Heart of the Ronin (10 page)

When Takenaga was not watching, Taro had often stolen one of the constable’s wooden training swords, practiced with it in the woods, out of sight of the village. The weight and balance of a steel katana was different, but he would learn that in time. Until he was more skilled with the katana, his jitte would serve him well.

From the moment he had taken up the swords, he sensed he had embarked on a path to something else, somewhere else. If he captured or killed the ronin, he might become a real warrior. There were many tales of warrior-farmers who showed courage and strength of arms and became famous samurai. Some were said to have even founded their own clans.
 

And he owed it to his teacher to bring the murderer to justice. Even though Takenaga had been a harsh man, he had made Taro into something stronger, tougher than he had been before. It was Taro’s obligation to see him avenged.

Taro had known, before the pursuit even began yesterday morning, that only he would continue. Yohachi was a weak man and had inherited his status as the village headman from his father, who had been a wise and strong leader. Yohachi was neither of those things. He was small-minded and greedy. Even the other deputies had tired of the pursuit when they had not found the ronin quickly. The other villagers had followed Yohachi’s lead for a time, but their hearts were not in it. Too many of them secretly despised Takenaga and were happy he was dead. But Taro didn’t care. It was enough that
he
cared. He owed his slain master a debt that he intended to repay. And carrying out the repayment of that obligation would serve him well as a stepping-stone to better things.

He resumed his way, hoping to find some evidence of the ronin’s passing or some traveler or village who had seen him. He ate a rice ball from his satchel as he walked, chafing at the humid morning air, which made his coarse, hemp clothing smelly and soggy. But in truth, he could not remember feeling more alive. He rubbed the hard steel pommel of the jitte thrust in his sash. Excitement coursed like hot sake through his veins. The ronin could not be far away.

The day grew brighter and warmer and began to dry up the puddles. He met no one else on the road. What would he do when he caught the ronin? First, he did not expect the man to come willingly; he would have to fight him. The ronin had killed Takenaga, so he was a formidable fighter, but it was unlikely he had ever faced a man with a jitte. The jitte was not meant for killing, even though it could; it was designed to catch the blade of a sword in its prong so the opponent could be disarmed. Once the ronin was disarmed, Taro could then use fists, feet, or his weapon’s pommel to knock his opponent senseless. He had brought a length of tough hemp rope to tie him up as well. Then he would take the ronin to Lord Nishimuta so that justice could be served.

Lord Nishimuta would be so impressed with Taro’s skill that he would take him into service as a warrior. Perhaps he would learn to use the spear or the naginata. It would be a fine thing, indeed.

Then a strange sound caught his ear, from far in the distance, the most bizarre sound he had ever heard. Something akin to a human scream, a woman’s, but. . . . It sounded like something from a nightmare. Goosebumps rippled down his arms and legs as he imagined the agony that caused such a scream. The scream echoed strangely under the forest canopy, as if the wind itself quailed at its touch.

Taro gripped his jitte with one hand, the hilt of the katana with the other, and ran toward the sound. He ran and ran, listening for another scream but hearing nothing. Then he noticed that the air ahead was hazy, smoky, and a strange awful stench hung like the entrails of a corpse between the trees. It
was
smoke in the air, but like no smoke he had ever seen or smelled. It left a disgusting, oily taste in his mouth, and his pace slowed to a cautious trot.

A shape emerged from the yellowish-green haze ahead. An old man, a woodcutter. It was Dangai, from his village, trotting up the road, holding a cloth over his nose and mouth. His eyes were bloodshot and watery from the smoke. The old man was just as surprised to see Taro. And even more surprised to see him wearing two swords.

Taro saw the questions in Dangai’s eyes, but he spoke first. “What happened down there?”

The old man rubbed his chin. “Well, there was a fight with an oni and some bandits, and this young ronin saved Lord Nishimuta’s daughter from the oni, and—”

“Ronin?”

“Yes, but—”

“And an oni?”

“Yes, and—”

“And what’s this about Lord Nishimuta’s daughter?”

“Well, you see this brave ronin saved her from the oni, killed it, you see—”

“Killed an
oni?
”

“Well, yes—”

“Tell me!”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, and he took a deep breath. “I’m trying to tell you, you young fool! Just because you’re wearing swords today doesn’t mean you can speak to me that way, boy! I was selling wood to your parents before you were born!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Taro’s face reddened, and he bowed. “Forgive me. Please continue.”

“And what are you doing with swords anyway? Where did you get them? Fancy yourself a samurai? Going to become a ronin like
him?
”

“Of course not! Please tell me what happened.”

The old man took another deep breath and told his tale. Taro listened impatiently. The old man actually admired the ronin he described. Could it be the same one? Who else could it be?
 

“Do you know his name?”

“He said his name was Ken’ishi.”

Taro’s teeth gritted. “This is the same ronin who murdered Takenaga yesterday.”

Dangai’s eyes bulged. “Murdered! How did that happen?”

“The ronin cut him down in a duel.”

“Was it a fair fight?”

“I . . . I didn’t see. I was in the fields.”

“I would hardly call a duel ‘murder.’ Are you going after him?”

“Yes.”

The old man sized him up for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was grave. “You would do well to go back home, Taro. That ronin is more than a match for you. He is not to be trifled with.”

Taro stiffened.

“And he is not a bad man. A young cock, perhaps, but not a bad man. Killing the oni was a good deed.”

“But still—”

“And I can see you are a young cock like him. Well, good luck. If you’re lucky, he won’t kill you. I have to go tell the grave diggers.”

Taro’s ears burned. “I’ll find him, and he will pay for his crime.”

Dangai nodded and walked away, shaking his head.

Taro watched him for a moment, angry at the disparagement of his abilities. Then he turned and ran on into the foul, smoky haze. The haze grew thicker, nauseating, choking him, until he could only walk quickly, covering his mouth and nose with a cloth, unable to breathe deeply without coughing and retching. But soon he found its source.
 

A fire burned in the middle of the road, and bloody bodies were scattered about like broken dolls. His stomach heaved at the overpowering stench, threatening to empty his meager breakfast into the dirt, but he clamped his mouth shut and looked around. Seeing so much death made his knees wobbly as he stepped among the corpses, over dark patches of blood soaking the earth and sprays of what looked like tar.

And where was the ronin? He could not have gone far! Taro looked ahead, down the road, but saw nothing.

The sizzle and pop of the fire drew his attention. A blackened skull leered at him from within the flames. His eyes watered fiercely from the heat and the smoke, and he covered his mouth and nose with a cloth again.

Then he yelped as pain lanced through his ankle. A sizzling, smoking, pulsing black rope wrapped around his leg like a tentacle, searing his flesh, squeezing with fearsome strength. It had snaked out of the fire. Something was biting, chewing into the flesh of his leg. He cried out in revulsion, drew Takenaga’s sword, and slashed across the throbbing tentacle, severing it a handbreadth from his ankle. He scrambled away from the fire, with the thing still attached. Blood trickled along the sides of the tentacle, his blood. With the point of the sword, he tried to pry the thing off without hurting himself further, but after a few moments, he knew he would have to use his hands. Sitting down on the ground well away from the fire, he grasped the severed end and began to unwind it. The thing came away from his flesh, squirming, leaving a trail of slime and blood, but as it began to separate, part of it held onto him like a small sucking mouth. With a further cry of disgust, he ripped it free and held it away as it flopped and writhed. Small suppurating mouths lined its length, surrounded by multitudes of tiny teeth, stained red with his blood. Cold chills turned his shoulders into soft paste, and he cast the thing into the fire. Aghast at the terrible spiral wound, he knelt and gripped his leg. The searing pain persisted even now that the thing was gone. Wisps of smoke still rose from the hot slime. His burned skin had peeled away with the tentacle. Rivulets of blood trickled from the holes where the tiny mouths had been torn away from his flesh.

Then, almost without him noticing, the last of his strength drained away from his limbs, and the world fell black.
 

* * *

When Taro awoke, the pain had diminished, but his mind was still cloudy. He knew he should clean the ugly wound immediately, so he uncorked his water bottle and tried to wash it as best he could. He could hardly stand to touch it, but he tried to wipe the slime and blood away until the water was gone. When he attempted to stand, he found that he could put some weight on that leg. It was painful, but he would manage.

His mind began to clear, and he surveyed the scene. It was just as Dangai had described. Some blood-soaked bandages lay discarded in the grass by the roadside. Two sets of footprints and two parallel tracks left by the dragging poles. A bit of good fortune? He could follow them anywhere with a trail like that.

He started after them at a fast limp.

Six

“Whether [one’s] mind is correct or not is indiscernible by other people. When any single thought arises, both good and evil are there.”

—
Takuan Soho

Ken’ishi placed the makeshift stretcher beside Hatsumi and eased her onto it. Then he tied a loop of twine under her arms to prevent her from sliding off and fastened the rest of his gear across the poles. The poles and bedroll creaked as he tested the weight of the straps on his shoulders.

Suddenly Hatsumi’s mouth fell open, and a horrible shriek erupted. The sound was a barely human scream of rage, terror, and anguish. Ken’ishi gasped, quickly lowered the straps, and scrambled away from her. The scream lasted for several heartbeats, then trailed off to a feeble rattle, and Hatsumi’s head slumped to the side.

Kazuko came running up to him. “What is it?” she gasped. “Is she dead?”

“I don’t know. She just. . . .”

“Is she dead?” Kazuko’s voice rose. “All the gods and Buddhas, save her life!”

He moved closer on all fours, until he could put his ear close her nose and mouth. “She is still breathing.”

Kazuko nearly melted with relief. “Why did she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“That was . . . horrible.” Her face was ashen, and her eyes were huge and glistening.

He nodded. “It sounded like . . . a ghost. Like something not from this world.”
 

“We must help her. What can we do?”

“Find a priest. Someone who can heal her body and mend her spirit. She is in a terrible way. Worse than I thought.”

“Then let’s move quickly.”

He stood up and pointed down the road. “Your home is this way?”

“Yes.”

“You can sling the swords along the sides here so you don’t have to carry them.”

“Thank you,” she said. “They won’t make it too heavy?”

Ken’ishi sniffed. “Not at all.” But he wondered what he would think around sunset, after he had dragged the stretcher all day long.

She placed the swords on either side of Hatsumi’s unconscious body, and he set off down the road at such a swift gait that she had to struggle to keep up.

The feeling of unease from Hatsumi’s scream left a pall of silence between them for a long time, and neither of them felt like speaking. A cold hand pressed against the base of his neck, like he had heard the depths of a hundred black hells calling out from Hatsumi’s tortured throat.

He wished Akao were here. He hadn’t seen the dog in so long, he was growing worried. He knew the dog would find him, if he were still alive. But what if Akao had encountered those same bandits earlier, somewhere else in his ranging? Perhaps Akao was lying dead in the forest, hacked to pieces.
 

He was used to silence, but now he needed to talk. “How far is it?”

Kazuko started. Her face was still pale, and she was wringing her hands.

“How far to your home?” he asked again.

“About four days’ journey.”

He did not relish the thought of dragging the stretcher behind him for four days. But he was happy that the sound of his voice seemed to calm her. “Where were you traveling?”

“We were returning from Lord Tsunetomo’s estate. About two days’ travel from here.”

“That is a long journey with only four bodyguards.”

“My father is not a powerful lord. But those were some of his best men.”

“They sold their lives dearly to save you. Even the strongest warriors can be overwhelmed by numbers and treachery.”

“Father will be unhappy they are dead.”

“They died like true warriors. Your father will be happy that you are alive.”

“Yes, I am alive.” She sighed deeply and looked at Hatsumi. “It could be me lying there, not Hatsumi. If not for you, we would all have died terrible, terrible deaths. I am happy to be alive, but I feel so badly for Hatsumi. How she must be suffering!”

He did not know what to say.

They walked in silence for a long time. Ken’ishi tried to think of things to say that would lighten her mood, but without success. Finally, he said, “Why did you go on this journey? Is Lord Tsunetomo a friend of your father?”