by David Kirk
CHAPTER TEN
A week later, the grass of Miyamoto rippled around Munisai’s feet. It was long, dry, and ragged, the color of straw, but Munisai didn’t care. It was home, and it was a sensation. Over the past seven days the idea of both had become indescribably exquisite.
He crouched, his heart still pounding from the exertion. That too was wonderful, his blood warm and vital, and he thought that he could feel it flowing even through the skin of his fingertips. Breath came from him, in out, in out, tickling the smallest hairs of his beard.
From the ridgetop he looked down upon Miyamoto. The fields were dry now, the harvest gathered and the husks left in stacks to be burned later. Across the valley, a peasant child hiked her skirts up and leapt into the last remaining water in the irrigation ditch as her friends looked on and cheered. Her furious mother fished her out, scolding her to no avail.
In the sky above, a flock of swallows headed for the ocean, fleeing the coming winter for somewhere warmer. They hung in the air for an instant as they turned, a hundred little bodies swerving as one, as though they had felt Munisai’s eyes upon them.
To his side stood Bennosuke, alive.
They had come up here to spar, the dark wood of the dojo suddenly constraining to Munisai. The boy had stored a fortnight’s worth of energy as he waited for his feet to heal, and now that he could walk once more he had quickly tired Munisai.
“I’ve been thinking, Lord,” Bennosuke said now, barely out of breath.
“Upon what?” said Munisai.
“Of what we will do when the Nakata come for us.”
“Oh,” said Munisai.
He had returned from Okayama only last night. There were a lot of consequences for what he had done. A lot of ends that had had to be tied. He had not had a chance to explain to the boy. Bennosuke’s vigor had trapped the words in his throat.
“What we could do is go to that ridge over there,” said the boy, and waved at a distant outcrop of rock with the wooden sword he had been using. “Do you see how it funnels into one high point? They wouldn’t be able to surround us, nor sneak around the back, so they’d have to come at us a few at a time. That’ll make it a little fairer for us.”
“No,” said Munisai.
“I know you think your wound has crippled you, Lord. But even with one hand you are better than any man Nakata could send against you. I’ll stand on your left and shield your bad arm. That way we can stand together. That way we can do it.”
“No, Bennosuke,” said Munisai. He knew well the thrilling rush of determination that coursed through a man when he had dedicated himself to action, and could see it in his son now. The poor boy, excited for naught. “Nakata won’t be coming for a fight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Arrangements have been made.”
“What arrangements?” said the boy.
Munisai let out a long sigh. He rose to his feet, and reached out with his good hand to clap the boy on the shoulder. Bennosuke tensed, and Munisai realized then that the only times he had ever touched the boy since his return in the summer were to strike, grapple with, or throw him.
He remembered holding him aloft, the softness of him when he was little more than a baby. It was a good memory, a good feeling, and that he could feel it again while looking at the boy now despite what he knew … That was something he had never expected.
“You have surprised me,” Munisai said. “Your talent. Your strength. I have only had a few months with you, but there is little else I can teach you of weaponry.”
“You’re still better than me,” said Bennosuke.
“Of course—but I have taught you the ways for you to become stronger than me already. It remains for you to practice them on your own, until you surpass me.”
“You won’t teach me it?”
“I have only one thing left to teach you. An important thing.”
“What do you mean?” said Bennosuke. Munisai’s grip grew tight on his shoulder.
“How to die the best of deaths,” the samurai said.
The words had bounced off the gold leaf of Ukita’s chamber:
“The seppuku of Munisai Shinmen is hereby humbly offered in place of that of Bennosuke Shinmen.”
Munisai held the shortsword before him steady and straight. He bowed low and proffered it toward the Nakatas. Father and son could not take their eyes away from the blade. Ukita knew, however, that danger came from the man, not the weapon, and he looked beyond the steel to Munisai.
“Are you sincere in that proposition, Munisai?” he asked, the courtly tongue abandoned but his voice still cool.
“Entirely, my Lord Ukita,” Munisai said. The great lord nodded slowly.
Shinmen had his eyes downcast, resigned. He and Munisai had discussed this as a last resort, but the lord had been hopeful of a better outcome. He was reluctant to lose his best soldier, but he knew that seppuku was well within Munisai’s rights—and more than that, ultimately a correct and proper resolution.
Ukita’s wife looked on silently. She could have screamed and cried like some women were prone to, but her face remained still. Munisai was glad. Having her here, having what her eyes reminded him of steadied him. Lord Ukita checked on her from the very corner of his eye for but a moment, and then turned his head to the men in burgundy.
“Do you accept such a brave offer, Lord Nakata?” the great lord said.
“I …” stammered Lord Nakata, and finally he took his eyes away from the sword to meet Ukita’s. “No, we do not. It was not Munisai who committed the crime. We want Bennosuke punished. Whatever Munisai could offer is irrelevant.”
You want me alive so you can keep bleeding me of coin, thought Munisai, trying to keep the hatred out of his eyes.
“It does not appear that way to me, Lord Nakata. The life of a swordsman named Nation’s Finest? Might I remind you of the implications of that title?” said Ukita.
There was clear admiration in his voice now. Many lords had been present when Munisai had won that tournament. This Ukita, if he had been there, would have been eighteen or nineteen. An impressionable age. Munisai counted his blessings. Nakata, however, was not so moved.
“Honor dictates that we are allowed to choose whom our retribution is visited upon,” the old man said, forbidding Hayato to speak with an abrupt raising of the hand. “Munisai has done little to offend us. Bennosuke has attacked our blood. Thus it is he we want dead.”
“Does not honor also dictate acquiescence to your superiors?” asked Ukita. “Who, in this matter, state that Munisai’s offer is a fair one.”
“I wonder if the regular tribute this clan offers upward within this hierarchy is considered fair as well?” said Nakata bluntly.
Ukita moved his head back as though he had been slapped. A lord should never be reminded of his dependencies. His eyes glistened with anger, but they quickly returned to their objective calculation. He knew he needed Nakata’s gold.
“Very well,” he said thinly. “On account of your clan’s long and continual support, I will offer you a compromise. First, I may forget the insult you have just uttered in the presence of my wife. More than that, so very much do I appreciate you, I condone the following—Munisai Shinmen commits seppuku, and his son Bennosuke must shave his head, renounce his samurai status, and become a monk. Thus the boy is punished. Do you accept?”
Lord Nakata shook his head, the first signs of open anger on his face. But before he could speak, Hayato preempted him.
“That is a most benevolent and proper ruling, my Lord Ukita,” said the young lord smoothly. “Of course the clan Nakata gratefully cedes to your will. More than that, we would like to make known our admiration of the gallantry of Munisai Shinmen. Surely tales will be told of his sacrifice in a hundred years.”
The compliment was so hollow it seemed a threat in Hayato’s mouth. Munisai looked suspiciously at him. Hayato was a good actor—his face appeared genuine. But Ukita too saw a mantis beneath butterfly wings, and as the g
reat lord spoke he looked solely at Hayato.
“Then it is settled. I hereby decree that Munisai Shinmen shall commit seppuku to atone for the crime of his son Bennosuke, who shall in turn devote his life to the holy ways. I would like it to be known that should anything cause this decree to go awry in even the minutest of fashions, I should take it as a personal, unforgivable insult, and the perpetrator should undoubtedly become my enemy.
“To this end, I am appointing Lord Shinmen, who has declared his impartiality and allegiance to both parties in this quarrel, to adjudicate and ensure that my wishes are carried out with due accordance. Do you accept this position, Lord Shinmen?”
“Of course, my Lord Ukita,” said Shinmen, and bowed formally.
Munisai smiled inside as he watched Lord Nakata fail to catch Shinmen’s eyes once more. Now there would be no further revenge after Munisai was dead. Now the ritual would be performed by honest hands, hands that he had trained himself. There was nothing the Nakata could do.
He had beaten them, and beaten them honestly.
“Good,” said Ukita. “Then so be it. Let us drink together, and let this bad blood pass beneath the bridge so that our three clans now reunite to become stronger than ever. Let us drink to the memory of Munisai Shinmen, and the paragon of a life he led.”
Not a paragon of a life, Munisai thought, for Yoshiko was ever there to remind him, but a paragon of a death—yes.
Four men raised pewter dishes of sake—Munisai one of water—lifted them in salutation to one another, and then drank. Life was suddenly beautiful. Munisai was going to die, and it was good.
Bennosuke’s eyes were wide enough that Munisai could see himself in them. He tried to keep his face still, in contrast to the boy, who wore everything he felt openly—his lips moved, his eyes jumped through confusion, anger, and sadness, and then he shook his head and pushed Munisai’s hand off his shoulder.
“No,” he uttered.
“It is the only way,” said Munisai.
Bennosuke could not accept that. He began to conjure escapes and excuses, growing ever more frantic and vehement as Munisai refuted them calmly one by one. They could not fight; they would fall eventually and then their names would be disgraced and stricken from history. Nakata would not turn on Bennosuke after the ritual; Shinmen would ensure against any further bloodshed. It was not Bennosuke’s fault; it was not he who had insulted Nakata first, nor he who had brought Arima to Miyamoto.
“No,” said Bennosuke again.
It was all he could manage eventually, any other rationale spent. Munisai watched the boy as he dropped into a squat and folded his head into his chest. He did not come out of it, rocking back and forth, young knuckles white across the back of his neck.
“This is being samurai, Bennosuke,” said Munisai. “I told you before, our realm is death. You know only the easier half—killing. But now it is time for you to learn the harder half. The better half. The half that truly defines us.”
“No,” said the boy, face still hidden, voice barely above a whisper.
“Death is nothing, Bennosuke—does a snake fret when it sheds its skin? My soul will leave this body and then”—come back higher, he wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat—“go where it goes, and the world will continue.”
“When?” the boy managed.
“This afternoon,” said Munisai.
Bennosuke was crushed anew. He gave another cry, part anger and part anguish, and walked a short distance away. The boy fell to the ground and sat, looking through unseeing eyes toward the sea. Munisai let him.
Time passed, until the sound of drums from behind them broke their contemplation. They turned to see the first riders arrive, men on horseback carrying burgundy banners above them. They were the forerunners of a procession that wound behind them in staggered, honorific groups for almost a mile. Nakata and Shinmen had arrived in Miyamoto.
The boy rose and came to stand by Munisai. They watched silently as the horsemen began to wind their way down into the valley toward the dojo, the peasants gathering into worried clusters. The drums grew louder.
Munisai was despondent for a moment. He had hoped to have more time with the boy. But then, he had already wasted eight years, hadn’t he? He could have no regrets now. There was one last thing he had to explain. He forced the words out, before he could brood upon them.
“I need my sword back,” he said.
“Why?” asked Bennosuke.
“You must sacrifice something also—you are to become a monk,” he said, still watching the distant valley. “That is what was agreed with Ukita.”
“But … no. I’m samurai,” said Bennosuke.
“The sword, Bennosuke,” said Munisai.
“I’m samurai,” the boy repeated.
Munisai turned to face him, to try to explain. He knew that the boy would be angry—this would seem a castration to him, so soon after he had gained his manhood. He had prepared the arguments, as he had with the revelation of the seppuku, and he opened his eyes, ready to weather the anger, expecting to see defiance, fury, and resentment.
Instead, silent tears streamed down the boy’s face.
Why does he cry for you, murderer?
Bennosuke was still, no racking sobs escaping him. The tears simply had nowhere else to go. Munisai’s face hardened. He wanted the boy to be angry, because anger was easier, but Bennosuke simply started cuffing at his eyes ashamedly. Munisai pushed him to no response. “Look at you—I give you a golden chance to prove yourself and you weep.
“Let me tell you of vengeance. Gods are vain and fickle, but vengeance is an honest thing born of man alone. It is as natural as breathing and as old as time, and it overrides all—even duty to your lord. It does so because it is itself a duty, a holy moral duty, and anything can be forgiven in its name—so long as you are prepared to give everything for it. This is being samurai. Do you understand?
“Your mother did—Yoshiko knew what being samurai meant. I wronged her and became her enemy, and instead of crying and wailing, because she was samurai she committed herself to revenge. She debased herself and humiliated herself, bore all manner of shame, all to ruin me utterly. And she succeeded. Even I … Regardless of what I did, even I, the one she wronged, can respect the purity of that. She was a good woman, and you ought to be proud to be her son.
“Now tell me, does her blood run in you? You are a child born of vengeance—will you live up to what made you?”
Bennosuke said nothing. He had dried his eyes, but his face remained red as he looked at the floor. Munisai snarled wordlessly, pushed him again, grabbed his chin, and forced his face up. Again he saw himself in Bennosuke’s eyes, his own little more than furious narrow slits.
“Do you intend to recite sniveling prayers for the rest of your life? Or are you, as you say, a samurai?”
“Samurai.”
“Then you must uphold the sanctity of vengeance,” said Munisai. “It is that simple. You have an enemy in the Nakata and they must die. Take the sword from my dead hands. Live like a dog. Do what you must, endure whatever shame and humiliation will be thrown at you, commit your life to it—just make sure Hayato Nakata dies. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said the boy.
“This is no small promise, boy,” said Munisai. “This is what will define you. This is what will define the fate of your soul. So tell me—what are you?”
“Samurai.”
“What will you uphold?”
“The sanctity of vengeance.”
“Good,” said Munisai, and let the boy go.
“But why … why do you have to die?” said Bennosuke after a few moments. “Why can’t you come with me, and together we can get revenge?”
“I’m teaching you,” said Munisai, and a grim smile came across his face. “You are not a weakling or an idiot, boy. I know you can succeed. And when I said commit your life to this I meant it, for death will be the only thing that proves your vindication and removes all shame—deat
h by your hand or theirs.”
He held his hand out for the longsword, still smiling. He was surprised how much effort it took to hold it steady. Bennosuke looked uncertainly at the weapon, and then handed it over. Munisai slid it into the sash around his waist.
“Quite a burden it must seem,” said Munisai. “But now you are coming to see the way the world is—peasants tend the fields, and they live. Artisans entertain, and they live. Merchants handle money, and they live. Samurai serve, and fight, and then they die. But only the names of samurai live on afterward, and we have the great gift to choose the stories that will be told about us.”
“I …” said Bennosuke. Confusion was written upon him.
“Watch this afternoon. You will see that seppuku carves a finer testament to a man than anything that could be set in stone. You will see the way men speak of me when it is done, and you will understand,” said Munisai.
“But …”
“You must not interfere, Bennosuke,” said Munisai, seeing a change behind the boy’s eyes. “Promise me that you will only watch, and that you will learn.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Good.”
Across the valley, a large palanquin breached the ridge. It was burgundy, and shimmered like a peacock. It was far too wide to be carried down the winding paddy field paths, and so the two dozen men carrying it began the ritual of setting it down.
His time with Bennosuke was ended. Munisai had to go present himself, and then prepare for death. It was so fleeting—this afternoon, thirteen years, forever. Then what difference did these last seconds make? A lot, he knew. He looked at the boy.
“Bennosuke,” he said, and the boy looked up. “You are a fine son. Regardless.”
It was not enough, but it was all he had.
LORD SHINMEN MET Munisai halfway up the slopes of the valley. Behind him the many men the Nakata had invited along with them were being marshaled to their proper places. Munisai was not surprised at the number of them. The Nakata thrived on ostentation, and what better pomp than the end of an enemy?
In truth he was pleased. Many eyes watching meant that many mouths would bear testimony of his immaculate death.