Winter Raven

by Adam Baker

  ‘So I should give in. Lie back and close my eyes.’

  ‘Death can be gentle. A good friend to the old and sick.’

  ‘And wake in hell.’

  ‘You can’t escape your fate. So why struggle? Why add to your anguish?’

  ‘I have one last job to perform before I can rest. My friends are relying on me.’

  ‘Friends? Look back on your life. You’ve disappointed everyone you’ve ever known. You parents. Your wife. Your military unit. You’ve failed at every turn, broken every vow. You’re a thief. A lazy, impulsive, brawling drunk. What makes you think that now, in these final moments, you’ll change?’

  Masaie didn’t reply.

  ‘I understand. You want to be a hero, don’t you? You want to make history. You want people to tell stories about you, sing of your valour. It’s a lovely daydream. But please. Wake up. A man of your age should at least know himself. Accept who and what you are. Make peace with it.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Masaie levered a stone from the soil and threw it at the rabbit. He missed. He carefully pulled up the leg of his hakama and examined his injured calf. The flesh was red and swollen, the suppurating wound yellow with pus. He gently probed the taut, inflamed skin. It was hot to the touch. He examined his foot, tested his toes for circulation. No doubt about it, he told himself. You’re dying. If you don’t take steps to slow the malady you’ll be dead by sundown. Stand outside your situation. If you were on the other side of this small glade, clear-headed, able bodied, looking at yourself, what advice would you give? How would you prolong your life? You’d say: Better clean out that wound and get some kind of poultice on it.

  He drew his knife and sharpened the blade on a rock. He bit a small branch between his teeth, took a breath then dug the tip of the blade into the wound. White pain overwhelmed his senses, but he persisted. Blood and pus ran down his calf and dribbled onto leaves. He drew the knife upward and slit open the sore then he threw the knife aside, spat out the stick and lay back. He waited for the pain to subside a little, settle from the shriek of immediate injury to a dull burn.

  He could see blood drips on the leaves beside him and hoped there were no wolves in the forest. They’d catch the metallic taint of blood in the air, pad through the forest and hunt him down, hungry to rip and tear. He might be able to fight them off for a while with his knife but they’d take him down eventually. They would wrench out his throat. A flash of teeth, the stench of fetid breath, then oblivion.

  He ass-shuffled towards the remains of the rabbit and sat beside the giblets, skin and jumbled bone. Fresh maggots were at work digesting the creature’s guts. He picked maggots with trembling fingers and placed them on his leg wound. He watched the larvae squirm in blood and pus and begin to digest dead flesh surrounding the wound. Heaving nausea, he lay back and closed his eyes.

  ‘Look at you,’ said the rabbit. ‘You’ve pissed yourself. Have you noticed? Your hakama is wet. Ask yourself: is this horrible subsistence worth enduring? Isn’t this already a kind of hell?’

  ‘Talk all you want,’ said Masaie. ‘I don’t care what happens after I’m dead. I don’t care what netherworld awaits. I’m going to live long enough to do my job. You think you know me? You don’t know me at all.’

  * * *

  Masaie limped through the woods and followed a downward gradient. He stumbled tree-to-tree to keep his balance. He reached a brook. Water frothed over rocks. He stripped, stood mid-stream and washed the maggots from his leg wound. He examined the injury. It seemed a little less swollen, a little less inflamed. He felt a better, but didn’t know whether to trust his own judgement. Was it possible for a person to become so sick, so delirious, they were numb to their injuries and convinced they were well? Would his body’s final failure feel like a surge of vitality? Maybe the sudden cessation of pain was a blessing from the gods, a way of easing a dying man’s exit from the world.

  Masaie dressed and climbed the slope back towards his camp. He took a detour and checked the remaining snare, suspecting the stench of the eviscerated rabbit would drive other animals away. It would alert them there was a predator in the vicinity. But maybe he would get lucky and make another kill.

  He found a fox tethered by its hind leg. The creature lay on its side and looked up at him. It must have been trapped all night and exhausted itself struggling to break free. Twine had drawn tight cutting it into the animal’s flesh and its fur was gummed with blood. The fox lay resigned as Masaie stood over the animal and drew his knife. The creature didn’t struggle. It didn’t make a sound as he lifted its head and slit its throat.

  * * *

  Immersion in the stream left Masaie trembling with cold so he relit the fire, lent close and warmed his hands. He stripped and gutted the fox, speared chunks of flesh on the tip of a branch and held them over the fire. It was tough, dark meat. The flesh sweated droplets of fat which hissed and spat as they fell into the flames. He ate every sinew he could strip from the carcass then sat back replete.

  He searched his pack and located a small pot with a cork stopper. He rolled up his hakama leg, uncorked the pot and dripped honey onto the lesion, made sure the gash and surrounding skin were fully coated in sticky amber. He sucked his fingers clean, lay on his side and pushed a couple more logs onto the fire.

  The remains of the fox lay near the eviscerated rabbit. A jumbled of bones, strips of fur, a discarded head. Dull amber eyes watched Masaie roll on his back and stretch.

  ‘So you plan to go down fighting?’ asked the fox. ‘Die on your feet like a warrior.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Masaie. He looked up at the forest canopy and tried to gauge the time of day. Mid-afternoon.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ said the fox. ‘Everyone thinks they’re a hero. Murderers, pickpockets, rapists. On some level, they think themselves justified. Good men doing evil deeds, through force of circumstance.’

  ‘No,’ said Masaie, shaking his head. ‘I’ve known men who kill for pleasure, kill just to satisfy their appetites. Men like General Motohide. Do you think he spares a thought for the soldiers he leads into battle? The countless troops slaughtered and tossed in a pit to satisfy his ambition, to bolster the glory of his family name? Doubt he loses a moment’s sleep. That’s the mystery of it. Some men have no soul.’

  ‘But you want to be a hero. Redeem yourself. All those missed opportunities, all those people you disappointed and abandoned over the years. You’ve had an audience in your head. Parents, brothers, children. Felt their glowering disapproval your whole life. You’re performing for them, going to put it all right with one last grand gesture. Vanity. Pure vanity. Even at the brink of death, you care what others think. Can’t comprehend the absolute blackness that awaits. Face it. The manner of your death is meaningless. Whatever you do, no one will know, no one will care.’

  ‘He won’t see it through,’ said the rabbit, dismissively. ‘He won’t charge into combat. He’s a life-long coward. Think of it, Masaie. What do you imagine it feels like to be run through by a sword? How about arrows? Barbed iron tips punching through your flesh, bedding in your guts? Can you conceive of the pain? You’ve spent your life fleeing every obligation, every hint of hardship. Why delude yourself? You’ll turn tail when the time comes.’

  The fox disagreed.

  ‘I reckon he’ll do it,’ he said. ‘He’ll try, at any rate. He’s fool enough to attempt some feeble heroics. He’ll fail, of course. Fail and die screaming. To be honest, I’m not sure why they brought him along. I wouldn’t trust him to carry the bed rolls let alone a consignment of explosives. Surprised he didn’t blow himself to pieces. No, he’ll try some kind of warrior antics then die an agonising, snivelling death begging for his mother.’

  Masaie sipped water and laughed as the two decapitated animals argued among themselves. Later he threw their heads on the fire where they continued to bicker as their ears crisped, their fur burned and their eyes boiled away. The argument continued until Masaie kicked their s
kulls out of the fire and stamped them to shards.

  * * *

  The forest filled with twilight shadows. Masaie trimmed a branch to use as a crutch. It was time to head out. If he were to leave the forest, cross open land and approach the castle, he had better do it during cover of darkness. Villagers would be in their homes, eating and talking. There would be no one around to observe him move through the rice fields.

  He kicked soil on the smouldering fire to smother it and smashed his lean-to reducing it to scattered sticks.

  He limped through the forest twilight with the crutch wedged beneath his arm trying to recall landmarks as he made his way through the woods back towards the village. He stopped now and again to uncork his flask and drink. He felt sure he was being watched – the constant, skin-crawl sensation that he was under surveillance. The feeling came and went. Sometimes he was sure he was alone and was able to relax and retreat into himself. But sometimes he suddenly tensed as if someone were right behind him about to place a hand on his shoulder. Each time he span round there was no one there so he kept walking. The quicker he left deep woodland, the quicker he would leave the realm of daemons and return to the world of men. If the spirits of the wilderness would let him go. If they would allow him to slip from their grasp.

  He saw movement in the periphery of his vision. It looked like someone was matching his route fifty paces to his left, but they hid each time he glanced their way, ducking behind tree trunks. When he looked forward and resumed his progress through the woods he could see them out the corner of his eye, running bush to bush, tree to tree. He checked his knife, made sure the sheath was arranged on his hip for a quick draw if necessary.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he shouted. ‘Please let me go in peace.’

  He reached the fallen oak and sat down to rest his leg. A moment of indecision. Should he retrieve the explosives buried beneath the great trunk knowing he was being stalked? Daylight was fading. He looked around peering into undergrowth. It would be dark soon. The spirits that haunted the woodland shadows would have no interest in weapons or treasure. But if he were being stalked by a flesh and blood pursuer; a thief or starving hunter? He might get jumped, might get robbed.

  He would have to risk it.

  He knelt and reached beneath the oak brushing aside twigs and leaves to retrieve the pack. He checked the oil cloth, made sure the clutch of explosive-tipped arrows were secure and dry. He stood and carefully shrugged on the pack turning to grab the staff propped against the log. He was shocked to see a man sitting on the fallen oak trunk beside him.

  ‘Hurt your leg?’ asked the man.

  There was something familiar about the stranger. A slightly elongated version of Masaie’s face. The same nose and heavy brow he glimpsed each time he caught his reflection in water.

  His father.

  Masaie’s father died thirteen years ago swimming a river. Masaie saw it happen. His father was on the far bank and had managed to catch a couple of fish. He decided to swim back across the river carrying the fish rather than walk half a mile to use the bridge but half way across his legs had cramped and he sank. Masaie waited for him to resurface. Anxiety turned to desperation. He knelt and shouted at the river, yelled for his father, but time passed and eventually he had to accept that his father had drowned. His body was never retrieved. Presumably it sank among fish, weeds and algae and dissolved into the teeming life of the riverbed.

  ‘Doesn’t smell too fresh,’ said Masaie’s father. ‘Your leg wound. It smells bad.’

  ‘A small cut, but it has turned cankerous.’

  ‘Nasty.’

  ‘It’s getting better.’

  ‘Are you sure? Every soldier knows that stink. You might have to find a physician. A man skilled with a saw.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s getting better.’

  ‘Have you put honey on it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe that’ll help.’ His father looked around. ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘The mountain.’

  ‘That’s quite a trek.’

  ‘A couple of ri.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Masaie.

  ‘You look older. How long have I been dead?’

  ‘Quite a few years.’

  ‘Then we shall have a lot to talk about.’

  * * *

  They reached the edge of the forest. Masaie parted the undergrowth and looked out onto a clear sky and a fabulous dusting of stars. Moonlit fields. Hearth smoke from the village shacks. Steaming breath from a handful of corralled cattle. Masaie and his father watched a while and surveyed the hamlet for movement. It was too cold for lovers to head out for an hour under the stars. The village was shut tight for the night.

  Masaie stepped out from the trees. He felt exposed as he left the woods and limped across open ground. If anyone saw him in the distance he would appear to be just another vagabond traveller using a staff to hobble along. A pack on his back and blanket over his head like a shawl. An unremarkable sight. Plenty of lone men walked the byways. Itinerant workers. Pious folk trekking shrine to shrine. Nevertheless, Masaie decided to walk through the rice fields traversing the soil berms that bordered each flooded half-acre rather than approaching the village up the main track. He would skirt the houses and keep distant enough not to set dogs barking. Best way to avoid complications.

  His father walked by his side. Masaie was glad of the company but knew on a vague, unexamined level the man wasn’t there. Masaie was walking the lip of a narrow earth bank. There was only room on the path for one. His father walked beside him treading thin air. And he knew if anyone looked out from the village they would see a single traveller walking across the fields. Maybe, like the rabbit, his father had been sent to escort him to the underworld. The rabbit had been a test. He had faced down an evil spirit and now a benevolent ancestor had come to guide him home.

  Moonlit paddy-water gleamed like quicksilver and a thin layer of mist lay over the ground. Dew slowly crystalised to frost. He passed heifers lying in the grass. A couple of the animals raised their heads and observed his progress with disinterest. He passed the houses, limped fast as he could then slackened his pace as he left the village behind.

  ‘Is that where we’re headed?’ asked his father, pointing at the mountain, the monstrous silhouette blocking out the starfield.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How far are we going?’

  ‘I have to find a hiding place in the rocks below the castle. That’s why I’m moving at night. I don’t want sentries to see me make the climb.’

  ‘You’re going to find some kind of cleft and just sit there?’

  ‘That’s the plan. Sit tight and wait for a signal.’

  ‘And what if the signal never comes? How long will you wait?’

  ‘As long as I can.’

  ‘Don’t leave it too long. That wound in your leg has stopped giving you pain. Which isn’t necessarily a good sign. Wait much longer for treatment and you’ll lose more than a leg.’

  They kept walking.

  ‘I can’t see the castle,’ said Masaie’s father, looking up at the mountain. ‘Not a single light.’

  ‘It’s right above us. It’s hidden by cloud.’

  ‘Why would anyone build a castle in this awful place?’

  ‘Some say the general consorts with spirits,’ said Masaie. ‘People say he has struck a bargain with the dragon that lives beneath the mountain. No doubt he spread those rumours himself. He is using the power of myth to intimidate his enemies.’

  ‘And you intend to kill him?’

  ‘I intend to play my part.’

  ‘Strange to find you embroiled in these great affairs. The child that bounced on my knee. The child that helped till the field.’

  ‘I wish I had been a better son. I should have stayed with mother after you died rather than run away to Kyoto. What do you know about her? You’ve visited me. Have you visited her? Is she still alive?’
r />   ‘She’s alive. Old but alive.’

  ‘Is she well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she happy?’

  ‘As happy as anyone can be in this life.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a great disappointment to you both.’

  ‘I’m proud of you. You think this mission will prove everyone wrong? People who said you were worthless, criminal scum? You’re right. It will.’

  * * *

  Masaie climbed the mountain by moonlit. At first he climbed through cloud vapour confident he couldn’t be seen, but a rising wind cleared the mist leaving him exposed. Sometimes, as he moved crag to crag, he was in view of the castle. He tried to keep to shadows as much as he could in case a sentry glanced down from the walls and saw a dark shape moving across the boulder-strewn lower slopes.

  His hands gripped outcrops of granite as he hauled himself higher and his feet scrabbled for purchase. He used his crutch to push himself upward until he lost grip of the staff and it fell clattering down the rock face. He hid in shadows a while in case a sentry heard the noise and was watching from the battlements. When he felt sufficient time had passed he resumed his journey.

  Masaie’s father also made the climb. Sometimes Masaie turned, held out his hand and helped his father pull himself higher. Sometimes Masaie’s father gave his son a boost as his grip grew weak and his legs began to fail.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked his father as they sat panting on a ledge. ‘What’s the goal of this journey?’

  ‘Do you see that tree over there? The gnarled thing sticking out that crevice?’ asked Masaie. A dead ash tree protruded from a fissure near the battlement walls. ‘We have to get close as we can to that tree then find some kind of refuge.’

  ‘Not much further.’

  ‘No. We’re nearly there.’

  Masaie found a crevice directly beneath the dead tree that would serve as a shelter. The roof of the little cave was furred with tendrillar roots. He crawled inside, shrugged off his pack, set it against the cave wall and squirmed to get comfortable. He would have to stay hidden within the cave for a long while. He wouldn’t be able to leave his hiding place during daylight without being seen by sentries patrolling the castle wall. He could only emerge at night.