Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  Tengu crept across the moonlit quadrangle to the tavern porch. She gently untied the string holding the bamboo door closed and inwardly prepared an excuse in case she was caught inside.

  Why are you creeping round the house at this time of night?

  I was hungry. I came inside for some food and got disorientated in the dark. So sorry.

  She hooded her head, pulled back the screen and entered the kitchen. She brushed her hands along the wall as she crossed the lightless room, skirting the pit fire and rice sacks, navigating by memory. She found the doorway and stepped into the corridor. She walked through the darkness at glacial speed, testing each board before she put her full weight down. She held out her arms and let her fingers stroke the corridor walls. She counted the batons which framed each paper screen until she reached the sliding door of Chikaaki’s room. She slid back the door with imperceptible slowness. It took a long while for the door to edge aside on its runner enough to let her through, and another age for it to slide back in position. She stood in the absolute darkness in the corner of the room and slowly lowered herself to a crouch, slow as the shaft of moonlight inching across the boards. She could see, in the starlight, Chikaaki and his wife lying on his bedroll. He had rolled on one side to face the wall. She carefully slid across the floor to the central floorboard and began to prise it up with her nails. She slowly lifted the board, tensed for the slightest creak. If she were caught in such a compromising situation there would be no hope of talking her way out of it. The best she could do was run.

  She looked across the room at Chikaaki. His chest rose and fell slowly and steadily, but she saw movement near his feet. The tavern cat, the pale, ragged-eared rodent killer that haunted the nearby undergrowth during the daylight hours in search of prey, was curled at the foot of his mat and had raised his head. His eyes were two bright coins of moonlight. Tengu blinked slowly to project feline contentment and lack of threat. The cat accepted the gesture and lowered its head once more.

  She reached beneath the board and felt around. She didn’t know what she would do with the iron sword once it was in her possession. She had, until the events of the previous day, considered herself a follower of the Way, and regarded the desire for wealth and comfort with contempt. Perhaps, of all the swordsmen she had encountered during the tournament, she felt the deepest kinship with the Thief. She simply wanted to thwart the schemes of the rich and powerful.

  The sword was gone. If it had ever been hidden in the void beneath the board, it had since been removed to another location.

  She sighed, rested her forehead on the floor a while and waited for her anger and frustration to pass. She replaced the board and slowly withdrew from the room, insinuating her way through the short corridor and kitchen like deep shadow.

  * * *

  When NoName woke he found himself alone in the hut. He stepped outside and combed his hair. The General’s praetorian guard were loading supplies onto a cart, ready to pull out.

  ‘Did any of you see the girl leave?’

  One of the soldiers gave a perfunctory nod of the head towards the woods.

  ‘How long since she left?’ he asked. The samurai ignored him.

  NoName stared into the tree line and wondered what would become of the girl. She might find a husband, join a convent, or find her way to the city and entertain men until her hair turned grey and beauty deserted her. He wished he knew what path her life would take.

  * * *

  Chikaaki and Kotau were woken by soldiers and summoned to the General’s presence. They entered the pavilion and were guided to his chamber. The General knelt at a table and ate an extravagant morning meal of noodles, a calculated gesture of contempt.

  Kotau looked at the food spread before the General. Noodles, pickles, meat and rice laid out in a semicircle of Iga-ware bowls. He drew each bowl towards him, took a few mouthfuls them pushed them away. Kotau could smell the fish, the sauces and the sharp vinegar of the pickles. He salivated.

  ‘You did well,’ said Yukio. ‘The tournament was a fine amusement.’

  ‘Thank you, General-domo,’ said Chikaaki, bowing until his forehead touched the mat. ‘Thank you so much for honouring us with your presence. It has been an indescribable blessing.’ He sat up and beckoned to Kotau. Kotau shuffled forward in a respectful stoop, placed the box containing the iron sword on the General’s table then retreated to Chikaaki’s side.

  ‘Please accept this inadequate gift as a token of our gratitude. Legend states this sword belonged to a mighty barbarian warrior. It is a humble weapon. It isn’t decorated with brass or silk braid. It wasn’t tempered from the iron of a falling star like the fabled blades of old. Yet this sword was drawn to protect the innocent, to strike down evil, and although it has been bent and chipped in the violence of battle it remains a symbol of honour and courage.’

  The General put down his nashi and leaned back from the table as if he wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the box.

  ‘Leave me,’ he commanded. Chikaaki and Kotau scrambled to their feet and began to back out of the chamber. ‘No. The boy stays.’

  Chikaaki left. The General beckoned Kotau to kneel opposite him at the table.

  ‘A barbarian warrior?’ said Yukio. ‘A cursed sword that brings death to anyone that lays a hand upon it? No true warrior would be seduced by such a childish fantasy. And no educated man would be convinced by such superstition.’

  ‘Some folk like to gamble with death. Tell them a weapon is cursed and they will fight over it, offer any price. Rich people are strange.’

  ‘I take it you arranged this tournament,’ said the General. ‘Your father certainly seems wholly out of his depth.’

  ‘Yes, General-domo.’

  ‘Thank you for your gift but, as you can see by the regiment mustered on this hillside, I have enough swords.’ The General used his nashi to push the box back across the table to Kotau. ‘Perhaps we can find a more appreciative recipient for this prize. In the meantime, we need to discuss your position as lord of this wretched valley. The tournament was an exemplary overture. The Shōgun wishes to station a garrison here and will enrich any local chieftain who will welcome the arrival of his troops and ensure the acquiescence of the local population. However you have a problem of legitimacy.’

  ‘The peasants are simple folk. They understand the ring. They will obey without question whoever wears it around their neck.’

  ‘I don’t care about the peasants. They are easy enough to pacify. If you wish to cement your position as lord pick one of the menfolk at random, blame him for some imagined infraction, then have him disembowelled in front of the village. No, your true problem lies in Kyoto. The Shōgun cannot be seen to associate, however distantly, with a man of your lowly origin.’

  ‘Can I ask, General-dono how I may overcome this difficulty?’

  ‘If I were you, I would acquire a new origin.’

  * * *

  NoName sat in his hut and drank more wine.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a gruff voice from outside.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘General Yukio commands your presence.’

  NoName composed himself and pulled back the door curtain. A soldier waited outside.

  ‘You will hand me your weapon and come with me now.’

  ‘Nobody takes my sword.’

  ‘The General wishes to greet the winner of the tournament and acknowledge his victory. You will enter his presence unarmed. Hand your katana to me.’

  ‘A true swordsman won’t relinquish his blade. Not while his body draws breath. The General knows that well enough.’

  * * *

  NoName waited outside the General’s pavilion while the soldiers conferred. Tookage emerged from the tent and beckoned him inside. He was ushered through an antechamber and into the General’s presence. Twelve sentries stood in a row with their swords drawn. The General sat on a stool at the far side of the chamber, visible through a hand-span gap between the s
houlders of his bodyguards.

  ‘You did well, these past few days,’ said the General. ‘An exemplary display of fearless swordcraft. If I had five hundred men who could match your bravery and skill I could unite the country in the Shōgun’s name in a matter of days. Even a hundred men with your ferocity would be enough to seize a city. I’m curious. Tell me, what is the secret? What is the essence, the attribute that you possess and they lack?’

  ‘My master told me that, to be a true sword master, one must renounce this world. One must scorn ambition, or course. A love of power, titles, the accumulation of money and land. But one must go further. One must renounce the moment, the very act of seeing and hearing and thinking. A true swordsman is already dead.’

  ‘You have achieved this state?’

  ‘It is an ideal I have yet to reach, General-domo. I’m not sure anyone truly has.’

  ‘Would there be any point offering you a position in my service? You could do great things in the employ of the Shōgun. And I’m sure he would show his gratitude.’

  ‘I mean no disrespect, but I’ve walked a solitary road. I would be a poor servant.’

  ‘Then will you accept a symbolic prize, a token of my esteem? The lord in these parts has presented me with the iron sword. You are familiar with the story of this ancient weapon?’

  ‘Yes, General-domo.’

  ‘Will you accept this gift?’

  ‘I would not insult the General by rejecting this undeserved kindness,’ said NoName with a deep bow of gratitude. Both men understood the presentation of the iron sword allowed NoName to accept material payment without loss of face.

  ‘My man will speak to the local chief and command him to give you the weapon.’

  ‘Excellency, it is my duty to inform you there is a stranger in the valley, a spy, an enemy of the Shōgun. He masquerades as a holy man. He approached several of the swordsmen that took part in this tournament and implied they would win the favour of the Emperor if they were to use their skill to take your life.’

  Yukio leaned forward, keenly interest.

  ‘Why am I only hearing of this now?’

  ‘It has just come to my attention, Excellency.’

  ‘Where can this Holy Man be found?’

  ‘In the village, noble sir.’

  * * *

  Soldiers stormed the tea house. The tea master backed against the wall, crouched and covered his head in fear. The soldiers parted to allow Tookage to approach the man.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said, crouching beside the tea master. ‘You there. Look at me,’ he insisted. The tea master looked up. ‘You’ve seen a stream of strangers pass through here. Swordsmen. Folk from surrounding villages. But who else? There must have been someone, some strange face passing through, someone conspicuous.’

  ‘No one, Lordship.’

  There must have been someone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think again. Think hard before you answer.’

  The tea master thought hard.

  ‘There was a man, a holy man, a travelling priest.’

  ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘Seven days ago. But he was just a priest.’

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘The hill above the graveyard.’

  The soldiers ran in single file up the graveyard path. Tookage drew his sword and hacked branches and brush aside. They reached the small clearing where the old man’s conical shelter had been built.

  ‘Out!’ yelled one of the soldiers, standing in front of the darkened mouth of the shelter. ‘Come out, now.’

  Tookage kicked the shelter. The branches toppled to one side revealing the brushed earth of the shack floor. The old man had gone, and left a single chrysanthemum on the hard dirt that had been his bed.

  * * *

  General Yukio stood in his tented enclosure and examined the map. He could hear the clamour of the battalion striking camp, soldiers packing supplies into panniers and carts.

  ‘Onwards to Nanto,’ he said to himself.

  ‘We sent riders down the road in the hope they could overtake the Holy Man,’ said Tookage, ‘but we found no sign of him.’

  ‘We will see him again, no doubt,’ sighed the General. ‘He will show up in Nanto, maybe in the guise of a holy man, maybe in some other form.’

  Yukio left his tented compound while the stakes were uprooted and the canvas walls of the pavilion were rolled and stowed. Four hundred troops gradually mustered on the road. The surrounding underbrush had been trampled flat and barren. The men gradually assembled into columns, four abreast, ready to move out. Sunlight gleamed from their shouldered naginatas. Drummers and bannermen took the vanguard. Yukio’s pennant fluttered in the morning breeze.

  The General took a deep breath of morning air.

  ‘I love it,’ he said to himself, admiring the martial spectacle. ‘I love it all.’ He turned to Tookage. ‘Fetch my horse. Prepare to move out.’

  * * *

  A peasant caught up with the Holy Man as he trudged up the hill out of the valley.

  ‘My master wishes your blessing,’ said the peasant. ‘He requests your presence at the Makoto estate so he may have the honour of your blessing.’

  ‘I take it you mean the ruffian who has seized the tea plantation?’ asked the Holy Man. The peasant hesitated, wanting to say Yes, but anxious not to endorse the description of his master as a ruffian. ‘I’ve watched your new master. I’ve stood in the trees and watched his blood-thirst during the tournament. I know what kind of man he is and what he may become. There will be no peace in this province while his ambition grows unchecked. The man will get no blessing from me, and no blessing from the Great Sun that rules this land.’

  * * *

  Kotau stood by the roadside and watched the soldiers march north. He masked his face with his sleeve as he was enveloped in dust. When the regiment had turned the bend and marched out of sight he listened to the diminishing beat of the drums and the tramp of feet, then returned to the shrine and relished the stillness. The village folk had long since returned to their homes. Only two men remained, peasants paid to clear the last vestiges of the tournament now that Kotau would no longer submit to the indignity of manual labour.

  ‘What shall we do with the heads, my lord?’ asked one of the peasants. ‘Shall we bury them with their bodies?’

  ‘No. Bring them to me.’ The peasants wrenched each head from its spike and dropped it in a sack. They laid the sack at Kotau’s feet. ‘Thank you. That will be all. You may go.’

  The peasants headed for the road with a series of furtive backward glances to see what Kotau intended to do with the sack. He waited until the men were well out of sight before taking the heads into the tavern and stowing them in his room for safekeeping.

  He paced the courtyard while his mother cooked up the last of the noodles they had bought to feed the tournament contestants. Bloody spikes still ringed the empty fight space. Colour flags still fluttered in the breeze. His father sat on the back step of the tavern.

  ‘You look tired, Father,’ he said. ‘You look like you’ve spent long days on the road.’

  ‘I’ve never felt so exhausted,’ said Chikaaki.

  ‘Well, now you can rest. Your journey is over. Think of it. Seven days ago we were worthless peasants and now our fortunes are transformed. We are nobility. Our descendents will ride through the streets of Kyoto in ornate palanquins, servants parting the crowd as they process to the Imperial Palace to be received by the Emperor.’

  ‘I’ve never wanted titles or riches. I’ve always been happy here, by the river.’

  ‘You must think of your legacy, Father. You must think of your family. We cannot simply please ourselves. We have a duty to the unborn.’

  ‘I’m just glad it’s over.’

  Acha laid out bowls of noodles. They knelt at the table and ate. Kotau continued to look around at the tavern and the adjacent ruins.

  ‘It’s odd,’ he said. ‘Live in a place long enough
and it becomes so familiar you take it for granted. But when the moment comes to leave, the place seems new and strange as if you are seeing it for the first time.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The manor, of course,’ said Kotau. ‘You are the local lord, Father. You can’t live here. This place is beneath you. They are waiting for us all at Makoto’s house. His servants are now our servants, and have prepared your room. They will have laid out a feathered mat for you and mother. It will be soft, like sleeping on a cloud. And you will spend your days dressed in silk. You won’t have to endure rough hessian against your skin ever again. You will never be cold. You will never be hungry. From this day forward you will live in luxury. Think of it, Father. All hardship is at an end.’

  Kotau ducked inside the tavern and returned with some saké.

  ‘This is the last bottle,’ he said. ‘I’ve been saving it.’ He broke the wax seal, poured the wine into a kettle and set it to warm over the fire. ‘I’ve watched my whole life as you and Mother have pandered to the wishes of travellers. Time you enjoyed these luxuries yourselves.’ He unhooked the kettle and poured three bowls. ‘Go on. Drink.’

  Chikaaki took an appreciative sip. Acha drank and grimaced in disgust. Kotau laughed at her expression.

  ‘This is what every traveller wants when evening comes, Mother. This magic liquid.’

  Acha took another sip.

  ‘I can’t see the appeal,’ she said.

  ‘Well, don’t worry. Most ladies drink tea. When you entertain at the manor, when high-born families come calling, we shall serve them the finest tea. It’s bitter stuff, but I’m sure you’ll grow used to the taste.’

  ‘I don’t want to live in the manor,’ said Chikaaki. He finished his drink and Kotau refilled his cup. ‘I want to stay here. My father is buried in these woods. So is my grandfather. This is where we belong. This will always be our home.’ He drained his cup, got to his feet and swayed. He crossed the courtyard and pissed in the bushes.