“And now it has chosen you, Monkey Boy.”
Anger rose in him again. “Call me that again, and I shall say pick up your sword and let us finish it. Ken’ishi is the name I have made, Sensei.”
Kaa sniffed. “You should not be so hasty.”
“I...remember the day they died, the day you saved my life.”
“A day I have often rued.”
“Nevertheless, I know there is honor within you. I defeated you in a fair duel.”
“Even the gods can stumble. Even a tengu might suffer ill fortune.”
In a flare of frustration, Ken’ishi leaped forward and slashed.
Kaa’s eyes bulged with surprise. An instant later, he was a palm-sized sparrow dodging the wind of Ken’ishi’s passing stroke. “Not very sporting!” came a tiny voice.
“I’m through playing games, Sensei. I will always honor you as my former teacher, but I’m not afraid of you, not anymore. Why not just tell me?”
“I swore to protect you. What a foolish day that was. The men who killed your parents might well come after you if they knew you were alive.”
“Why?”
“Because of what you represent.”
“Why?”
The sparrow became a hawk that lit on the thatched eave of Ken’ishi’s house. “Your father’s name was Morihisa. He was a swordmaster of the Taira clan, chief instructor at the clan’s only remaining school. He was born fifty years after the war that destroyed the Taira and brought the Minamoto to ascendancy. He could have been one of history’s greatest swordsmen, except he had been born into a clan that was suppressed. Only those Taira who swore fealty to Yoritomo escaped execution—or so the Minamoto thought. A significant portion of the Taira went into hiding, folded themselves quietly into other houses, or gathered in the wilds of Koga province. They hated the Taira who acceded to the enemy, the ‘betrayers.’ And your father was among the worst of these ‘betrayers,’ because the woman he married was a Minamoto. Her name was Hikari. They escaped an attempt on their lives in the capital, which was a testament to his prowess. He slew fifteen men, then fled with his wife into the wilderness. Eventually, these shadow-Taira found him and came for him again. When and how he acquired Silver Crane, I do not know.” The hawk preened his feathers. “Now, is knowing all of that everything you wished it would be?”
Ken’ishi’s parents’ names swam through his imagination, through the smoke-filled memories of his three-year-old mind. Thoughts of who they were, who they might have been had they been allowed to live, how his own life would have been different, dizzied him.
He had built a name from his exploits, but he had a family now. A lineage. His parents’ names gave them flesh in his mind, gave them breath and life. His pedigree sprang from two of the greatest bloodlines in history.
His blood joined those lines.
To the men who had murdered his parents, he was a symbol of their defeat, their failure, their surrender to the enemy. To these shadow-Taira, Ken’ishi would forever be the enemy, marked for death.
He knew of only one fellow Taira.
Was Yasutoki one of these shadow-Taira who murdered Ken’ishi’s parents? Could Yasutoki have participated? He was old enough.
Ken’ishi bowed to the hawk. “Thank you, Sensei.”
“You have your name now,” Kaa said. “The question is, what will you do with it?”
With that, the hawk leaped into the air, shat upon Ken’ishi’s roof, and winged away, dwindling to a dark speck against the wild tapestry of stars.
“One may explain water, but the mouth will not become wet. One may expound fully on the nature of fire, but the mouth will not become hot.”
—Takuan Soho, “The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom”
Ken’ishi awoke with a start in the early dawn and jumped out of bed, his heart hammering. He felt his left shoulder and found no wound there, no pain. Either Kaa had healed him, or their encounter had taken place in the Land of Dreams and his wound there had not translated into the mortal realm. Nevertheless, the reality of the encounter could not be in question.
He took up Silver Crane and sat upon the veranda overlooking his garden, sword across his thighs, listening to the silence of the frogs, to the trickle of dew on the leaves.
He turned his parents’ names over and over in his mind, like a child with a new treasure. Hikari. Morihisa. And, like a boy, he tucked his treasures away and cherished them.
All this time, all these years, and the truth now lay before him. What should he do with it? His fondest wish, the wish he had clung to through childhood, through endless days and nights walking the earth as a ronin when his only friend had been a dog, the wish that had sustained him in the darkest recesses of Green Tiger’s prison, had been granted. He would never know his parents, but he knew their names. They had been a symbol of hope to build amity between clans steeped in mutual loathing. Ken’ishi was the living, breathing embodiment of that hope. But no one knew or cared who he was. The war and slaughter were a century past. The Taira clan lay in bloody shreds of its former glory, all but forgotten, scattered across islands and provinces, under the watchful eye of its former enemies.
Tatters of cloud turned red, then orange. Today would be a good day to travel to Dazaifu. Ken’ishi was to be among the twenty retainers accompanying Tsunetomo to the Lords’ Council. Each lord was to be allowed only twenty retainers and their servants, to prevent any unwelcome displays of force. Ken’ishi’s rank had placed him within the circle of Tsunetomo’s highest-ranked retainers. Some of the captains were remaining behind to continue troop training and readiness, but Tsunetomo wanted “the best swordsman in the province” with him in Dazaifu.
After the events of last night, Ken’ishi knew his reputation might exceed his prowess. He needed to find another swordmaster under whom to train. Tengu were renowned for their swordsmanship, but Ken’ishi still felt terrible unease that his skills had been stagnating for far too long. What would happen when another ambitious warrior, a real one, challenged the famous Oni-Slayer to a duel? Lacking a teacher, he had grown lax in his martial studies.
When they returned from Dazaifu, perhaps he would discuss bringing in a swordmaster, similar to Yamazaki-sensei, with Captain Tsunemori.
At the Hour of the Rabbit, Lord Tsunetomo and his retinue gathered in a dual column at the gates of the castle. Servants brought forth the horses. The Otomo banner, two blue apricot blossoms facing each other on a white field, rippled in the morning breeze. Hiromasa, now a lieutenant, lofted the banner, his face as taciturn as ever, but with a fresh pridefulness in his shoulders at the honor of bearing Lord Tsunetomo’s standard.
Ken’ishi’s squire, Shunsuke, a samurai of modest lineage just a year younger than him, had risen early to prepare Storm and bring him to the gates.
The retinue assembled quickly, as none wanted to be the last one ready to depart. Lord Tsunetomo took his place astride a great black stallion at the head of the column, Tsunemori beside him. With the blast of a conch shell, the assemblage set forth. The servants brought up the train in the rear, hauling several carts.
Riding through town toward Dazaifu, Ken’ishi recalled his journey with the curmudgeonly old peddler, Shirohige, on this very road the previous year. So distant, it seemed like a previous existence. The sheer weight of experience laid upon his soul since that day made that younger man, for all his trials and experiences, seem like a poor, naïve fool. Watching peasants clear the way and line up beside the road, prostrating themselves, gave Ken’ishi a stark sense of wonder at how far he had risen.
How far, then, could he fall?
* * *
Dazaifu had changed since Ken’ishi’s previous visit. Gone were the profusion of tents and pallets filled with wounded, dying men. Absent were the smells of smoke and blood and fear; in their place now was an officious bustle. The outskirts of the town hosted the encampments of the various lords, as there was no other space in Dazaifu to accommodate them. Looming above it all, the fort
ress atop Mount Ono stood like a massive sentinel. Built into the mountain to make use of its natural defenses, the six-hundred-year-old fortress’ high, thick walls and central keep formed a terraced monolith representing the power of the history and tradition.
Government functionaries in stiff, black caps and starched robes, their arms full of scrolls, hurried up and down the streets. Grim-faced warriors in unfamiliar colors squinted at them as they passed, watchful. Even a ravening enemy just a few score ri across the sea did not diminish decades or centuries of war and distrust among powerful, ambitious men.
The council was set to begin in earnest the following day. Tonight would be feasting and drinking, renewing old alliances and forging new ones.
Excitement coursed through Ken’ishi at being part of it all. He would remain vigilant, protecting Tsunetomo at all cost, but the unparalleled event seemed to have infected everyone. The feeling in the air was of great things brewing, auspiciousness, and an earnest importance.
By evening, the Otomo encampment had been erected on the outskirts with the others. Three other Otomo lords arrived and gathered with Tsunetomo and Tsunemori for an evening banquet. The saké flowed and the courses of food kept coming. The baggage train had brought plenty for just this purpose, and the stewards had been hard at work preparing it since the tents had been erected.
While the five Otomo lords and their highest ranking retainers banqueted inside Tsunetomo’s pavilion, Tsunetomo’s men mixed with the other Otomo retainers at the campfires outside.
Ken’ishi’s time in Tsunetomo’s employ had made it easier for him to interact with strangers. Saké certainly helped the conversation and laughter flow. Before long, they were all taking turns sharing their exploits.
They watched a fresh arrival pass by on the road, a lord and his retainers in a dual column with a baggage train following behind.
Then, with a flash of anger, Ken’ishi recognized the lord at the head of this column. The man who had cast him out of his province on pain of death. Kazuko’s father. Lord Nishimuta no Jiro. Short and broad, with narrow eyes and a stern countenance, Lord Jiro rode like a block of oak, gaze steadfastly forward.
The kami buzzed with danger, and rightfully so. Lord Jiro could just as easily recognize Ken’ishi. And if he did, what would he say to Lord Tsunetomo? You have a man in your employ who was once a ronin in love with your wife, and she with him. And by the way, he also killed one of my retainers. Such a revelation might not fall on welcome ears. After all, in spite of his meteoric rise, Ken’ishi had been in Tsunetomo’s employ for only half a year.
Should he reveal his prior acquaintance with Kazuko to diffuse any surprise? Perhaps hearing the truth from Ken’ishi, rather than from Tsunetomo’s father-in-law, would soften the reaction. Perhaps Ken’ishi should do all he could to avoid Lord Jiro’s notice. Might then all awkward questions be avoided? But was that the honorable path? Tsunetomo had not shown himself to be a jealous man, but the cost to Kazuko might be too high.
Ken’ishi turned back to the fire, rubbed his chin in thought, and put away his cup. He needed a clearer head.
* * *
The Lords’ Council had commenced the following morning, and Ken’ishi had been given the duty of guarding the exterior of the Great Hall of the government offices. The Western Defense Commissioner, a Kamakura appointee named Hojo no Toshitsune, had insisted that the Lords’ Council take place at his offices as the Kyushu lords fell under his authority, granted by the bakufu. The extent to which this was true had been a matter of speculation while the saké was flowing, but no one dared speak any disloyalty or insubordination openly.
This morning, while standing guard outside, Ken’ishi spotted several warriors bearing the mon of the Taira clan—a butterfly—upon their robes. They kept apart from the warriors of the other clans. As there were only six of them, Ken’ishi wondered if that was the entirety of their retinue.
After his encounter with Kaa, Ken’ishi had asked Yamazaki-sensei for permission to study books from the teacher’s extensive library. In a book on heraldry, he found the mon of the Taira clan and several bits of intriguing history.
The Taira clan had first gained its name about four hundred years before. It was the name given to members of the imperial family who fell just a bit too far from the tree and became subjects. The Taira were a line of former- and almost-emperors, offshoots of the imperial dynasty who believed staunchly in the preservation of imperial authority. Their blood was inextricably woven with the imperial line.
Ken’ishi’s blood was the blood of emperors. This thought had given him pause, and he had chewed on it for hours.
From this line came a man named Kiyomori, whose ambition, exploits, and political acumen raised the Taira clan to the height of power and wealth. Such was Kiyomori’s power that he succeeded in banishing his rivals from the imperial court, forcing the sitting emperor, his own son-in-law Takakawa, to abdicate in favor Kiyomori’s grandson, Takakawa’s infant son. The boy became known as Antoku.
Ken’ishi recalled the powerful visions he had seen while in Green Tiger’s captivity: dreams of the boy-emperor Antoku and of the last bloody battle in the straits at Dan-no-Ura, when Taira no Tomomori, the great general of the clan, seeing that defeat was inevitable, tied an anchor rope around his waist and threw himself into the sea, taking Silver Crane with him. Antoku’s grandmother, Kiyomori’s wife Tokiko, by then a Buddhist nun, had taken the child in her arms and also leaped into the sea.
That war had been the cost of Kiyomori’s ambition. One did not rise to such heights without creating bitter rivals and alienating former allies. Kiyomori’s exercise of authority turned most of the samurai clans against him, even members of his own clan. The deposed Emperor Takakawa’s brother, incensed at the way Takakawa had been cast aside, raised the ire and power of the Minamoto clan to destroy the Taira and restore the rightful imperial line. The Battle of Dan-no-Ura ended that five-year war. The crushing Minamoto victory raised the status and power of Minamoto no Yoritomo to such heights that he seized the title of shogun, established a samurai government in Kamakura, and stripped the imperial court of its power.
The day wore on, heat and humidity bearing down upon them, and Ken’ishi found that the Taira warriors fascinated him. They could well be his distant relatives, a thought at once alien and exciting. He could recall no sense of family, and the thought of Green Tiger as his only known kinsman sickened him.
He filled a crock with water from one of the central wells and took it to the Taira men. They eyed him skeptically as he approached, crossing their arms and squaring to face him.
He took a drink from the crock. “Hot today, isn’t it?” Ken’ishi said, then offered it to the man who appeared to be their leader, a tall, middle-aged man with austere features and an old scar across the bridge of his nose.
“You could use a few more sea breezes around here,” the man said, accepting the crock with eyes narrowed.
The other Taira men eyed the crock. They had been standing in the heat a long time while the lords wrangled inside.
The man took a drink, then handed it to another man.
“I am Ken’ishi, captain of the first rank in the house of Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo.”
The man’s brows furrowed. “I am Taira no Yoshisada, captain of the fourth rank in the house of Taira no Kagenari, governor of Ikishima.”
“Ikishima,” Ken’ishi said. “You took the first blow of the invasion.” The island of Ikishima lay between Hakata Bay and the Koryo peninsula, a natural first target. The invaders had taken it before launching their attack on Hakata.
Yoshisada’s face darkened. “Our kinsmen did. I come from Kyoto.” The tone in his voice made Ken’ishi think the man wished he were still there. “Taira no Kagetaka was my master’s cousin.” Kagetaka had been the governor appointed by the bakufu. No men, young or old, survived the attack. Most of the women were raped to death or taken as slaves.
“Are you Taira by birth?” Ken’ishi asked.
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“Why do you ask?”
“Forgive my rude directness. I was a ronin, but my blood is Taira. I encounter so few kinsmen.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you ronin?”
This was akin to asking a man what crime he had committed to be cast out of service, but perhaps this was a conversation for awkwardness. “I never had a lord,” Ken’ishi said. “I have my blood from Taira no Morihisa.”
“Impossible,” Yoshisada said. “Unless you’re a bastard. Or a liar.”
Ken’ishi bristled. “Explain yourself.”
“Taira no Morihisa disappeared twenty years ago.”
“After someone tried to assassinate him.”
“He never had any children. My father studied the sword under him.”
“He did have one child. Me. My mother was Minamoto no Hikari.”
“I have heard no tales of him having a wife, much less some Minamoto trollop.”
Ken’ishi’s fists clenched, and he spoke each word separately. “Mind your tongue, friend, lest your own parentage be called into question and your line truncated.”
“And why should I believe what you say?” Yoshisada said. “You’re wearing Otomo garb. The Otomo clan was among the first to join the Minamoto. They took it upon themselves to rid Kyushu of Taira blood. You’re working for the enemy.”
Ken’ishi’s face heated.
One of the other men stepped forward. “Those battles are long since fought. The only enemy now is the barbarians, yes?”
Ken’ishi glared at Yoshisada. “I brought you water out of kinship. Dash it in my face again and we will exchange more than words.”
He turned on his heel and returned to the Otomo men, who had been watching this exchange from across the street.
At that moment the kami sent shivers through him so deeply that he laid a hand on his hilt. He glanced behind him, half-expecting attack, but the Taira men were now conversing in a quiet circle. He scanned the street and its throngs of warriors. The colors and heraldry encompassed every Great House on Kyushu. Only his compatriots were paying him much attention.
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