Child of Vengeance

by David Kirk

  But it was not some great moment of destiny; it was just a hot afternoon. Wordlessly Bennosuke rose to his feet, bowed pointedly to the monk but not to the samurai, and then went inside the dojo to leave the brothers alone.

  Munisai watched him go, facing the boy always until he was out of sight. When he was definitely gone, the contempt vanished from him. His face became blank, and he commanded Dorinbo with a curt gesture of his hand:

  “See to my wound.”

  “As you wish, Lord,” said the monk.

  There was the slightest sarcasm in his voice, but Munisai said nothing as he sat down and slid the kimono off his shoulder. Dorinbo removed the bandage, and began to examine what lay beneath.

  The arm was not healing well. The wound had finally closed and was starting to form a great lumpy ridge of scar, but that did not mean it was improving. The limb remained feeble and from time to time the samurai still lost feeling in his hand, on which green and blue bruises inexplicably formed.

  As he heard Dorinbo sigh and cluck his tongue in bewilderment, Munisai felt his spirit sink. Of course he had known beforehand that no miracle had taken place, but there was always a sliver of blind hope that something had improved even the slightest. If that was stripped from him, despair would take root and begin to rot his will as badly as his flesh.

  “How is work at the temple going?” the samurai said, trying to distract himself. “You are still preparing for that burning, yes?”

  “Indeed. There is much to do. Progress has been slower as of late,” said Dorinbo. His examination over, he let Munisai’s arm go and began to rummage through the collection of salves and ointments he had brought to tend to Bennosuke.

  “Binding, binding, binding,” Munisai said. “It seems rather unnecessary if it is all going to be burned in the end.”

  “Would you want your corpse thrown onto some bonfire without ceremony?” said Dorinbo.

  “It wouldn’t matter,” said Munisai. “The manner of death is all that defines what is proper or not, not what happens to what remains.”

  “No, but I am asking you, Munisai,” said Dorinbo, and he spoke casually while he unscrewed the lid of the hollowed bamboo pot he had chosen. “Do you personally care for the notion, say, of somebody dragging your body by the feet like a sack of turf through the dirt and then slowly tipping you onto a pile of burning driftwood for you to cook slowly, your flesh roasting and your skin peeling away unevenly so you become a mangled, half-charred thing, and then for the fire to be left untended, go out eventually, and for the animals to come and fight over what is left?”

  Munisai considered it.

  “No,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Dorinbo, as patient as he was with children. “And that is why we must do the binding, long and strenuous though it is.”

  “Well, if the work is that much, you ought to take an apprentice,” said Munisai, and he gave a one-armed shrug.

  Dorinbo suddenly found the horizon very interesting for a moment. He bit the inside of his lip, and forced himself to work on. Using two fingers he began to scoop dollops of greasy, gray salve from the pot onto Munisai’s wound. The ridges began to glisten, and Dorinbo saw the healthy muscles on his brother’s back tense. The salve had a sting to it.

  “Tell me, then, of the boy,” said Munisai as Dorinbo worked. “He seems feeble. What were you doing to him when I arrived?”

  “Bennosuke,” said Dorinbo pointedly, “Bennosuke. You gave him that name.”

  “How is Bennosuke?” Munisai conceded.

  “Exhausted. His legs are falling to pieces.”

  “I ask nothing of him that I would not ask of myself,” said Munisai, hearing the reproach in the monk’s voice.

  “He’s still a child.”

  “He’s a head taller than most men already,” said Munisai. “With a shaven scalp and a longsword he’d pass muster in any army in the land.”

  “His bones will warp,” said Dorinbo.

  “Yes—warp and become stronger.” Munisai nodded, certainty in his voice.

  “Samurai,” muttered Dorinbo under his breath. After a moment, Munisai turned to look at his brother for the first time that day.

  “I am samurai, Dorinbo—that is true,” he said. “But there are times when I wish I wasn’t, so that I had the luxury as you do of saying what I felt.”

  “Indulge yourself,” said the monk, meeting his eye. “Pretend you aren’t as you are, for just one moment.”

  “There is no need to—I have nothing I’d wish to say to you on this matter,” said Munisai, and turned away once more.

  “Well, why break a habit of eight years?” said Dorinbo. “Just break the boy, keep your stoicism and your proud front, and leave me to mind him and pick up the pieces, as you always have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” said Dorinbo, his voice low. He forced some of the ointment deep into the wound then, and it stung wickedly. Munisai gritted his teeth and had to wait for the brunt of that to pass before he felt confident that he could speak without betraying evidence of the pain.

  “Do you resent raising Bennosuke, then?” he said.

  “No, of course not!” snapped Dorinbo. “What I resent, brother, is you returning and stealing him away as though nothing happened. He’s as much my son as he is yours. More so, probably. But neither you—nor he—seems to realize it.”

  Munisai considered Dorinbo’s words. His brother was acting like a woman, but there was truth in what he said, certainly. It was evident the monk had cared for Bennosuke rigorously, and Munisai had never once asked the monk to do so. He had just presumed that this would be the case, and indeed, entirely unbidden, Dorinbo had taken Munisai’s place. It seemed that apologies were due.

  But he was samurai, and samurai did not show the slightest deference to monks, and so he said nothing.

  Before Dorinbo spoke again, they were interrupted by the sound of a horn. It was a low, cyclical undulation like a beast singing a prayer, and it carried across the valley before it stopped for a breath and then repeated itself in a higher tone. The pair of them looked up to find a horseman on the ridgeline of the village, a conch to his lips. The man sat beneath a burgundy banner.

  “I beg a further favor, brother,” the samurai said to the monk, eyes not leaving the horseman as he blew on. “Conceal this wound.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the other side of the hall, Bennosuke had busied himself polishing a bundle of war staves after Munisai had dismissed him, trying to force the anger from his mind again. His hands had had to fight the urge to take his shortsword and start shaving the wood of the poles away, slicing again and again deeper and deeper until what remained was honed into a savage point; a crude spear with which to do a crude act.

  His knuckles grew white and the tendons on his wrist writhed back and forth, and it was so tempting to be consumed by the mindlessness of it that he was almost glad when the sound of the horn gave him something else to focus on.

  Up on the ridge, other horsemen appeared alongside the one blowing the horn. There were five more of them, each upon a tall warhorse, and after they had stood in imperious silhouette for a few moments they began to wind their way down the paths between the fields in slow single file. The rich color of the burgundy they all wore almost blended their bodies into the autumn landscape.

  The peasants pressed their faces into the ground as the procession passed, and then rose to follow nervously in their wake. They formed a parade of sorts, the regimented gentry ahead and the lesser in a mob behind. Now that the lead man had stopped blowing on the conch their advance seemed funereal. Not one of the mounted men spoke or even looked at those they passed.

  Their eyes were all fixed on the dojo.

  Bennosuke rose, the staff in his hands. A single samurai rider was odd; a band of them coming with such grim pomp was something he had never seen. The six of them fanned out as they left the narrow pathways of the slopes, hoof after heavy hoof. At some s
ignal the man with the conch galloped ahead and dropped from the saddle twenty paces from Bennosuke. He took the banner from his back.

  “A great honor is yours today!” he called, sinking to one knee and planting the banner in the ground. “A great lord visits your hamlet!”

  The herald was young, and his high voice did not carry well. Bennosuke said nothing, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He watched guardedly as the other horsemen came and dismounted. Two of them strode forward, predatory. One was a thin man with a long face, perhaps as young as the herald. Beneath the dust of travel, his riding clothes were more extravagantly and richly patterned than anything Bennosuke had seen. The other was older, heavier, plainer, and he held himself still, with his hand on his sword.

  The pair of them looked at Bennosuke for a long moment. The thin man’s eyes became disgusted as they took him in—his simple clothes, the sole shortsword at his side and his unshaven crown that marked him a child, and the gangly frame of his body and the red welts of his rash that marked him unclean and inelegant: an undesirable.

  “Are you samurai?” the man asked eventually.

  “Yes—are you?” said Bennosuke hotly. The contempt in the man’s eyes had drawn it from him.

  There was a cry of outrage from the other men, and they made as if to run forward and draw their swords. They were blowfish puffing up, no more; not one of them actually let the blade leave their scabbard, and they halted instantly the moment the thin man raised his hand.

  “He is more than a samurai,” said the herald indignantly. “He is the most noble Hayato Nakata!”

  Bennosuke thought about what that meant, and then he knelt, pressing his forehead to the wood of the dojo floor. It was the first lord he had met, but he knew what was expected—especially when five men seethed like leashed dogs by his side.

  “At least you know some manners,” clucked Hayato under his breath, shaking his head. “Rise.”

  Bennosuke obeyed, and then, not knowing what else to say, he spoke as he thought a samurai would: “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  “This is the village of Miyamoto, is it not?” said Hayato.

  “It is, my lord.”

  “The steward of this village is Munisai Shinmen, then. Do you know him?”

  “I am his son, my lord,” he said.

  “His son?” said Hayato, and then he laughed. “This ugly whelp is Munisai’s son! Perhaps his skill is overrated if this is the best he can sire!”

  The other men sniggered obligingly, and Bennosuke felt his rash throb in embarrassment. It was as much from his own mistake as Hayato’s words—he did not know why he had identified himself as Munisai’s son.

  “My Lord Nakata,” came Munisai’s voice from within the dojo, and then slowly he walked out from the hall. “I rejoice at the honor of your presence here, but if you are here for your reimbursements regarding Kanno’s castle, you will be disappointed. My wealth resides with my Lord Shinmen in Takeyama.”

  Though his words were polite his voice was deep and cold. There was no sign of the sling on Munisai, his arms free and crossed and his stance wide. He took in the burgundy samurai one by one, perfectly still, perfectly strong. The eyes of the man alongside Nakata glinted with sudden interest.

  “We are here to show you what my ‘city-dweller spirit’ is made of, you arrogant dog,” said Nakata. “We are here to show you that war does not disgust me, do you understand?”

  “Indeed,” said Munisai, and a small smile played across his lips. The lord had spoken aggressively, and so now he was free to abandon the civility that etiquette demanded. “And who is the ‘we’ that will prove your mettle, my lord?”

  His eyes settled on the samurai by Hayato’s side, but Dorinbo chose that moment to make himself known. Hurriedly he scuttled down the stairs and placed himself between the burgundy samurai and Munisai.

  “Please, please, please,” the monk said, his hands raised in placation. “There is no call for violence this day, my lords. My name is Dorinbo and I serve Amaterasu. My brother Munisai and I would be glad to receive—”

  “A brother, a son? Is your mother in there too, Shinmen?” interrupted Nakata, speaking to Munisai and leaving Dorinbo unable to do anything but look back and forth to either side. “The spirits have mercy—why couldn’t you have stayed by your master’s side in civilization? Why have you forced me come out here to the ass end of Japan to be wailed at by priests and the pox-ridden?”

  “I apologize wholeheartedly for the inconvenience,” said Munisai, and once more he turned back to Nakata’s samurai. “Now—you. Who are you?”

  The man did not stride forward. He came with his thumbs tucked into his belt, glancing around casually—showmanlike—until he sighted a length of bamboo across which paddies of rice had been hung to dry before their threshing. He shook the bundles of stalks free and then held the bamboo upright before him, inspecting it as a craftsman would. It was twice the height of a man, the trunk green and ridged and thicker than a human thigh. The samurai nodded, satisfied, and then gestured for a peasant to come hold it.

  The peasant he had chosen was a young man, and he did so hesitantly, his eyes upon the ground. Nakata’s man smiled at him, and when the peasant held the bamboo upright before him, the samurai put his hands back into his belt once more and turned to Munisai.

  “You must know of bamboo-cutting tournaments, my honorable Munisai?” he said amicably.

  “I do. That does not answer my question,” said Munisai.

  “Have you participated in them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was your record?” said the man. “How long after you cut through did it take for the split trunk to fall?”

  “Two heartbeats,” said Munisai.

  “Two heartbeats?” said the samurai, and he nodded as if impressed. It was a minor feat—not the best, but a substantial show of skill.

  Casually Nakata’s samurai rolled his head on his shoulders, and then settled himself and locked his suddenly cold eyes on Munisai. Then, his sword was up in the air as though it had skipped any form of motion—it was just in the scabbard and then it was free and high in the sunlight.

  What it had done was slice through the bamboo trunk. There were three heartbeats before the cut appeared, a sliver of beige emerging in the green, and it began to topple. What it had also done was slice through the left wrist of the peasant, the speed of the blow batting the severed hand into the air, and on the fourth heartbeat it and the top of the bamboo trunk met the earth.

  The peasant shrieked and tumbled backward clutching at his wrist, his feet scrabbling in the dirt in some spastic attempt to flee. Dorinbo gave a cry of horror, and he went to the man’s side to do what he could, other peasants coming to try to hold him still as he bucked and thrashed.

  To look at Nakata’s man was to know that it was no accident. The samurai ignored the desperate flurry of suffering, his eyes locked solely upon Munisai. With perfect stillness and control he lowered his sword to point at him.

  “My name is Kihei Arima,” he said, and he grinned a vicious grin. “I am known as the Lightning Hand, and men the length of this country call me sword-saint. Munisai Shinmen, I have come to take the title of Nation’s Finest from you. Duel me. I have killed six men in single combat—you will be my seventh.”

  In a fluid motion he sheathed his sword and held his arms wide, waiting for formal acceptance of the challenge. He and Munisai were in a world apart from what was happening just paces from them, and Bennosuke found his gaze flickering from the pair of them to where Dorinbo was trying to force a piece of torn cloth over the stump of the peasant’s wrist, his hands slick with blood.

  It was an awful calmness, and it grew stranger still when, after a pause that was too long to be considered natural, Munisai began to laugh long and slow and deep.

  “You think to impress me with butchery, Arima?” he said. “I’ll tell you who dismembers peasants—the degenerate corpsehandlers.”

  “Watch your mouth,
Shinmen,” growled Arima, and to his side the peasant whimpered for his children to be taken away so they would not have to see.

  “I will watch my tongue in the presence of those I deem worthy,” said Munisai, and he was not snarling but speaking as though he were stating amusing facts. “You are a pissant torturer, and you belong in a filthy exiled hamlet along with those subhumans. This is my hall, and this is a place for warriors only.”

  “I am a warrior, Shinmen—and I am here to fight!” said Arima.

  “Then fight Bennosuke here. He’s more than a match for you,” said Munisai casually, and nodded toward the boy.

  It took a heartbeat for Bennosuke to comprehend just what Munisai had said. Stunned, he tore his eyes from the peasant to look at the man. He was amused still, but there was no sign of jest in his eyes. The boy felt any strength and warmth he had within himself being sucked away down some secret hole behind his stomach.

  Dorinbo too had heard, and turned from where the peasant was being borne away by his friends to stare aghast at Munisai. “What are you thinking, brother?!” the monk blurted before Bennosuke could stutter a refusal. “Are you serious?”

  “The boy needs more practice than sparring and empty recitals of pattern. This isn’t much more,” Munisai said, waving a dismissive hand at Arima, “but it’s a start.”

  “You arrogant swine!” hissed Arima furiously, hand on his sword. “Fine! I accept! I’ll kill your son, and then you must fight me! Agreed?”

  “There’s nothing to agree to—you won’t get past the boy. But so be it. Agreed,” he said.

  Bennosuke’s head was darting around, unsure of whom to look to or quite what was going on. Dorinbo was horrified, Arima was furious, Hayato was interested, but Munisai … The man still had the tight grin on his lips, but he was watching Bennosuke with curious, piercing eyes. Was it a challenge? If it was, Bennosuke was happy to concede defeat and back out of fighting Arima.

  For the slightest of moments, Munisai’s face hardened. It was almost unnoticeable, but his eyes went quickly to his own left arm, and then back to Bennosuke. The boy looked closely, and there he saw the sling. It had been concealed well, wrapped around the samurai’s wrist and neck to bind the arm into a façade of strength—but it was façade alone.