‘You may be skilled with a sword, but you are a foolish little girl at heart. I suspect a hard lesson will be waiting for you somewhere down the road.’
Ane staggered from the cottage when the deed was done. She cradled her maimed hand and began to shoulder her way through the undergrowth. She was white with blood loss and clung to consciousness in the hope she could reach help before shock and trauma immobilized her limbs. Part of her wanted to sit against a tree, close her eyes and quit this brutal world, but the animal drive to live overrode her despair so she struggled onwards through the trees.
Tengu remained in the cottage a while. She contemplated the severed digit which lay on the blood-darkened earth, white as porcelain. Her belly was cramped by pangs of hunger and, for a brief of moment, she wondered if she should roast the finger over the fire then pick it clean of flesh with her teeth. She smiled at the absurdity of the idea. She had heard stories of cannibalism, of snow-bound villages eating their elder folk to stave off starvation, but she would rather die than embrace such horror and degradation. She rolled Iwa’s body, retrieved the dead woman’s shoulder bag and shook the contents onto the floor. She hadn’t carried many possessions. A bundle of rags she might have used to mitten her hands when the weather turned cold. A flint. A flask. Tengu found a small sheath knife among the rags along with a whetstone. She tested the knife against a rag. It was exquisitely sharp.
She left the hut, walked down to the river and knelt by the water’s edge. She wet her hair and carefully shaved her scalp. She scoured the sides and top of her head smooth then tied her remaining ponytail into a high knot. She leaned over the water and studied her reflection. She bushed her eyebrows and furrowed her brow in a masculine scowl. She might be able to pass as a boy if she walked tall, pitched her voice deep, kept her head up and looked folk in the eye.
She paced with a confident swagger.
‘Hello,’ she said, deepening her voice. ‘I want wine.’ She thrust out her chest and planted her feet apart. She cleared her throat and tried to sound gruff and commanding. ‘Bring me wine. I want wine and a woman. Bring them now.’ She practised a belly laugh, threw her head back and attempted a manly guffaw.
She walked through the woods until she reached the road. She sat on the grass verge, chewed a leaf and tried to work out where to go. She had spent the winter tending cattle, sheltering from the lethal cold each night by sleeping in a barn, all the while dreaming of spring and the chance to join the ranks of the shinobi at the Temple of Shadows. But that dream had melted like the snow, and now barren, purposeless years stretched ahead. Maybe she should travel to Kyoto and explore the great city. She was sure to find a patron in the penumbral regions of the town, the slums and back alleys, someone who would appreciate the value of a killer who could pass through the streets unnoticed. She could walk the teeming streets, visit temples and gambling dens, observe noblemen and beggars, and see if she could discern the guiding hand of the gods among the affairs of men. Or maybe she should head west instead and explore the remote islands of Honshu. Run as far from humanity as she could and live as a beach hermit. Spend each day perched on a rock with a fishing pole in her hand.
She picked a blade of grass and threw it in the air. She would let it decide her destination. She watched the grass flutter above her head then a gust of wind blew it north and it came to rest in the dirt. It seemed the gods were inviting her to return to the province of Etchū. Maybe she had unfinished business, something to be resolved, something to be faced before she could move on.
She recalled a lesson her father had taught her years ago. They had stood in a forest clearing, bamboo staffs in their hands, and fought for long hours until she fell, exhausted. She threw down her pole and leaned against a tree to catch her breath.
‘Well fought,’ said her father.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Then, without warning, he beat her with his staff until she snatched up her discarded pole and defended herself.
‘Listen to me,’ he said, when she was bruised, cut and lying on the grass sobbing with exhaustion. ‘When you think the fight is over, that’s when the real fight begins. It’s true in battle and it’s true in life.’
Tengu adjusted her sword, hitched her shoulder bag and set off. Her hopes of training at the Temple of Shadows were at an end but she knew some new test lay in wait.
She had heard of a waterfall shrine deep in the forest, a secluded clearing haunted by woodland kami who would answer any question put to them by. They didn’t answer in a voice, and they didn’t answer straight away, but in the days following a visit to their woodland home all dilemmas were resolved for good or ill. She decided to visit the kami and ask them to reveal the path her life should take. She left the road and forged a path through the trees.
The Monk crouched by the river, laid his sword on the stone beside him and scooped water. He watched a vagrant creep from the trees in the periphery of his vision. He took another scoop as the man crossed the glade, drew closer and picked up a branch to use as a club. The Monk dabbed water on his bald head, casually picked up his sword, got to his feet and stretched. He turned and drew his sword as the man brought down the branch. Blurred steel sliced the club in half. A second strike took the rest of branch and left the astonished vagrant holding a useless stump of wood. The Monk raised the sword once more and his assailant fell to his knees in terror. The man was dressed in rags, with a scraggly beard and lank hair. He was, no doubt, a peasant driven to robbery by starvation. The man trembled as he waited for the death blow. The Monk took pity and sheathed his sword.
‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Come on. Stand up.’ The vagrant got to his feet and stood trembling. ‘Run. Get out of here.’ The peasant backed away, astonished to find himself still alive, then turned and fled into the trees.
The Monk watched the man depart. He was proud of the exquisitely honed awareness that allowed him to sense the vagrant’s presence even before the man had stepped from the trees into daylight. And he was proud of his swordcraft, the lightning speed with which he had destroyed the club as it swung through the air towards his head. But he hated his pride. It was the one weakness he had yet to banish. He had overcome all cravings of the flesh, turned his back on all luxury, drank only water, ate the simplest food and slept beneath the stars, but he couldn’t help but be pleased with his martial accomplishments and held himself superior to other men. He was convinced this last vestige of pride kept him shackled to the earth and stopped him reaching true enlightenment. If he couldn’t purge his vanity, then his life would be a failure. He might as well have stayed in Kyoto with his brothers and sold silk. In that sense, his contest with the vagrant had been a moral defeat. Perhaps he let the man live, not because he was genuinely merciful, but because he wanted to send a living witness to his prowess out in the world, someone who would tell others of the elemental sword master who inexplicably spared his life when they met deep in the woods.
The Monk sighed and walked back to the campfire. It was early morning and the clearing was still wreathed in mist. He bent to add another log to the flames and immediately gasped in agony. A sharp pain stabbed his lower back as if someone had jammed a hot knife into his spine and twisted the blade. He toppled onto the grass, rolled and lay on his back. The pain began to subside. He tried to sit up but the sickening muscular spasm immediately returned. Each time he tried to shift position he convulsed and yelled in agony. There was nothing he could do but lie still, look up at the morning sky and shiver with cold. He turned his head, grasped a log and threw it onto the fire.
He had experienced this back pain twice before. Once, he had lodged on a farmstead and offered to work for his keep. After a long afternoon wading through paddy water, bending to pluck rice stalks, he had convulsed in agony and nearly drowned in the knee-deep water. He shouted for help and the farmer dragged him back to the house. He lay on a mat for days, and the farmer’s wife had to spoon-feed him and empty his pisspot until he had recovered enough to look after himself. His ba
ck failed a second time when he visited a northern fishing village. He had offered to help rebuild a storm-damaged hut in return for rice and shelter. He was seized by the familiar pain as he helped drive a foundation piling into the sand. The villagers carried him to a shack and laid him on a bed of nets. He spent long days and cold nights in the hut, stared up at the driftwood roof so long he started to see faces in the gnarled and knotted planks. The fisherfolk brought him food and water until he was able to move once more.
The Monk lay on the grass, overcome by a wave of despair. The long cycle of pain had begun again. He would be immobile for days on end, bored and frustrated, forced to lie prone so long his shoulder blades would get rubbed raw and his buttocks cramped. His world would shrink to the few inches around him, the things he could see by turning his head, the few objects that lay within his grasp. And now he faced an added challenge. Each time his back had failed in the past he had been in the presence of helpful strangers, people who would bring him food and protect him from the elements. But this time he found himself alone, deep in the woods. It would have taken him a day to walk to the nearest village even if he had been able-bodied. He would somehow have to make the journey through the forest on his hands and knees, otherwise he risked dying of thirst and starvation.
He cried. He gave in to the wave of shame, anger and fear, instinctively knowing it was futile to try to suppress the emotions. Better to let them break over him like a wave, then maybe they would recede.
He lay a while, let his tears dry and listened to the crackle of the fire. He breathed slowly and brought his hammering heart under control. When he was calm he looked around and began to assess his situation. He had a pouch full of dried fruit in his nearby shoulder bag, enough for three days if he rationed himself, but he had only enough firewood to last the morning. He could squirm to the tree line and try to find enough brushwood to keep him warm at night, but that would simply postpone the moment he would have to summon his resolve and crawl through the woods to the road. And once he reached the dirt track he would have to pull himself hand over hand to the nearest village. The journey would take days. Maybe, if he was lucky, he might meet a traveller along the way, someone with a cart.
He gazed up at the slate-grey sky. He would need to reach the tree cover before the rain began. A black bird wheeled high overhead as if the Monk were carrion, as if it was waiting for him to grow weak so it could swoop down and peck out his eyes.
A boy leaned into his field of view. The lad was dressed in black and his head was shaved into a high topknot. The Monk fumbled for his sword, astonished the boy had managed to emerge from the undergrowth and cross the clearing without creating a sound.
The boy circled the prone man. The Monk watched him prowl, ready to lash out with his sword if the lad tried to grab the purse tied to his belt.
‘You’re a fine swordsman,’ said Tengu. She inspected the prone man. He was slim and tall and wore the yellow robes of the Buddhist order. But the robes were torn, patched and mud-stained, suggesting he was an itinerant holy man rather than a member of a temple order. Monks didn’t carry weapons, yet the man had a sword and saya by his side, suggesting he had arrived at his own idiosyncratic religious understanding, a mix of pacifist Pure Land mysticism and an adherence to the stark martial ethos of the Way.
‘I enjoyed the way you dealt with that bandit,’ she said. ‘You have impressive reactions. Good instincts.’
The Monk tried to get the measure of the boy. He had a sword tucked in his belt sash. The bamboo saya was well made but scratched and chipped by long years of service. The Monk guessed the weapon was battlefield plunder, unhitched from the waist of a dead samurai.
‘Would you like me to fetch you some water from the stream?’ asked Tengu.
‘You’re a long way from the road,’ said the Monk. ‘How long have you been tracking me through the woods?’
‘I came to visit the woodland kami, just like you. I stood among the trees and watched you fight, then I saw you fall down. What’s wrong with you? That peasant didn’t land a single blow.’
‘I have a weak back. It’s an old man’s affliction. I can’t live like this. I can’t live as a cripple. Please, as a mercy to a man in torment, kill me.’
‘This has happened to you before?’
‘Yes. And it will happen again. My body is cursed with a flaw. My situation is hopeless. No matter how I train, my time as a swordsman will just be the good days between crippling, immobilizing pain.’
‘Retire to a monastery. Live out your life in service and contemplation. There’s no shame in it.’
‘I’ve dedicated my every waking moment to the Way. I don’t know how to do anything else.’
‘And you still can follow the Way, when you able. But isn’t that the nature of life? The moments of health we enjoy between infirmities? The weakness of youth, the indignities of age? It’s a glimpse of light between two great oblivions.’
‘A man can say no. A man can refuse to be brought low as a dog and choose to join his ancestors instead. Look at me. My bladder is full and in a moment I’ll have to roll onto my side and piss where I lie. Just kill me. There are coins in my purse. Kill me, and the money is yours.’
‘You have a sword and a knife. Kill yourself, if you must.’
The Monk reached for his knife but didn’t draw it from his sheath.
‘I’m a coward. I can’t bring myself to do it.’ He turned his head in shame.
Tengu dug through the Monk’s shoulder bag and found a wooden cup. She fetched water from the stream and held it to his lips. He raised his head and drank.
She heard a twig snap in the undergrowth to their left. She straightened up and turned to face the bushes.
‘On your way,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing for you here.’
Bushes thrashed as the vagrant ran deeper into the woods. She crouched once more and helped the Monk finish his drink.
‘You come from Iga, is that right?’ asked the Monk. ‘You came up the southern road, the route from the Forty-Eight Waterfalls.’
‘I visited the temple.’
‘What business would a girl have at the Temple of Shadows? You intend to wash their clothes? Cook their rice?’
‘I’m not a girl.’
‘You’ve disguised yourself very well. The topknot. The way you hold yourself straight. Less observant folk would be fooled.’
Tengu looked down at him with a direct, unblinking gaze.
‘I am a travelling warrior, a follower of the Way. My sword defines me. I’ve killed so many men I no longer keep tally. Do you believe me? What does your instinct tell you? Am I lying? Am I deluded?’
The Monk contemplated the cold impassivity of her eyes.
‘No, you’re not lying. And I don’t think you’re crazed. But surely you understand no school of martial skill will ever allow a girl to enter their hall?’
‘I will train at the Temple of Shadows. I don’t care if I have to beat the door down with my fists. Sooner or later they’ll have to let me inside.’
‘Every door will be closed to you, always. There is no point wishing anything different. Time to wake from this fantasy.’
Tengu held out her hand.
‘Let me help you up. There’s a village down the road. We’ll walk together. They’ll welcome a holy man. They’ll see your presence as a blessing, offer you food and shelter while you recover.’
‘I don’t need anyone’s help. And if you’re hoping I’ll train you and further your skill with a sword, then put it from your mind. I don’t need a protégée.’
‘Don’t worry. You have nothing to teach me.’
The Monk took her hand and hissed in pain as she pulled him to his feet. He stood with his back bent and used his sword as a staff to hold himself upright like a hobbling old man. Tengu supported his arm but he shook off her grip. He shuffled across the clearing, wincing in acute pain with every step. The girl watched as he picked a pink flower and shuffled across the clearing towar
ds the little stone shrine.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Thanking the river gods. I asked them to help take my pride, to strip away any last vestige of vanity. And they answered my prayer. This pain is their gift.’
‘Most people would ask for good fortune or strong children.’
‘One can have a life of ease, or a life in pursuit of wisdom. Not both.’
He laid the flower at the foot of the little obelisk then hobbled back across the clearing to the girl. He was pale with pain, and sweat dripped from his forehead and nose.
‘What did you come here to request?’ he said, taking Tengu’s arm.
‘I came looking for direction,’ she said. ‘I want to find out who I am destined to become.’
‘Maybe you will have your answer in the coming days.’
He let the girl guide him through the woods.
* * *
Tengu helped the Monk limp down the road. He was on the verge of collapse. She needed to find somewhere he could rest.
‘There’s a farm a couple of ri from here. The woman might give us shelter. It will be difficult, though. Her husband was killed by bandits a couple of days ago.’
They reached the farm at nightfall. The old woman was sequestered in a back room, sobbing with grief. The front room was filled with villagers keeping watch over the farmer’s body. The corpse was laid on the floor, a knife placed on his chest to ward off any evil spirits which might try to claim his soul. The villagers leaped to their feet and bowed when the Monk entered the hut. They gave him an honoured place by the fire. He explained his back was injured so they rolled out a mat and laid down balled sacking as a pillow.
Tengu warmed her hands. The villagers called her ‘sir’ and treated her with the deference due an honoured male guest. She didn’t want to brag about her martial skill so told the assembled company about the bandits and wove a tale in which she chased the women through the woods for hours and found their decapitated bodies floating in the river, clearly ambushed and executed by a rival gang of brigands. Someone visited the back room to tell the farmer’s widow that justice had been served and the cutthroats who killed her husband were dead, but the news didn’t calm her sobs and wails. Later, the Monk knelt by the farmer’s corpse, ignored the pain of his injured back and recited the ritual passages of the Lotus Sutra:
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