Spirit of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  Since yabusame training had begun three months ago, Ken’ishi had practiced from the back of a wooden horse as it rotated in place. Endless repetitions of rising from the saddle in a half-crouch, balancing on taut thighs, clutching the horse’s sides with his feet in the stirrups, releasing the reins to draw an arrow from where it was tucked into the back of his obi, nocking the arrow as the wooden horse rotated, all unhurried, raising the bow with the arrow, drawing the bow as he pulled it down and rotated his whole body toward the stationary target, releasing the arrow into the target at the precise moment the target passed his arrow point—and missing more often than not. It was all carefully timed—the rotation, the nock, the draw, the release. All was One. All was Void. And then he would nock and draw another arrow, and the target would come around again, and he would fire again.

  Today was his first try at horse archery from horseback.

  Ken’ishi had fired thousands of arrows from the back of that wooden horse, as his comrades pushed the yoke that rotated the horse, until he could perform the movements in his sleep. In truth, perfect arrow shots filled his dreams, like that of Nasu no Yoichi.

  A century before, the Taira clan, in their flight from the Minamoto clan in the Great War, were caught at the edge of the sea, but managed to escape with the Emperor Antoku aboard a great many ships. The Taira clan placed a fan atop the mast of their tallest ship and taunted the Minamoto to shoot it. Nasu no Yoichi rode his horse into the sea as the ships were moving out of range and fired a single arrow straight through the center of the fan. The Minamoto had taken it as a good omen. A month later, the Minamoto overtook Antoku and most of the Taira clan at Dan-no-Ura and slaughtered them.

  As Ken’ishi’s skill with a bow had put him ahead of most of the men, he was among the first allowed a live run with a real horse. If he succeeded, his reputation and status would grow. If he failed, the shame would be too much to bear, and threaten his standing in Lord Tsunetomo’s forces. In five short months, he had gone from a unit leader to sergeant in charge of Barrack Six, replacing Hiromasa, who was promoted and placed in charge of the west quarter, consisting of Barracks Four, Five, and Six.

  The first cedar-wood target pounded nearer. Storm charged down the run between the rope fences.

  Ken’ishi raised himself in the saddle, released the reins, reached for an arrow, passed it around under his right arm, placed it in the bow, raised the bow, lowered it with the draw, and fired at the target four paces to his left. The thud of the arrow into the straw backstop told him he had missed.

  Another target, eighty paces ahead. Another arrow. Maintain his place in the Void. Another draw. Another release.

  Another thud.

  The final target rushed nearer. A deep breath. A settling into the quiet. The thunder of Storm’s hooves faded. The eyes of his teachers and superiors disappeared. Just as the infinite moments to be found in the Void, the target came, and he had plenty of time to help the arrow to its target. Nock, raise, draw, release.

  This time, the sound was not a thud, but the satisfying crack of the turnip-shaped arrowhead snapping the cedar-wood target into three pieces.

  With immense satisfaction and a tingling calm, Ken’ishi took up the reins again and drew Storm to a halt. He caught himself grinning with joy as he reined his mount and rode back toward the middle of the run, where a dais had been erected, upon which sat Captains Tsunemori and Yoshimura, along with Captain Ishii no Soun and his two assistants, the horse archery instructors.

  “Well done, Sergeant Ken’ishi,” Tsunemori said. “Few manage to hit a target on their first attempt upon a real horse.”

  Ken’ishi bowed. “Thank you, Lord.”

  Captain Soun said, “Wait here and watch the next attempts.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Ken’ishi said.

  Storm snorted and tossed his head. His mottled coat was a beautiful pale gray, with dark gray mane and tail. On the day the stallions had been chosen, Ken’ishi had awaited his turn with growing nervousness, certain that someone else would choose the stallion before he had his chance. But when his turn came, he did not hesitate to name this horse as his reward. In the months since, they had gotten to know each other well.

  Ken’ishi leaned over to Storm’s ear and whispered, “If you stop fussing, I’ll see to it you get extra brushing later.”

  “Bah!” the horse snorted. “All this standing around chafes me! I want to run!”

  “Behave for now,” Ken’ishi said. “We shall run again soon enough.”

  Ken’ishi’s comrades had mostly grown accustomed to his way with animals, the way he appeared to speak to them with mutual understanding, but this still resulted in puzzled looks.

  Nine more riders from Ken’ishi’s training group made their runs. Seven of them failed to hit the target at all. Of the other two, one hit a single target, the other hit two.

  Page boys replaced the broken targets, and the riders went through their runs again. So it went throughout that morning.

  In the rice fields surrounding the town, the paddies had been flooded and the seedlings planted. The patches of still water caught the sunlight like mirrors, stippled with perfect rows of spindly rice stalks. Peasants worked irrigation machines that carried water up the mountain slopes to terraced fields. The land bloomed again, lush and vibrant with a hundred shades of green. Perhaps a ri distant, the castle’s white walls caught the sun like chalk, a thing of beauty and power.

  As men and horses rested with the midday meal, a rider came hurtling down from town and met the officers within their cloth compound. Immediately after, Tsunemori and Yoshimura departed with the messenger, leaving Ken’ishi and the others to continue their training.

  By the end of the day, the saddle had turned Ken’ishi’s backside into a mass of tender sores, and his legs felt like overcooked ramen.

  That evening, Lord Tsunetomo called a meeting of all senior and junior-ranked officers in the castle’s hall.

  Lord Tsunetomo, Captain Tsunemori, and Yasutoki sat at the head of the room in solemn array.

  “We received word today,” Lord Tsunetomo said, “that a ship has arrived in port in Murotsu, in Nagato province. The ship bears emissaries from barbarian emperor of China, Khubilai Khan.”

  Rustles of reaction rippled around the room.

  “It has been six months since the invasion. We do not know what missive they bring from their Khan, but they have demanded to speak to the ‘king’ of our ‘small country.’” He spat derision into the last two words. “The emissaries are to be escorted to Kamakura, where the Shogun will hear their message and decide what to do with them. I daresay they will not be welcomed.”

  Yasutoki cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Begging my lord’s pardon, may I offer a humble suggestion?”

  “Please do, Lord Yasutoki,” Tsunetomo said.

  “I should like to offer myself to be your eyes and ears in Kamakura. I would accompany these emissaries and report directly back to you. After all, if you are expected to spearhead the defense efforts, would it not be most useful to receive...unfiltered information?”

  Tsunetomo stroked the point of his beard.

  Ken’ishi kept his gaze squarely on the back of the man before him. At the sound of Yasutoki’s voice, knowledge and hatred roiled in Ken’ishi’s guts like molten slag.

  Tsunemori’s face was tight with distaste. His contempt for Yasutoki was written in broad brush strokes. Did he know Yasutoki’s secret? Was he also held to inaction by some dark secret? Did Tsunetomo know? Did he somehow condone the actions of Green Tiger?

  Tsunetomo nodded. “A fine idea, Lord Yasutoki. You will depart for Kamakura as soon as preparations are made. Meanwhile, we have also received orders that the Hakata fortifications are to begin within the month. Engineers are en route from the capital. The construction efforts are being coordinated through the office of the Western Defense Commissioner in Dazaifu. Lord Yasutoki, your skills will be missed in this effort, but it is more important that we know wha
t is happening first-hand in Kamakura.”

  * * *

  That night, Ken’ishi had drawn guard duty, so he stood at the front gate, clad in armor and holding a spear, listening to the songs of the night creatures around him. The sakura in the orchard had shed their exquisite blossoms about ten days prior, and their profusions of new dark leaves now lay bathed in silent moonlight. In the land below, flooded rice fields glowed like sheets of silver, stitched together in a patchwork by the levies and paths among them.

  It was the Hour of the Rat, midnight. The man beside him was from Barrack Three, a taciturn fellow, which suited Ken’ishi’s temperament just fine. Michizane and Ishitaka both chided Ken’ishi occasionally for his lack of social graces, but he doubted he would ever be comfortable talking for its own sake. He liked silence, and he liked listening to the sounds of night creatures, and he liked that he alone among human beings could catch snatches of understanding. The world was full of life, all of it communicating in a myriad of worlds matching the size of the creatures speaking.

  Footsteps from behind him caught his attention. A figure in a basket hat turned his muscles into taut ropes. The last time he had seen a basket hat was on Green Tiger’s head.

  He barred the way with his spear, and the other guard followed suit. “Who goes there?”

  The figure stopped. “Oh, it’s you, Ken’ishi. I am Ishitaka.”

  Ken’ishi and the guard stepped aside. Ishitaka’s rank was such they could not challenge his purpose for leaving the castle at such an hour, although they would note on the morning report who came and went. Ken’ishi, however, knew Ishitaka’s purpose.

  “Sergeant Ken’ishi, may I have a word with you?” Ishitaka said.

  “Of course, Lord,” Ken’ishi said.

  The two of them moved down the hill away from the gate.

  Ken’ishi said, “So your parents still forbid it?”

  Ishitaka sighed within the basket hat. “To them she will never be anything but a simple tavern wench. But to me, she is the sun, the moon, and the stars!”

  Ken’ishi pitied his friend. “I know what it is to love a woman I could not have. But I must caution you. If you think she will ever be more than a lover, you must be prepared for a great deal of trouble. Unless Lady Kazuko is blessed with a son, you are the only male heir of this bloodline. There is talk that Lord Tsunetomo will have to adopt you, or else pass everything to your father. Your marrying a peasant girl would have grave repercussions for the entire clan.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Ishitaka snapped, then eased his bitterness. “I am sorry, my friend. Half of my time is filled with thoughts like this, and the other half is spent yearning to return to her arms. I fear I will be torn in two!”

  Ken’ishi clasped his shoulder. He knew that feeling too well. “And how does she feel?”

  “She is so guarded, but she says she cares for me. When I spill my heart for her like a love-sopped courtier, she just goes quiet, and I would swear I see sadness there.”

  “Perhaps she sees the possible outcomes if this continues. You might forsake her, and she might be left with a bastard child that you will not claim. Or you will cleave to her, destroy your life, and throw your family into upheaval.”

  “I know! And every time I think about it... A few weeks ago, I suggested that it would be too painful to continue, that we should end it. She panicked and convinced me to relent. This tells me her love for me is true.”

  “And what of her father?”

  “I have never seen him. She will meet me only on nights when he is gone. But now, I have secured a quiet house in the District Six where we meet.”

  “District Six. That is near the sword polisher’s shop, near the outskirts, yes?”

  “Sword polisher? There is no sword polisher in District Six.”

  “Yes, there is. I met him, just before New Year. He did first-rate work. Very knowledgeable.”

  Through the grill in the face of the basket hat, Ken’ishi saw Ishitaka’s eyes narrow. “In my whole life there has never been a sword polisher in District Six. What is his name?”

  “Tametsugu.”

  “I know of him, but you must be mistaken.”

  “Why?”

  “Tametsugu was a sword polisher of great renown, a treasure of the Otomo clan, as my father said of him. He died when I was a baby.”

  The hairs on the nape of Ken’ishi’s neck stood up.

  “I can see that you were quite sure of the name,” Ishitaka said. “It seems that you are the center of many strange occurrences.” The young man chuckled, but with a touch of uncertainty. “But fear not. Your heart is brave and good. The kami will protect you. And now I must go. Good night, my friend.”

  Ah, bold nightingale

  Even before his lordship

  You won’t mend your song

  —Issa

  Hatsumi sat upon the stream bank, smoothing her robes. The warm sun felt so good as she let it seep into her bones.

  The hem of her robes had grown ragged. She would have to see about finding a seamstress to fix it when Kazuko allowed Hatsumi back into the castle. And her clothes needed a good laundering, but she seemed to have so little time for such things. All of her hours seemed to be spent searching for things to eat. The peasants would not share their rice with her, not even millet. The selfish fools seemed to be afraid of her, but she could not fathom why. When she used the same tone on the peasants that she used on the castle servants, they fled rather than obeyed. This angered her. Selfish, ignorant, low-born pigs, all of them.

  She opened the sack she had made from the skin of a filthy stray dog foolish enough to expect her to pet it, and rummaged through her remaining food. She had gnawed the monkey skull clean and there was no succulent marrow in a skull, so she tossed it into the river. Monkeys were tasty, but difficult to catch. Nevertheless, she did manage one occasionally. The squirrel had been in her sack too long, so she tossed it aside as well. That left a few bones, the origin of which she could not remember. With a sigh, she pulled one out, crunched the end off, and sucked at the delectable marrow.

  Someday, when Kazuko forgave her and let her back into the castle, she would be able to have proper food again. She would eat monkeys only on special occasions. Kazuko would love fresh monkey meat. They squealed so delightfully when one starting biting parts off. But they sometimes scratched at one’s eyes, so it was best to start with their little, human-like fingers. The finger bones were small enough to be easily chewable.

  Bits of dry pine needles clung to her robe, and she fussed until it was all brushed clean. It was time to replenish her bed with fresh, soft grass. There was a nice patch on the opposite bank, so she slung the sack over her shoulder, crossed the stream, and began to tear out swaths of grass, ignoring clumps of earthy roots still attached to some handfuls. With a nice, big armful, she climbed up the slope to her cave, crawled inside, kicked a few bones and scraps of hair and desiccated skin from the mound where she rested, and freshened her bed.

  With a sigh of satisfaction at her handiwork, she considered taking a lovely nap upon it.

  Until a scent wafted through the narrow jag of cave entrance.

  The scent seemed to take her by the nose, turn her around, and draw her outside. The scent of fresh food on the foot. She peered out and down the forested slope.

  With a gust of relief, a woodsman eased his rack full of chopped wood from his back onto the stream bank and sat down upon a stone. His limbs were wiry and tough—probably with more gristle than she liked—but her protuberant belly, hanging between her squatting thighs, rumbled with hunger nevertheless. Gray streaked his hair, but he was not yet an old man. And he carried a hatchet.

  Then she shook her head. If she kept eating people, Kazuko would never let her back into the castle. She would be nice to this one. But she must not give away her hiding place. No men had come to kill her lately—she had eluded them, thankfully—but revealing her cave seemed like a bad thing. So she crept out, circled ar
ound him while he dangled his feet in the stream. As he rested, munching a rice ball, she approached him from the foliage of the opposite bank.

  “Hello?” she called in her sweetest, most plaintive voice. “Is someone there?”

  He jumped to his feet, splashing water everywhere. “Who’s there?”

  “Oh, no one,” she said. “Can you help me? I’m so lost.”

  He peered into the foliage toward the sound of her voice. “Where are you?”

  “I’m behind this bush, but I’m so dirty from being lost in the woods, I cannot bear anyone to see me.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Hita town.”

  “Oh, well, that’s easy. It’s about ten ri that way.” He pointed down the slope. “How are you so far from home?”

  “I traveled to visit my mother in Dazaifu. She is very ill.”

  “But Dazaifu is that way.” He pointed in a different direction.

  “I told you, I am lost.”

  “You must be very lost. Here now, I’m sure it’s all right if you come out. I won’t hurt you. If your clothes are bit dirty, that’s nothing I ain’t seen before. My neighbor’s wife is a terrible housekeeper, does laundry maybe once a month. I always tell him—”

  “You promise you will take me to the road?”

  “I’ll show you to the road and send you on your way.”

  “Very well.”

  She stepped out of the bushes.

  Across the stream, his mouth fell open. He snatched up his hatchet and fled, leaving his rack of wood where it lay.

  “Where are you going?” she said. “You promised!”

  He scrambled up the bank, flinging great clumps of earth and fallen leaves and frenzied gasps behind him. He sounded like a small forest creature.

  She leaped across the stream and landed beside him.

  “You promised!” she screamed.

  He swung his hatchet at her face, but it was a terrible swing, and she dodged easily.

  Incoherent protests came out of him, and he swung the hatchet over and over, missing every time.