Winter Raven

by Adam Baker

  The dead rabbit lay a couple of paces away and stared at him with dull eyes. He tried to summon the energy to gut and skin the animal.

  ‘You look ill,’ said the rabbit.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said you look ill. You’re pale. You’re sweating. I’d say you’re beyond the help of any physician.’

  ‘You spoke.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘A rabbit.’

  ‘You’re dead.’

  ‘And you’ll be joining me soon.’

  ‘You’re not real,’ croaked Masaie. He fingered the leather pouch hung round his neck. ‘You aren’t here.’

  ‘Forget your charms. It will take more than bones and a few cloves to drive me away.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘You’re going to die. It’ll take a while, a couple of days at least, but you are going to die. I’m your guide. I’m here to escort you across on your journey.’

  ‘To the underworld?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  So these were the spirits waiting in the woods. Not daemons wreathed in fire. Not shuffling, undead spectres. But monsters that entered your head and spoke with your own voice.

  ‘So what’s waiting for me in the underworld?’

  Another vision of flames, like the rabbit was projecting images in his head. Crisped skin cracked and fissured like dried mud. Boiling body-fat. Grease fizzed and dripped from incinerated flesh.

  ‘Judgement. Think of all the things you’ve done. You indulged every squalid impulse. Disappointed and betrayed everyone who put their faith in you. There will be a reckoning. You will have to account for your actions.’

  ‘Get out of my head.’

  ‘I’m here to stay. I’ll be by your side until the end.’

  Early evening. The girl arrived in the village. She climbed a steep mud track into the heart of the hamlet, prayed at the cairn which served as the local shrine then sat by the waterwheel and looked around. Women collected water from a stream cascading over rocks into the valley below. The girl bowed in greeting but they ignored her. The presence of a stranger made them nervous and they chose to pretend she didn’t exist.

  The girl’s courage briefly faltered and she was tempted to run back down the road and hide in the woods. But she had promised the samurai she would play her part in the mission. She had begged for a role so she was honour bound to see it through – she had to be aboard the supply cart next time it journeyed to the castle.

  She approached the inn. She pushed open the plank door and let her eyes adjust to lamplight, ignoring a handful of drinking, cursing infantrymen. She sat apart from the men and was ignored by the maids until she held up a coin for attention. The maids asked why she was there, shameless enough to sit in a room full of men. The girl pointed to her mouth, indicated she was mute. She mimed food. She mimed drink. The maids thought it over. The girl was dressed in ragged travel clothes, evidently a feral orphan. But she had, somehow, either by theft or sexual service, acquired a few coins so they reluctantly brought her water, a bowl of noodles and some bok choy.

  The girl looked around. A ramshackle room filled with soldiers. She guessed the innkeeper had originally been a farmer. He must have watched General Motohide’s men move into the valley and establish a garrison, and smelled opportunity. If the general took permanent residence in the castle the hamlet would soon be transformed into a booming jōkamachi town seething with merchants and artisans. So the farmer evidently decided to convert his farmhouse into a tavern. Carted big clay jars of saké from town. The general’s guard were shut away in the castle but plenty of troops remained camped on the valley floor tending horses. They knew the farmer would provide wine and a warm fire of an evening and became his regular trade.

  Later that evening the girl tugged the kimono of a passing maid and held out her noodle bowl for a refill. They brought more noodles but when they asked for payment she shook an empty purse. The maids returned with the innkeeper who threatened to beat her with a stick. She listened to his threats, slumping her shoulders and doing her best to appear a dull-eyed, slack-jawed simpleton. The innkeeper’s anger dissipated as he realised the futility of berating the mute girl. Might as well be raging at a mangy, half-starved dog.

  She pulled the flute from her obi and indicated she would play to entertain the men. The innkeeper advised her to earn a little money as many itinerant girls did: sell sexual favours for a few coins, earn enough for food and board at the going rate. No point being proud. A girl on her own had to make her way by any means she could find. Endure a few distasteful minutes out back with some of the infantrymen. He doubted it would be the first time she had sold herself.

  She held up the flute and insisted she play.

  ‘All right,’ he said, bored and reluctant to spend any more time arguing with the girl. ‘But the first two mon are mine. For the food.’

  She walked to the backyard and prepared her face for the performance. She dug in her pack and pulled out a pouch and a couple of make-up pots. She knelt in front of a tree stump, placed the stub of a candle in front of her and sparked a flint. She greased her skin with abura oil then whitened her face with oshiroi. She rouged her cheeks and lips then used a small fragment of mirror to inspect her reflection.

  The kitchen shutter was open. The innkeeper leant out the window now and again to check she hadn’t run off.

  She played her flute three times that night. She wasn’t a master of the hichiriki – a connoisseur wouldn’t have been impressed with her faltering tune. But the tavern was full of low-born soldiers who had never visited a city, never heard much music beyond crude drinking songs and maybe a roughly strummed shamisen. The men laughed and shouted lewd comments at the beginning of her performance, then, despite themselves, they were drawn into the beauty of the melody. They became intrigued by her painted face and the gentle piping of the flute. It was as if she was evoking maternal comfort, moments of childhood tenderness from the very cusp of memory before the relentless brutalising effect of an impoverished life left them cynical and calloused.

  A stillness settled on the crowd which lasted until her performance was done. She bowed and passed a cup around. Most soldiers sneered but a few defied the ridicule of their friends and dropped a mon in the cup. She earned enough money to pay off the innkeeper, with a little left over. She went outside, dipped a cloth in a water butt and wiped her face clean.

  The girl gave the innkeeper her remaining coins in return for another meal and a roof for the night. When the infantrymen had drunk their fill and staggered back down the path to their camp on the valley floor, the girl helped cook another pot of rice with a little shredded chicken and peas.

  The innkeeper and his daughters sat round the fire while the girl stood over the pot and stirred. When the food was ready, she served. She gave bowls to the girls. Then she filled bowls for herself and the innkeeper. Later that night the innkeeper’s daughters got sick. The girl lay on the dirt floor beneath a blanket and listened as they coughed and retched, ran down stairs and outside to vomit.

  * * *

  The innkeeper checked on his daughters the next morning. They were wrapped in blankets, curled on packed earth by an extinct fire. They normally slept upstairs, but all three of them had been struck down by sickness the night before and had elected to stay near the back door so they could run to the toilet pit in the yard each time fresh stomach cramps struck.

  The innkeeper recoiled from the stink and opened the shutters to dispel the acid aroma of vomit. Bright morning light filled the room. The girls shielded their eyes. They stretched, groaned and reluctantly sat up. Their father poured them each a cup of water.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  They didn’t reply.

  ‘Come on. Up you get.’

  They struggled to their feet, bilious green and exhausted. Clearly they had vomited the entire contents of their stomach during the night and dry-retched until their throats were raw.r />
  ‘Don’t suppose I’ll be getting much work out of you today.’

  He turned to the girl curled in the corner of the room and kicked her awake. She stirred, pulled the blanket from her head, and looked up.

  ‘Are you sick?’ he asked.

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘Then get up. You’re coming with me.’

  * * *

  The girl cautiously followed the innkeeper to the back of the building. He unlocked a storeroom. She let him enter the room first so she could stay near the door he case he tried to jump her. He didn’t look the type to try to take advantage of a vulnerable girl but it was hard to tell for sure. Trust no one, the samurai said before they parted. People can turn on you. That’s the sad truth. Best friend one minute, picking your pocket the next.

  The innkeeper lit a lamp. Shelves held pots, cups and stacks of bowls. There were bags of rice and vegetables heaped against the back wall. The girl inspected the trove of supplies – far more than a tavern would need.

  ‘These are for the castle,’ said the innkeeper. ‘They need fresh food very day. Help load the cart. You will help me deliver supplies.’

  She nodded meekly.

  He carried sacks of rice on his back and threw them into the cart. The girl carried small stuff. She loaded bags and jars, herbs, salt, and a basket of eggs.

  The innkeeper headed back inside to check on his daughters.

  ‘Stay with the wagon,’ he commanded. ‘Watch out for children. They’ll distract you. One will talk, another will snatch food from the cart. It’s become a game.’

  * * *

  The innkeeper led a pony from a patch of scrubland behind the tavern and found the girl sitting on the cart, ready to go.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘I have three daughters. Today they are sick, but tomorrow they will be well. I’m not your master. This place isn’t your new home.’

  The girl didn’t move.

  ‘I’m going up the mountain. You can come along or you can move on to another village and get under someone else’s feet. But understand: you are not my responsibility. You are nothing to do with me.’

  She nodded.

  He hitched the pony and climbed into the cart. He geed the horse with a bamboo switch and the cart lurched forward and began to jolt and sway down the rutted track. The track led from the village and snaked through rocky terrain too barren for cultivation. They crossed a wooden bridge. The cartwheels rumbled. Hooves drummed the planks.

  The gradient steepened as they reached the mountain and they began to climb a switchback road. The pony lowered its head and laboured to haul the heavy cart. Gravel crunched and popped beneath the wheels. It was a long journey. The pony plodded at a walking pace. The innkeeper let the horse rest each time they reached a bend in the road. He checked the basket of eggs was secure and unbroken.

  The girl fought not to be flung from the cart each time it hit a rut or bedded stone while the innkeeper sat with his legs spread like a sailor braced against rolling waves. The journey was so familiar he seemed to anticipate each jolt and sway like the rise and fall of a familiar tune. He stared straight ahead, eyes half closed, seeing but not seeing, lost in some kind of trance state.

  The girl glanced upward. At first she could see nothing but vertiginous crags rising into cloud, but later, as she passed beyond outcrops which had blocked her view, she glimpsed forbidding ramparts high above them. As they drew close she could see the stone base of the castle. The sloping blocks of the foundations offered ninjitsu plenty of handholds but if they reached the foot of the defensive wall itself they would find their progress blocked by a row of iron spikes. A projecting ridge of brickwork half way up the fortifications would thwart anyone attempting to use a ladder to scale the walls. The outer defences were topped with wooden awnings which would allow sentries to patrol the walkways sheltered from rain and snow. Rectangular ports gave archers a wide arc of fire from which they could pick off troops tenacious enough to climb the mountain and attack.

  They reached the castle gate and the innkeeper brought the cart to a halt. The great doors were three times the height of a man. Slabs of pine reinforced with bands of iron. Even if an opposing force managed to haul a battering ram up the side of the mountain it would make no impression on the monumental gate. In fact the doors seemed strong enough to take a gunpowder blast. Detonate a couple of barrels and, when the smoke cleared, they would have done little more than scorch wood.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted the innkeeper. He sat a while with a resigned expression like the troops always expressed their contempt by keeping him waiting. The insult had become an unthinking part of his daily routine.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouted again.

  One of the gatehouse shutters was pushed ajar. A soldier leant out.

  ‘Identify yourself.’

  ‘Supplies,’ shouted the innkeeper.

  A heavy rasp as restraining bars were pulled back. The great doors were pushed wide by three sentries. A symphony of creaks as massive iron hinges pivoted. The innkeeper geed the pony and they passed through the shadow of the gatehouse. More fire-ports. A couple of sentries looked down at them, bored and disdainful.

  They entered the castle courtyard. An acre of weathered cobbles hemmed by barracks, storerooms, stables and staff quarters. The buildings had black wooden beams, white plaster walls, roofs laid with thatch and bark shingles.

  The great tower was up ahead. A five storey keep with heavy double beams and sweeping gables. Like most of the castle buildings, it was built against the rock face. It was the focus of the compound, the obvious seat of power. It was also a fall-back position. If the outer walls of the castle fell the remaining troops could seal themselves inside the keep. The girl looked up at the balconied top floor. It was safe to assume it was the general’s quarters, his private rooms and reception chamber. Impossible to reach without passing through four floors of staff and sentries.

  The innkeeper was greeted by a humourless woman who bustled from one of the domestic buildings wearing the black kimono of a servant. She was apparently in charge of the kitchens and took the responsibility in deadly earnest. She counted off packages as they were unloaded from the cart. She oversaw a couple of maids as they hauled the sacks and bundles away to be stowed in the storerooms. She was illiterate. She worked from memory, accounted for the daily delivery of perishable food.

  She allowed the girl and the innkeeper to sit in the main kitchen and gave them pickled plums and cups of water. The girl nodded thanks as a cup was put in her hand. She wanted to make eye contact with the woman, ingratiate herself in some way, but the cook didn’t spare her a glance. Instead she began to wipe down a couple of tables ready for lunch preparation. The girl got up.

  ‘Latrine is on the other side of the courtyard,’ said the cook, without glancing her way.

  The girl slipped out the door.

  * * *

  Later, once the cook had counted coins in to the innkeeper’s hand and he was ready to leave, the girl was nowhere to be found.

  ‘You should wait for her,’ said the cook, as the innkeeper climbed onto his cart. ‘She can’t stay here.’

  The innkeeper shook his head.

  ‘I need to get back home. She’ll have to spend the night.’

  ‘Doubt there will be much left of her, once the soldiers sniff her out.’

  ‘She’s not my responsibility. Don’t even know her name. If you find her, do as you please. She can cook. She can empty a bucket. Put her to work.’

  He geed the pony. The sentries pushed open the main gate. He left the castle and made the long journey down the mountainside back to the village.

  * * *

  The girl crouched behind barrels in the corner of the courtyard and watched the cart leave. Once the sentries had hauled the great gates closed and dropped a restraining bar to seal the entrance shut, she came out of hiding and headed for the kitchen.

  She found the cook and acted disappointed that she missed the cart
. She kept her face slack and drooped her eyelids, did her best to appear slow-witted.

  ‘You must work,’ said the cook. ‘I’ll give you some food and a roof for the night but you must work. And if you missed the cart on purpose, if you plan to please the soldiers in return for a few mon, put it from your mind. Tonight you work for me.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘And let’s change your clothes. You look a mess.’

  The cook made her strip. She took her ragged travel clothes and gave her a black hakama and kimono. She was now a kitchen scullion with no purpose other than to scrub and carry. What would the samurai say to her, if he were here? Fate is trying to teach you a lesson. It is trying to lead you another step on the road to wisdom. Be grateful.

  The cook gave the girl a twig broom and told her to sweep the kitchen floor. The floor looked clean but the girl made a performance of sweeping non-existent dirt towards the doorway.

  ‘When you finished with the broom go round the dormitories and collect slop buckets. No dallying, you hear? There’s a sluice in the corner of the yard. Pour the buckets down there.’

  * * *

  The girl walked across the courtyard. None of the sentries looked her way – she was a maid with a bucket and therefore invisible.

  She made a methodical tour of the out-buildings. She ducked inside a row of storehouses thatched with rice straw. Dark, cavernous spaces filled with stockpiled sacks of grain and rice cached in case of a prolonged siege. She guessed the stored food, in conjunction with water piped from a spring in the mountain wall, could keep the castle self-sufficient for more than a year.