‘Put him outside,’ suggested the Monk. He yawned, stretched and cracked his knuckles. ‘As you said, his friends have probably fled but let’s put him on view just in case they have been camped in the forest waiting for an opportunity to liberate him. Maybe we can bait them to show themselves.’
Four men lifted Era’s cage, carried it from the tea house and set it down in the square. Tengu helped the Monk lie on the veranda and view the scene. Morning mist hazed the air. Folk circled the cage and stared at the prisoner, keeping out of reach in case he grabbed for them.
The villagers circled Era in his cage and studied the man to see if they could learn something about the nature of evil. He sat quietly and chewed a thumbnail like he had retreated into his own head. He wasn’t a maniac, didn’t seem possessed, but his eyes were dead. There was something cold in his gaze, some kind of insect intelligence. He seemed unconcerned by the possibility of execution. One man strayed too close to the cage so Era barked like a dog and laughed as the startled villager jumped clear.
The Monk beckoned the five men guarding the cage. They walked over to where he lay.
‘Watch the tree line. His companions are probably long gone, but there’s a slim chance they might try to rescue their comrade. And watch the man himself as if he were a caged tiger. He looks calm but, make no mistake, he is constantly watchful. He will be alert for any opportunity to escape. If you stray too close to his cage he might try to snatch a knife from your belt. He might grab one of you, grip your neck and force your friends to open the cage. Remember, he has nothing left to lose. As far as he is concerned, he might as well go down fighting.’
The men circled the cage at a safe distance. Tengu watched Era and tried to read his mood.
‘What do you think they’ll do to him?’ she asked.
‘They’ll make him suffer before they take his life. Have you ever heard of the death by a thousand cuts? An appalling custom from China. A sailor told me about it. They tie a man to a post, then an executioner takes a knife and flays him piece by piece. They make it last hours. By the time they are finished the prisoner has been reduced to a basket full of flesh and bone.’
‘Barbarians,’ murmured Tengu.
They drowsed in the afternoon heat until the silence was broken by the distant rattle of cartwheels. A boy pulled a cart down the track and an old man walked by his side. The old man wore a ring around his neck on a leather thong.
‘That must be the new lord,’ said the Monk.
‘He doesn’t look very noble.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
Tengu looked at the crowd. They were mostly old folk apart from one young man who was missing a leg and using a staff to move around. Clearly, he was the only lad to return from the wars. In the years to come there would be few husbands, few children, and perhaps the wretched hamlet would die out entirely.
‘Do you think these village folk ever tire of being treated as cattle by great men? Surely some glimmer of self-respect, some glimmer of dignity, will eventually rouse their anger?’
‘They do not regard their masters as people like themselves. They experience the passions of the nobility as something to be endured, like tempestuous weather.’
Chikaaki and Kotau walked to the centre of the square. Chikaaki paced back and forth with great pomp, chest thrust forward so everyone could see the ring hung round his neck. He had met the Shōgun’s emissary, been touched by greatness, and was now forever set apart from the other inhabitants of the valley.
‘Come out,’ shouted Kotau as he paced the square. ‘Come out of your homes. We have something to say.’
The remaining villagers emerged from their huts and crowded into the quadrangle. Tengu estimated there were about eighty people sitting or standing round the square. Peasants from surrounding villages had travelled to watch the tournament, an event so extraordinary it would be recounted for generations. A handful of swordsmen stood among the crowd. Each man stood with his back to a hut wall, eyed his rivals and tried to assess their skill.
‘It is a great honour to address you today,’ said Chikaaki, ‘but also a great sadness. We are here to mark the death of Makoto-dono, perhaps the greatest chief this valley has known. As you all know by now, his Lordship died as he lived, a hero, protecting myself and my family from the bandits which have roamed this region these past two years. I wish I wasn’t lord. I didn’t ask for the role and I didn’t want it. But he passed the responsibility of protecting the five villages to me with his dying breath so it is my duty to live up to his golden example. As you may know, there is to be a tournament to mark the passing of his great soul. A contest of swordsmanship, a fight to the death in the presence of General Yukio, an emissary of the Shōgun. On the night of the full moon, two days from now, we will convene at the riverside shrine. That will be the site of the tournament. It will be a contest of elimination. Swordsmen will be paired by lots. They will fight until only one man remains. No forfeits. No capitulations. Death or victory.’
Chikaaki paused and let the gravity of the contest, the potential scale of the slaughter, sink in. He snapped his fingers and Kotau brought a board from the cart. He propped it on the steps of the tea house so everyone could see. Chikaaki stood beside the board with a pot of ink and a brush.
‘His Excellency is sending a Champion, one of his finest warriors, to take part in the tournament,’ he said. ‘It will be a singular honour to have a man of his martial skill among us.’
Chikaaki dipped his brush and, with great ceremony, wrote Samurai at the top of the board.
‘So who else wishes to add their names to the list?’ asked Kotau. ‘I see some strangers here today. Which of you has the courage to enter the arena? Speak now, and declare yourselves.’
The crowd were quiet and still. They looked around to the gathering to see which of the visitors would add their name to the board.
‘Me,’ said a man leaning against the corner of the tea shop. He had the dead eyes of a killer. Tengu had been discreetly watching the man for a while. He wore well-laundered robes without patches or tears. He was clean shaven and kept his face an impassive mask. His jet-black hair was oiled, tied back with a silk braid and groomed to glassine perfection using a comb he kept tucked up his sleeve.
‘Your name, sir?’ asked Chikaaki.
‘You don’t need my name.’
Chikaaki hesitated then wrote NoName on the board.
Tengu helped the Monk to his feet.
‘I will fight,’ he said.
‘What is your name?’
‘I left my old life behind a long time ago.’
Chikaaki wrote Monk on the board.
‘Surely someone here must have a name,’ said Kotau.
‘I will fight,’ said a peasant wearing a tanner’s apron. A murmur of astonishment rippled through the crowd. Tengu guessed that some private desperation had spurred him to put his name forward. Maybe he wanted money. Maybe he wanted to impress a girl. The people around him laid hands on his shoulders and tried to talk him out of it, but he shook them off.
‘My name is Nobutoo. And I will fight.’
Chikaaki added Nobutoo to the board.
‘Any more?’ asked Kotau. The crowd looked around expectantly. No one else stepped forward.
‘I’ll fight,’ shouted Era, sitting forward in his cage. His offer brought an immediate murmur of protest from the villagers. ‘You want a tournament, don’t you? You want spectacle, neh? So let me fight.’
Chikaaki thought it over. An instinctive half turn of the shoulders suggested he wanted to confer with his son but he didn’t want to seem indecisive in public.
‘We will let him fight,’ he decreed. ‘No doubt he should be flayed but I am your lord and I wish to see him die in combat.’ He tried to hush jeers of protest from the villagers. ‘Do you trust in the gods?’ he shouted. ‘Do you trust in the fates? Then let us put a blade in this vagabond’s hand and see him face a true swordsman. Let justice, pure justice, be done.’ He wrote
Dead Man on the board.
Kotau crouched by the cage and examined the prisoner up close.
‘It seems you’ve saved your neck, for a few hours at least,’ he said. ‘But you’ll be locked in that cage until the moment comes for you to fight. There will be no reprieve. These villagers will stand watch over you, day and night. They’ll enjoy seeing you cut in half.’
‘I didn’t kill your chieftain.’
I know,’ said Kotau, leaning close to the cage, ‘and I don’t care.’
Kotau returned to his father’s side.
‘There are two days until the contest begins,’ said Chikaaki. ‘I’m sure there are swordsmen on the road making their way to the valley. Their names will be added to the board when they present themselves.’
Kotau corked the ink pot and stowed the board back on the cart.
‘Sunrise, two days from now,’ said Chikaaki bringing the meeting to an end. ‘Two days, then we shall see who the gods favour, and who they condemn.’
The villagers lashed poles beneath Era’s cage and lifted it onto their shoulders. He seemed amused to be looking down on their heads. They followed Kotau and Chikaaki up the road to the shrine. Tengu walked behind the bearers and studied the prisoner’s demeanour. He was some kind of gentleman vagabond and clearly wouldn’t stand a chance in a contest with a trained warrior. His decision to volunteer for the tournament had won him a couple of days’ more life, but his eventual death was assured. He was almost certainly being carried to his execution site. She watched the prisoner as he was carried along the road for any sign of fear or regret. She wondered if he would crane his neck around and drink in this last glimpse of the fields and hills.
Tengu had always been fascinated by the way different men met their ends. She once spoke to a murderer who had been taken from a dirt cell and dragged to a marketplace stake, ready to be executed by an archer. The man had been reprieved at the last moment. His family had finally raised sufficient blood money to buy his life.
‘What was it like?’ she asked. ‘You were led through the streets, knowing you were minutes from death. What went through your mind?’
‘I tried to drink it all in. The sky, the people, the colours, the smells. I tried not to blink. I didn’t want to close my eyes for a fraction of a heartbeat. I wanted to see it all.’
But Era remained relaxed and stared straight ahead as if he were a rich merchant or a noble sitting in a palanquin, carried aloft by servants he didn’t deign to acknowledge. He only sat forward and took an interest in his surroundings when the procession reached the shrine and his cage was set down at the edge of the flagstones. He surveyed the killing ground and the surrounding ruins. He seemed calm but was already looking for an escape route. He turned and looked at Tengu. She was just a face in the crowd, one of the anonymous villagers bustling round his cage, checking it was secure, but Era singled her out as if he found something uniquely fascinating about her face. She ignored him but could feel the directness of his gaze. It was as if they were alone together, as if everyone else was just noise.
‘Fetch me some water, would you?’ he said, addressing Tengu.
‘Later,’ said one of the men.
‘I’m talking to the lad,’ said Era. ‘Send him down to the river. He’s got nothing better to do.’
The peasants returned to the village and Tengu was left alone with the caged man. She fetched a bucket of water and held a ladle through the bars so he could drink.
‘Could you leave the bucket?’ said Era when his thirst was slaked. ‘No harm letting me drink, neh?’
‘So you can snap the ladle and saw through the twine holding this cage together?’ Tengu dragged the bucket out of his reach. ‘You made a mistake, my friend. You know why you singled me out? Why I struck you as special? Because I’m the one who is going to make sure you don’t escape. You have my full attention from now until the moment they lead you away to fight.’
‘Then we had better get used to each other’s company,’ said Era with a smile.
* * *
Kotau took charge of preparations. He and Chikaaki visited an old hermit’s shack in the woods, checked it was unoccupied then broke it up for timber. They carried the planks back to the shrine, patched the roofs of the stone outbuildings and swept them clean. They laid mats and made them fit for human habitation. There were seven huts in total. Each little cell would be home to a contestant for the duration of the contest. A place they could have some privacy, marshal their thoughts and call upon the gods if they were so inclined.
‘We have plenty of rice,’ said his mother. ‘Maybe we should get more meat and fish. Maybe a little saké.’
‘Maybe,’ said Chikaaki. ‘Or maybe not. From what I hear, men of the Way tend to be an austere breed. They regard that kind of self-indulgence as a womanly weakness.’
‘What about women? Fighters might want company the night before the contest.’
‘I don’t know. True followers of the Way regard pleasures of the flesh with contempt, but who knows what kind of ruffians this competition might attract? We’ll leave them to make their own arrangements with the women of the village.’
When the huts were prepared and the flagstones swept Kotau stood at the centre of the arena and looked around. The ruins were ready to host the fight. Space had been cleared for General Yukio and his men when they arrived. The area around the ring had been readied for the villagers to view the fight.
‘There’s not much left to be done,’ said Kotau. Chikaaki nodded. He looked towards the road and saw a smudge of dust above the trees.
‘There are horsemen coming,’ said Kotau. Four soldiers rode up the lane. They dismounted, tethered their horses and looked around the shrine precincts. They ignored Chikaaki and Kotau.
Kotau watched in fascination as the men strode back and forth. It was the first time he had seen serving samurai up close. He studied the segmented leather plates of their armour, their swords, their severe topknots. He studied the men themselves, their lean, hard faces and pitiless eyes.
‘This area has been set aside for the General and his retinue, neh?’ asked one of the soldiers, addressing the old man. He indicated an expanse of cleared scrub next to the flagstones.
‘This vantage point will provide his Excellency with a fine view of the combat,’ confirmed Chikaaki.
‘Get men from the village. Cut down the trees. We will need fifty paces of open ground surrounding his tent.’
‘Maybe the General shouldn’t come if he’s too scared to mingle with common folk,’ said Kotau.
The soldier wandered over to the boy, looked him up and down, then delivered a heavy slap which sent Kotau sprawling. The soldier laid a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Kill me and there will be no tournament,’ said Kotau, wiping blood from his nose. ‘What do you think will happen if you have to return to your regiment and tell them you ruined the General’s entertainment in a moment of anger?’
The soldier thought it over. He didn’t want to back down, but didn’t want to forfeit his life because of some foolish altercation with a peasant child. He took his hand from his sword, spat on the boy and strode off. Kotau got to his feet, brushed dust from his clothes and smiled.
‘You could have got us killed,’ said Chikaaki.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ said Kotau. ‘I’m starting to get the measure of that kind of man.’
* * *
The Monk was shown to his quarters, one of the tavern outbuildings that used to house pigs. He fell asleep and Tengu watched his face in peaceful repose. This is the calm expression he will wear when he is dead, said a melancholy splinter of her mind. She couldn’t help but picture his corpse, snow white with blood loss. She left the hut to escape sudden, suffocating fear and paced the quadrangle. She breathed deeply, tried to shake off her sadness, and found herself standing in front of the great face that dominated the rear of the ruined shrine. She ran her hand over the lichen-mottled cheek and was hit by a vertiginous sense of
time, saw the stone face staring impassively ahead as, beyond the valley, years flickered by and empires rose and fell.
The Monk emerged from his hut and sat on the step. He yawned and rubbed sleep from his eyes.
‘This sculpture must have been here since the beginning of time,’ said Tengu. ‘It must have seen the very first men walk the earth. Do you think it will be here forever?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘But what do these ruins memorialize? These walls? These flagstones, this statue? Imagine the generations it took to shape these blocks and haul them into position. It must have taken lifetimes to sculpt this face. What did it mean to the men who laboured to build this place? What did they intend it to mean to us?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a relic, a discarded utensil like a broken spoon or the shards of a smashed cup, the kind of fragments people turn up when they dig deep at the site of an ancient township. You know we are not the first people to walk this land, neh? I once lodged at the estate of a lord who made a study of detritus unearthed from his fields each time an ox ploughed a furrow. He believed an older race once called this place home.’
‘That’s blasphemy. What about the gods? What about Amaterasu and the birth of the eight islands?’
‘I’m too sick to censor my speech. I can only repeat what that learned man told me. This temple isn’t the handiwork of folk like you or me. It is the remains of another culture, another people. It wasn’t built for us. We can’t hope to guess what alien eyes felt when they gazed on that smile.’
‘You think the sculpture is smiling?’
‘Don’t you?’ asked the Monk.
‘It struck me as a frown, the likeness of a severe man. The sculpture seems to judge whoever stands before it.’
‘I see a smile. I see compassion.’
‘No wonder the mystery of this pace has drawn people over the years. They can come and meet themselves. They will encounter whatever they hold in their heart.’
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