Ken’ishi moved to the wagon and sniffed the jar where the old man had kept his lotus supply. The jar reeked of piss. That part had not been a dream. But the bokken? He had seen stranger things, he supposed.
Shirohige rolled over, chomping back snores. Even in sleep, his face bore no kindness, no innocence, no calmness.
Ken’ishi felt a tightness in his shoulders, in his jaw, in his fists, as he looked at the old man. The world had squeezed Shirohige, drained him of life, left his spirit as shriveled and leathery as a fallen persimmon left in the sun. He now fed on the lives of others.
The thought of spending two more days in his presence as they rode to Hakata filled Ken’ishi with misgivings. He would not become this old man’s personal thug. The way Shirohige had manipulated the potter’s raw desire, the way he had treated the children in Hoshiya, his reaction to a boy who could be his son. So many ways that the old man could have let a spark of kindness emerge, but did not.
And yet, how could Ken’ishi leave before they reached Hakata? He could make his own way there if need be, but something told him that his and Shirohige’s paths had intersected for a reason.
He took his bokken into the forest and found a quiet place on a large boulder to practice his sword techniques. As he breathed deep and sought the Void, he found his mind to be muddled, fuzzed by dust, like a ball of sticky mochi dropped under a table.
He moved through the series of practice movements he had known by rote for years, the same series that he constantly sought to perfect. Some days, flashes of perfection gave him joy; never had he performed every movement with complete perfection. He always noticed tiny errors in his form, tiny disruptions in his rhythm, tiny thoughts flitting into his mind and blocking his release into the No-Mind. His martial art had gone stagnant. It felt dead in him, like a rice field deprived of water. And even as he thought these thoughts, he knew they were intruding upon his practice. So much flotsam and jetsam of life and desires in his mind. Was it his mind or after-effects of the lotus?
Nevertheless, he did not stop. He struck and moved, struck and moved until he felt the warmth of sweat on his chest and back, going through the series over and over again, knowing that, as his master had once taught him, even in unsuccessful practice, there is knowledge, tiny imperceptible steps toward perfection.
Returning to camp, he found Shirohige in the wagon sourly sifting through the broken pottery and casting it onto the ground. He grunted at Ken’ishi’s approach. “Filthy beast. It picked an opportune time, with my sole protector in the land of lotus dreams. Did you find your heaven?”
Ken’ishi recalled the incredible rush of pleasure and well-being. “With all the suffering in the world, I can see why people eat it. But today, my mind is too scattered. I don’t like that.”
Shirohige nodded. “You’re a wise man for one of your years. Most people never figure that out. Besides, if you want any more, you’ll have to pay me. Touching heaven costs money.”
“And money is your reason for existence.”
The old man stopped and glared. “Don’t you dare judge me, stripling! I’ve seen more suffering in this world than you can imagine. Thieves, thugs, rulers who treat people as slaves. Don’t you doubt that I’ll take from someone weaker than me, and I’ll enjoy it until the next foul bastard comes along who takes it from me. All the world is a hierarchy of taking, boy. Now, set your arse in the wagon and stop looking at me that way.”
* * *
Roads and villages passed behind them with the incessant rattle of the wagon and inexorable undulation of Pon-Pon’s hindquarters. Shirohige had been taciturn since their exchange in the early morning. Ken’ishi passed the time playing on his flute, something he had done less and less of in recent months. Nevertheless, he found that with a little practice his skill returned, and soon the strains of his own emotions flowed onto the air like birdsong.
He found his thoughts drifting to Kiosé as he played, and Shirohige soon grunted at him. “If you keep playing such music, I’ll have to hang myself from despair. Play something merrier.”
In the villages they passed, Shirohige peddled his wares with a beaming smile and an amiable demeanor, but on the road again, he grew sour and surly. His jaw chomped at something. “I don’t like it when someone thinks he’s better than me, boy.”
“We have different paths. For now, our paths have merged.”
“What are you doing here anyway? Why are you going to Hakata?”
“Something was stolen from me. I intend to take it back.”
“And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what that was. Who are you, anyway?”
“I am a ronin. That is all there is.”
“You know, I did not ask to you to ride with me by accident. I saw you there. I heard about you. The man with the wooden sword. The man who laid some pain upon Green Tiger’s men in Oita town.”
Ken’ishi’s hand slid toward his bokken. “Why did you invite me to come with you?”
“I wanted to size you up. Green Tiger is not the only boss around. I don’t work for him, don’t worry.”
“Perhaps not, but perhaps he would pay handsomely for information about who defeated his men.”
Shirohige looked shocked. “What kind of man do you take me for?”
Ken’ishi listened for the kami and heard no warning. “Who do you work for?”
Shirohige smoothed himself. “Myself, but I do know people.”
“What kind of people do you know?”
“The Chinese gang that supplies me with lotus for one. Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes.”
“The one who stole whatever it was?”
“Yes.” The dream of a tiger and a crane.
“Perhaps Green Tiger would know. Perhaps you should talk to him.”
“Or perhaps he is responsible.”
Shirohige gulped. “Then you may as well give it up.”
“Do you know how to find him?”
“I can help you find him, if you’re in a hurry to meet your ancestors. But he may find you first if he hears you beat up his men in Oita. Even the other gangs give him a wide berth.”
Ken’ishi thought about this for a while, and about the dream, and about the pebble-trail of fortunes that had led him this far. It seemed that Green Tiger and Silver Crane were connected somehow. “What do you want in return?”
“Why, just your kindness, of course!” Shirohige held a straight face for only a heartbeat, then roared with laughter until his eyes teared. He wiped his ruddy cheeks and said, “Fear not, I never forget debts owed to me. I may have need of your wooden sword someday. Perhaps if another tanuki comes around, you’ll be awake enough to stove in its skull before it can do any damage.”
* * *
Two days later, free of any further tanuki depredations or encounters with angry village boys, Ken’ishi and Shirohige arrived at the outskirts of Hakata. Ken’ishi immediately recognized the glimmering expanse of Hakata Bay. Strange to see it from a different perspective. The dark bulks of Shika, Nokono, and Aino Islands rising from the sun-drenched sea, the sailed specks of ships and fishing boats. The shore where Aoka village lay nestled was many ri to the east, lost in the blue-gray distance. From Dazaifu, the road had followed the Ox Horn River toward the north, eventually meandering between the congealing clusters of houses and shops and warehouses that formed the outskirts of Hakata, to empty further along into the bay.
Over the course of the journey, Ken’ishi often wondered what happened to Hage, of whom there had been no sign. He hoped the old man was well. Hage was a much more pleasant traveling companion than Shirohige, who flopped between a charming amiability, effective at times in his efforts to sell his wares, and a dark, bitter selfishness, where all the world lay poised to do him wrong. In every town and village, people knew who Shirohige was, and they either welcomed him or gave him wary glances.
Throughout the journey, he often listened to the birdsong and felt the frustration of being unable to understand
, like trying to listen to a conversation through a door. If only he could find the latch on the door, throw it open, and reenter that world. He had never had wont of friends, or at least a conversation, when there were no other human beings around. Birds and creatures of the earth were everywhere and always surprised to encounter a human who could speak the tongue of their world.
The wagon descended into the thick of the city’s labyrinthine streets and bridges. All rivers in northern Kyushu converged on Hakata, emptying into Hakata Bay, and the city lay astride those rivers with bridges and canals, using the waterways to divide itself into a host of districts and wards.
Dazaifu was a city, certainly, but it was infused with an air of old, stuffy authority, whereas Hakata was a bustling port filled with enterprising merchants and sailors, craftsmen and laborers, well-heeled samurai and scruffy ronin alike.
Shirohige reined up Pon-Pon before a house of respectable size, near a stone-banked canal smelling of sewage and moss. “You can stay at my house until you find what you’re looking for. You’re an honest sort. I don’t expect you’ll steal anything.”
Ken’ishi silently wished that he could say the same of Shirohige. Nevertheless, he accepted the offer.
“Don’t mind my sister,” Shirohige said. “She’s a bitter old hag, but she’s a good cook.”
Shirohige unlatched the gate and led Pon-Pon into the small courtyard. The ox allowed himself to be unyoked and led into a small pen, where Shirohige dumped some millet from a sack into a narrow trough.
The respect, almost affection, that Shirohige displayed in his husbandry surprised Ken’ishi. “You seem to have more regard for that ox than you do for human beings.”
“Pon-Pon hasn’t a cruel or deceptive hair on his hide, unlike human beings. He’s almost like a big, stupid dog.”
Pon-Pon tossed his head and snorted at Shirohige.
Ken’ishi understood that appeal. He’d had such a friend once, with a red wagging tail.
Shirohige gestured for Ken’ishi to follow. “Come, let us go inside and revel in Junko’s panic. She won’t be expecting a guest.”
The house was fine enough to warrant a tile roof, rather than a thatched one, but the tiles were broken in places, or perhaps peeled away by past typhoon winds. The exterior of the house looked dark and stained by time. The steps creaked and sagged under Ken’ishi’s feet.
Shirohige called into the house as they stood in the entryway and slipped out of their shoes. “I’m home!”
“It’s about damn time!” came a voice like a crow’s. “I was expecting you days ago! Dallying with some whore, were you?”
Shirohige sighed. “Ah, a voice like a nightingale.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“We have a guest, my dear sister.”
“A guest! Are you out of your mind? Bringing a guest to this cesspit?” The sound of frenzied shuffling from some other room.
Moments later, an old woman stepped into the foyer, her cragged face split by a wide toothless grin. Gray-streaked hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her prominently curved spine bobbed as she bowed to Ken’ishi. “Welcome, sir, to this meager patch of ill-kept hell. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a terrible housekeeper. Shame on you, brother, for not telling me you were bringing a guest.”
Ken’ishi bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, madam.”
Shirohige stepped up from foyer to the raised tatami floor. “I had not planned it, but … let us say we met on the road and have some mutual interests.”
Her eyes glittered as she beheld Ken’ishi. “He’s a handsome one. I can see why you brought him along.”
Shirohige scoffed. “Don’t mind her. She’s never had a husband.”
She countered, batting her eyelashes at Ken’ishi, “Don’t mind him. I’ve never seen the need to settle on one man. But come in, come in. You must be tired from the road. I’ll make tea.”
* * *
That night, after a modest meal of fish soup, steamed cabbage, and rice, Shirohige smacked his lips over the tea. “Brought all the way from the old capital, this tea. Kyoto tea is still superior. I know a good tea merchant here.”
Ken’ishi tasted it, considering the subtle differences in flavor from the tea grown in the mountains of Kyushu.
Junko sat nearby, leering at Ken’ishi, checking her hair, smoothing her old, stained robes as if they were court finery.
Shirohige said, “So, of course I would like to ask you what your plans are, but you’re so damnably tight-lipped I don’t expect you’ll tell me anyway. But here’s what I’ll do. I’ll go out tomorrow and talk to some people. If possible, I’ll arrange a meeting.”
Ken’ishi glanced at Junko.
Junko said, “Oh, don’t worry about me, deary. You’ve no need to hide anything from my delicate feminine sensibilities. I ran a whorehouse near the docks for eighteen years. Perhaps I can help you. Of course, there’s always a price, isn’t there?” She waggled her naked eyebrows.
Ken’ishi swallowed hard and shoved away visions of what that might entail.
Shirohige said, “He thinks he’s looking for Green Tiger.”
Her face darkened. “Then I suppose he won’t be staying long, what with such a death wish. No one has ever seen his face. One of my muscle boys ran afoul of him some years ago over some gambling debts. Granted, it was a boon for me that he lost his nose and ears—a face like that frightens people into line—but I doubt he much enjoyed it.”
Ken’ishi sipped his tea. “I’ll be careful.”
She shrugged. “If you’re not, you’ll be dead, or worse. He’s a hard man to find.”
Shirohige said, “I have some ideas for that. The White Lotus.”
Junko’s withered lips collapsed into her face. “Filthy Chinese. A bunch of mongrel dogs. Be careful there, too, boy. A rough bunch, the White Lotus. But they might have a means of contacting Green Tiger. You’ll have to keep your wits about you. I’m loath to see that pretty face of yours marred.”
“I appreciate your concern, madam. I will be careful.”
She rolled her eyes. “So says the stripling with no idea of what he’s walking into.” Then she sighed. “Well, you fellows enjoy yourselves. I’m off to wash my crotch. Ken’ishi, if you decide to avail yourself of it, my room is over there.”
Shirohige flung a dismissive gesture at her. “Foul-mouthed witch! Begone!”
As she tottered away with her back hunched almost double, Ken’ishi took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and tried to sip his tea and ignore the loud sounds of bathing from the ofuro.
The uguisu sleeps in the bamboo grove,
One night a man traps her in a bamboo trap,
Now she sleeps in a bamboo cage.
— The Love Poems of Marichiko
The naginata haft slid easily through Kazuko’s hands as she flew through the practice movements. The arm-length blade glinted like a curved icicle as it spun and slashed at the end of the pole.
Master Higuchi scrutinized every movement with eyes as deep and glittering as the night sky, and just as impassive—that is, until she made a mistake. The naginata master could have been thirty-five or fifty-five. He kept his head clean-shaven, not like a samurai but in the fashion of a monk. When she asked him about it once, he gave her a faint smile and said that the sun reflecting off his bald head would blind his enemies. He wore his customary breastplate, greaves, and arm guards, naginata resting upright in his grip. He called out the names and cadence of the movements in sharp staccato syllables, and she responded in kind, using her voice to focus her spirit, body, and weapon into every strike.
Salty sweat moistened her lips and sheened her face, in spite of the cool morning air in the shadows of the castle walls. Sweat plastered her simple practice tunic and trousers to her body. She knew every scar and gouge on the practice post. She knew the heft and balance of her practice naginata, the feel of the oval-carved haft. Her father had trained her when she was a maiden, and now her husband had engaged Master Hi
guchi to train her. Tsunetomo had even given her exclusive use of his retainers’ practice yard every day for as long as Master Higuchi required.
Nearby stood a dozen upright cylinders of fresh, green tatami, each about as thick as her leg, said to exhibit the same resistance to cutting as a human body. Her real naginata waited nearby, sheathed and freshly polished. Her husband had commissioned a naginata for her from Shintogo no Kunimitsu of the Awataguchi School, swordsmiths to the Hojo clan, and the smith’s renown proved to be well-founded.
Her favorite part of daily practice was when she was given leave to unsheathe the real weapon, see the immaculate gleam of the blade and hear the unique sound as it sliced through air and imaginary enemies. How many imaginary tatami enemies she had slain she could scarcely fathom. She relished the power of the weapon. With the increased leverage of the long haft, a skilled stroke could cleave a man in two from shoulder to crotch. The only time she had ever used a naginata in real battle was against the horrid oni bandit, Hakamadare.
In the early days of her marriage, the training had given her respite from her despair over her longing for Ken’ishi, giving her a sense of power that she could find nowhere else. Nowadays, she found herself taking pride in her growing skill and strength.
Tsunetomo once said, “Some men prefer their women soft and meek, but I enjoy the spirit that martial training cultivates in you. I don’t want my wife to be a meek little girl. I want a woman strong enough to stand up to any man.”
Every day, Master Higuchi drove her to the limits of her endurance, every day the sessions growing longer and longer. It was as if he could see the verge of her collapse, and he let her reach that point before he ended practice. She had not reached it yet today, but she could feel it coming.
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 16