated and maimed. He wanted to join the honourable dead. But his heart kept beating. So cold. He passed out.
* * *
He woke again, his shivers turning to convulsive spasms. He lifted his head. He could hear a steady rush of water. Half of him wanted to lie still and freeze but a mutinous survival instinct compelled him to roll onto his belly and squirm for the nearby stream using his knees and elbows to drag himself along. He didn’t want to leave his hands behind. An essential part of him lay discarded on the ground. Ought to be buried at least. In the morning finger-flesh would be picked by crows, gnawed by rats. He made an addled resolution to return the following day and retrieve his hands.
He reached the river bank and found a small boat hollowed from a trunk. He crawled to the boat, rolled over the lip and tumbled into the dugout. He lay in a puddle of rainwater at the bottom of the craft. The boat was tethered at the stern. It took him a long while to unravel the knot with his teeth. The rope finally slackened and released. The log-boat drifted away from the bank and was pulled north by the gentle current. Raku lay on his back at the bottom of the dugout, somewhere between life and death, mutilated arms folded across his chest.
* * *
A cold dawn. The valley walls either side of the river shrank away and the dugout emerged from a wooded gorge. The stream became a river and meandered over a wide plain given over to farmland. The commander lay white with blood loss, numb with cold. He raised his arms. His first clear look at the stumps. He saw shattered wrists black with crusted, clotted blood.
* * *
Raku jolted awake. The boat had hit the bank. The hull ground against rocks. Willow branches brushed his face and he held up an arm to shield his eyes. Drops of blood hit his cheek as his wrists began to bleed afresh. Maybe he should gnaw at the stump. Re-open the arteries and release his remaining blood. He pressed the stump towards his mouth like he was going to take a bite then passed out once more.
* * *
Raku woke. It was noon or thereabouts. The sun was high in the sky. He was frustrated to find himself still alive. Why not throw himself in the river? An ignoble suicide but an easy death. A few moments of choking panic as water flooded his lungs then peace. He struggled to sit upright and hung his head over the side of the log-boat, face inches from the water. He squirmed and tried to heave his body over the side.
A heavy impact. The crack of wood-on-wood. He was thrown back to the bottom of the dugout. A couple of sailors looked down at him, faces filled with a mixture of pity and disgust.
‘What happened to his face?’
‘Look. He has no hands.’
They hauled the commander into their boat.
‘Hard to believe the man is alive.’
‘Ought to bind his wrists. He’s still bleeding.’
‘Look at him. White as snow. It’s a wonder his heart is still pumping.’
‘Let me die,’ begged the Raku. ‘Please. Just roll me over the side and put me in the water. Finish me.’
‘Did he say something?’ One of the sailors leant over the commander and tried to catch whispered words. ‘It sounded like he spoke.’
‘Kill me. I’m Commander Raku, sworn to General Motohide of Etchū. I order you to kill me.’
‘I can’t make out what he’s saying.’
‘He’s delirious. Fetch a cloth. Let’s try to clean his wounds. And bring the sail box. We’ll need a needle and yarn.’
They bent over hi
m. They dipped cloth in a bowl of water and dabbed crusted blood from his face so they could examine head injuries a little better. He tried to resist but they held him still.
‘Must have been bandits,’ said one of the sailors. He pulled a torch from a bag jumbled with equipment and lit it with a flint. ‘Looks like someone split the poor dog’s head with an axe.’
‘Lie still as you can,’ instructed the other crewman. He leaned over Raku and crudely stitched his face closed with sail yarn. He sat back when he was done. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something comforting like: Don’t worry, your face will look better when it’s healed but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t be a lie.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the other sailor, apologising for the pain he was about to inflict. He gripped the commander’s wrists while his companion pressed the torch to each wrist stump and cauterised the wounds. Raku screamed. They wrapped the injured man in furs to shield him from the cold.
‘Kill me,’ pleaded Raku. ‘Just kill me.’
‘Rest. We’ll find help.’
Raku watched wind fill the sails.
‘Kill me,’ he whispered as he slid into unconsciousness.
* * *
He woke in a straw bed. He was lying in a bare room. He looked around at mottled walls and crooked beams. Judging by the murmur of voices down below, the sound of good-natured laughter, he was in the upper room of a tavern. He watched a beam of evening sun slowly work its way across the floor.
A woman, presumably and innkeeper’s wife, brought a cup of water and set the bowl beside him. She helped him sit up. She didn’t seem disturbed by his ruined face. He assumed she had been looking after him for a while. She had cleaned his wounds, cleaned his sheets, all the while he lay unconscious. Her initial revulsion had been replaced by pity.