Heart of the Ronin (2 page)

“If I am not being too rude, may I ask your name, sir?”

Past another huge mouthful of rice, the samurai answered, “Ken’ishi.”

Yohachi shifted uncomfortably on the floor. “Where do you come from?”

Ken’ishi did not answer, taking another large mouthful instead. The savory taste of the seasonings and onions were more satisfying than any meal he could remember.

Yohachi nodded past the lack of response. “Where do you travel?”

“Wherever my expertise can be of use.”

“Ah, a ronin, then. You have no one to serve.”

Ken’ishi said nothing, and Yohachi fidgeted and squirmed even more.

“You have seen anything unusual on the road? We have heard tales of bandits in the area. Rumor says the bandits are led by an oni.”

Ken’ishi raised an eyebrow. “An oni?”

“So they say.”

“I haven’t seen any bandits in these parts.”

“Fortunate for you, then. Last month they raided a village in the next province. They stole almost all of the winter stores. The village has no seed rice for this year.”

“That’s unlucky. Has anyone given them food or seed rice?”

“I do not know. The story I heard only told of the demon.” Yohachi licked his lips and looked away for a moment, then back. “An interesting sword you have there.”

“What does a village headman know of swords?”

“Consider it a personal interest. It is of exceptional quality, is it not? And such a fine scabbard! It is very old, yes?”

Ken’ishi looked at the weapon he knew so well. The scabbard was not fine at all. It was battered and stained. The once-beautiful cranes, inlaid in mother-of-pearl flying through silver moonlight, were worn and chipped, and the dark lacquer was cracked, revealing the wood beneath. Some of the silver fittings were tarnished. “It is. It was my father’s.”

“What is your family name?”

Instead of answering, Ken’ishi took another mouthful of rice.

The front door suddenly whisked open, and a large shadow fell over them. Yohachi bowed low, putting his forehead to the floor, and Ken’ishi put down the half-empty bowl. The newcomer shed his sandals and strode into the room, towering over the two men seated on the floor. Ken’ishi sucked bits of rice from his teeth as he appraised how the man carried his weight. Tall and built like a tree trunk, with thick, callused hands. The sleeves of his kimono were tied back to ensure freedom of movement. The hilt of his sword was well worn and stained with use. A vivid white scar ran across one cheek, over the bridge of his blunt nose, and into his eyebrow, perpetually twisting his features.

The man’s voice was deep and accustomed to command. “I am Nishimuta no Takenaga. This is my village. What is your business here?”

Ken’ishi paused a moment before answering. “I am Ken’ishi,” he said, bowing. “My business is just a bit of food, lord.” He fixed his gaze in the distance, allowing his awareness to encompass all that lay within his peripheral vision, studying the towering constable without looking directly at him.

“Ronin are not welcome in my town,” Takenaga said, rubbing the scar running across his nose. “I don’t like them, and there are too many rough men around here.”

“I mean to cause no trouble.”

“So you say. But ronin
always
cause trouble.”

Ken’ishi glanced purposefully at Yohachi. The moist smirk on the headman’s lips melted away as he realized that he sat well within reach of a sword-stroke.

“Get up!”

Ken’ishi glanced again at the headman, who trembled at the constable’s words.

“I must bow to Takenaga-sama’s wishes,” Yohachi said, using “sama” in deference to the other man’s superior status.

Ken’ishi scrutinized the samurai one more time. Takenaga moved with the surety and grace of a seasoned soldier. Even if Ken’ishi somehow managed to kill Takenaga, he would have to fight his way out of this village. He was still hungry, but its edge had been dulled. Losing his life was not worth half a bowl of rice. He regretted not having anything to give Akao.

He stood, and Takenaga stepped back, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. With deliberate slowness, Ken’ishi picked up his traveling pack with his left hand and his weapon with his right, a gesture meant to allow Takenaga the advantage, since now Ken’ishi could not draw his weapon without changing hands.

“Yohachi, my thanks for the rice. You are a generous man,” he said as he bowed again. Then, he strode past Takenaga toward the door, slipping into his sandals as he stepped outside.

Ken’ishi did not look back as he walked into the street and headed for the edge of the village. Akao fell in beside him, his eyes scanning for threats. No doubt he had heard the entire exchange, but he did not understand human speech very well. Ken’ishi was aware of Takenaga escorting him ten paces behind, and his anger at the insult built within him like a thundercloud, roiling taller and thicker, like a towering black pillar of lightning. Then a small stone zipped past his shoulder from behind and bounced in the dirt, doubtless thrown by one of the young boys he had seen hiding between two houses. He did not turn, but held his jaw like an iron billet. Akao turned and barked a challenge.

Takenaga said, “You should keep your dog quiet, ronin scum. Or perhaps his skin will make a nice drum.”

“He speaks as he chooses,” Ken’ishi said, “and save your threats.”

When they passed beyond the boundaries of the village and the road lay open before him, Ken’ishi suddenly dropped his pack and spun, switching his sheathed sword to his left hand, loosening the blade with his thumb. The arrogant smile on Takenaga’s lips drew into a taut line, and he stopped, hand on his hilt poised to draw.

Takenaga said, “You would be wise to keep walking.”

Ken’ishi’s anger crackled inside. “You would have been wise to leave us alone. I am too young to be wise. And my honor would still be stained.”

“Ronin scum like you know nothing of honor,” Takenaga growled. The vivid white scar twisted his features into a sneer.

The young man’s belly filled with fresh heat. “I am not ronin by choice. My family was slain by treacherous, hateful men, much like you.”

The man stiffened, and his arrogant gaze shifted to cold calculation.

Ken’ishi continued, “I have dreamed of my father’s murderers, and they look much like you. He would not stand for the treatment you have shown me. No better than a dog!”

“I would have fed a dog.”

Ken’ishi whipped Silver Crane free of its scabbard, an action Takenaga followed a split heartbeat later. Ken’ishi tossed the scabbard aside and said, “If you choose, you can watch the sunset today. Your defeat will satisfy me, but your death is not necessary.” Silver Crane was warm in his hands. He hardly felt its weight. It was an extension of his body, like a long, lethal limb.

“One fewer ronin will make the sunset brighter, after all. I’ve killed ten men twice your age, stripling! And three others have no hands, masterless scum wandering the countryside begging for scraps! All better men than you.”

Ken’ishi raised his sword, assuming the stance taught him by his old teacher, legs braced apart, body turned sideways, sword blade upturned with the point aiming for his enemy’s throat. His teacher had told him this was a master stance, unusable by anyone without the highest degree of skill. And it gave Takenaga pause.

Takenaga’s sword was held straight out before him, the point aimed at Ken’ishi’s throat.

Ken’ishi allowed his anger to seep away, his jaw loosening, his shoulders relaxing, his muscles motionless. The immediate past melted away as well, leaving him in the present, the moment, the instants of one moment after another. The two men faced each other, and death was in the air.

* * *

Takenaga leaped forward, his blade flying up, then slashing downward in a stroke meant to sever at least one of his opponent’s hands. Ken’ishi’s small movements rippled like the water of a suddenly disturbed pool as the crane struck its prey, allowing the enemy’s stroke to pass him by in the timeless instants between heartbeats. Only when Takenaga’s missed stroke made a sufficient opening did Ken’ishi move, and Silver Crane flicked outward like the crescent of a crane’s beak.

Takenaga grunted and stumbled backward, clutching at his throat. Bright, wet crimson pumped between his fingers. His eyes bulged with rage and surprise, and his scar blazed white across his blunt features. He struck at Ken’ishi again, but his swing was weak and off-target. Deflecting it with ease, Ken’ishi watched as the other man fell backwards on the dirt path, gasping through the blood gushing from his mouth and nose.

Ken’ishi stared at the bright blood as it spurted into the air, spreading across the dirt path, darkening the soil. Takenaga’s body fought to breathe, to live, even as the realization dawned in the man’s eyes that his life was finished. With a terrible sickness in his belly, Ken’ishi watched the light in the constable’s eyes diminish like a starving candle.

Ken’ishi forced himself to look away from the moment of death. He noticed that dozens of villagers had watched the confrontation. They stared at him, their eyes wide. Some ran for their homes. He wiped the blood from the tip of his weapon, then, with slow deliberation, sheathed it and tied the scabbard to his belt.

Yohachi thrust himself through the crowd. The headman’s weak face contorted, and he picked up a large stone and threw it at Ken’ishi. “Get out of here, criminal!” he shrieked.

The stone fell short, but other villagers followed his example, taking up more stones and the cry of, “Criminal! Criminal!”

A fist-sized stone struck Ken’ishi in the chest, shoving him back a step, driving the breath out of him. Ducking another hail of stones, he leaped to the fallen corpse, patted for the man’s coin purse, snatched it, spun away, grabbed his pack, bow, and quiver, and fled down the road, stones bouncing around him and off his back.

* * *

As the ronin disappeared into the forest, Yohachi could only watch him go, feeling a mixture of fear, rage, relief, and wonder. Fear at having seen the cold, brutal face of death so closely. Rage at the loss of the village’s protector, and Yohachi’s carefully cultivated benefactor. Relief that the strange young ronin had fled. And wonder at how Takenaga had been such a formidable warrior, renowned for his swordsmanship, yet the young ronin had slain him almost effortlessly. Takenaga was known for his brutality and his hatred of ronin. Perhaps there was also some relief that Yohachi would never again live in fear of one Takenaga’s drunken rages. But Takenaga’s penchant for violence was only one of the reasons Yohachi had cultivated the samurai’s friendship for so long. He was also an influential vassal of Lord Nishimuta no Jiro. Lord Nishimuta had given Takenaga this village to oversee because it was prosperous, to reward Takenaga for his faithful service, but also because it was several days’ travel from Lord Nishimuta’s estate, keeping Takenaga’s rough demeanor at an acceptable distance.

That young bastard! The nerve of that scurrilous vagabond! He must be dealt with!
Yohachi knew that his voice was not one to inspire the villagers to righteous fervor, but he had to do something. He cried out, “Everyone, listen to me! We must capture this ronin and punish him!” He looked at the men standing around him and saw the same range of emotions in their faces that he felt. They were afraid, but also outraged. “Find Takenaga-sama’s deputies and bring them here. They must help us. Everyone, gather your weapons quickly. We must chase this ronin down!” Seeing the fear on their faces, he added, “Don’t worry about having to fight him. When he sees all of us, he will turn coward and submit. He will not have the courage to face all of us. Now go! Gather your weapons. We must not lose him!”

The villagers dispersed to gather up whatever makeshift weapons they could find, clubs and pitchforks, even a few rusty spears left over from the wars of fifty years before. The three deputies arrived, Taro, Kei, and Shohei. They carried the only weapons Takenaga would allow them, jitte, unsharpened parrying weapons about half the size of a sword with a long straight “blade” and a shorter, parallel prong designed to catch and hold a sword or a spear. The deputies approached the lifeless body of their master, and their faces went slack.

The eldest, Taro, stood over the body. He had always been a good boy, Yohachi thought, and now he looked so shocked and solemn that Yohachi could not imagine what he must be thinking. Takenaga had chosen his deputies from the strongest and most reliable of the village’s young men, but he was not a kind man and had often treated them harshly.
What must they be feeling now,
Yohachi wondered.
Shock, anger, sadness, and . . . relief?
 

While he waited for everyone to gather, Yohachi approached Takenaga’s body, staring at the gleaming blade clenched in the dead man’s fist. Swords had always fascinated him and had been a favorite topic of conversation between him and Takenaga. The constable had often boasted about the fine quality of his weapon. It was a gift from Lord Nishimuta, made in the new, heavier katana-style, rather than the more delicate antique tachi-style, and it had seen more than a few battles against bandit gangs over the years. Takenaga had never let him touch it, and he had always wanted to feel its heft, to experience the power of a true warrior’s weapon. Yohachi had never been a strong man. He had been gravely ill as a child, the long sickness leaving his body weak and twisted, unable to work as hard as others, unable to wield a weapon. His inability had fueled his fascination with the tools of the warrior. Now he knelt down, untied the scabbard from Takenaga’s sash, and pulled it out. Then he pried the dead man’s fingers from around the well-worn hilt of the katana and picked it up. It felt so heavy. He stared at it in wonder. Then he slid the blade into the scabbard and prepared to thrust the long sword into his sash.

A sudden voice stopped him. “Wait.”

Yohachi turned to face the young man standing beside him.

“Are you able to use that, Yohachi?” Taro’s voice was heavy with caution. “Takenaga always said that when you put on the swords, you become dead. Are you ready to die?”