Heart of the Ronin (45 page)

“I am a kappa.”

“Very well, I will pull out the arrow.” He bowed low, politely.

The kappa bowed as well, spilling the water from the indentation on top of its head. When it straightened, its eyes widened, its shoulders slumped, and the corners of its mouth turned pitifully downward. “Drat,” it said. It seemed deflated somehow.

Ken’ishi circled warily behind it, braced his foot against the smooth shell, grasped the arrow with both hands, and pulled. The kappa hissed in pain as the arrow came out, the tip smeared with dark red blood.

Ken’ishi backed away. “Now, keep your promise. You swore an oath to leave this place and never trouble us again. Go.”

The kappa nodded forlornly, sighed, then trudged off into the darkness of the forest. They watched it until it was out of sight, lost in the shadows of the trees and undergrowth.

When it was gone, Norikage said, “What happened? I missed something.”

“It was planning to attack me when I attempted to pull the arrow out. A kappa’s bite is venomous.”

“But it swore—”

“When I was a child, my teacher told me that kappa are polite but treacherous creatures. Its offer was a ruse meant to draw me near enough that it could bite me.”

“So then why did it not bite you?”

“Because when a kappa loses the water from the indentation in its head, it loses its power. Only then was it truly defeated.”

“You tricked it!”

Ken’ishi said nothing, walking toward his former hiding place to retrieve his weapons.

“Ken’ishi, I underestimated you, I think.”

Ken’ishi shrugged. “Now I think the village is truly safe.”

Akao’s tail wagged again. He had not taken his eyes from the spot where the kappa disappeared. The dog padded toward the spot, sniffed the ground once, then looked into the forest and gave one last triumphant bark, as if to say, “And don’t come back!”

Fifteen

Gazing at falling

Petals, a baby almost

Looks like a Buddha

—
Kubutsu

Ken’ishi sat on a fallen log with his back against a tree, listening to the cold wind rustling the blood-red maple leaves and whispering through the forest, hearing the cries of anguish and grunts of exertion coming from the small hut a few paces away.

There had been no more disappearances in the months since he had driven the kappa away. The villagers’ respect for him was renewed, if grudgingly. Strange effigies of straw and old linen that looked like strange octopi, or oni, or samurai, designed to frighten away kappa, had been hung around all the houses. The effigies must have been effective; after all, there had been no more kappa attacks since then.

This hut was old and ill kept. No one lived there. It had only one purpose, a place for women of the village to bear their children. Women gave birth in it to prevent the blood of the birth from polluting their homes. Most of the families contributed to its upkeep, but since they were poor, the hut was little more than a drafty, thatched shed on the village outskirts.

The voice of Tetta’s wife, Naoko—how she had changed since Tetta’s disappearance, asserting control over both Gonta and the inn with an iron will—encouraged and coaxed and praised Kiosé for her efforts, Kiosé who now gasped and strained in the throes of childbirth. Many of the village women resented allowing Kiosé to use the birthing hut because she was a whore, not even a true human being. But Ken’ishi and Norikage, and now Naoko, had been unanimous in silencing them.

They made a strange foursome, Ken’ishi thought. Akao and Norikage and Kiosé and himself. All of them were outcasts in their own ways, and at the same time, all of them had been accepted here in their own ways. Even the hatred fomented by Chiba and his brothers had subsided, sinking back into the trials and tasks of daily life. Perhaps they simply could not bring themselves to abuse a woman who was with child.

As Ken’ishi waited outside the hut, thoughts came and went, like dogs passing in the street. He noted them and let them go. It was good not to worry about things for once.

What was Kazuko doing now? Was she happy? Perhaps she too had a child by now. Did she ever think about him? What was her husband’s name? He still could not remember.

Who was the spy in the guise of a monk who had come searching for him? Who was the spy’s employer? Why was he searching for Ken’ishi?

What secrets was Norikage hiding? The man had a deeper, more dangerous past than he had let on. They had become friends, but Ken’ishi still did not trust him fully.

Whose child was coming into the world, inside the little hut? Was it Ken’ishi’s child? Did it matter whose child it was? Kiosé would never be his wife, nor would the child ever be truly his, but he had made himself their protector. That was all that mattered. The child was being born into an existence of suffering and poverty, with little hope of escape from that fate, but perhaps Ken’ishi could ease that suffering as best he could.

How strange the scrolls of one’s life, he thought. His time with Kazuko, while just a year ago, felt like a different life, as if it was someone else’s existence, a different book. What other scrolls waited for him to live in the future, other lives to live before he died? The time of a warrior was usually short, so he doubted that he would live to be an old man. Who would want to be old and gray and weak, like the old beggar in the capital with no hands, slain by a callous, drunken bully? Not he, never. Better to die in his prime, strong and free. But he had things to do before then. He would make a name for himself. He would make his father, and his ancestors, proud.

Silver Crane was warm and comforting at his side, almost a companion like Akao. But even though it was as familiar to him as his own hands, he sensed that it still kept its secrets, as if waiting for the proper time to reveal them. At times, when that feeling was most acute, he wondered whether the sword belonged to him or the other way around. He had tried meditating with the sword, trying to probe the powers that it contained, but to no avail. The spirit of the blade toyed with him, shed his grasp like rain from feathers. He sometimes thought he sensed the spirit of his unknown father, speaking to him through the sword from beyond the veil of death. Or perhaps that was just his wishful imagination. Powers and secrets. Secrets and wishes. All in good time.

A new voice, a course, piercing wail, abruptly joined the women’s voices in the hut. Ken’ishi smiled and rested his head against the rough bark of the tree. A new life in the world. The wail subsided. Naoko came out of the hut and stood in the doorway, framed in lamplight. The afternoon had grown dark. She waved him closer. He stood up and approached her.

Years and weariness lined her face, but her eyes sparkled with relief and happiness. “Ken’ishi-sama, it is a boy.” Behind her, Ken’ishi could see bloodstained rags, and Kiosé’s pale, bare feet. Sobs of relief and joy bubbled from within.

Ken’ishi smiled and bowed to Naoko. She went back inside and closed the door, and he sat on a stone near the door. He looked up at the stars appearing in the evening sky, took a deep breath, and sighed, enjoying the pleasant night.

He walked back to his house, and for the first time in more than a year, retrieved his flute. Then he walked back to the birthing hut, sat on an old tree stump nearby, and began to play. The melody seemed to take shape in the air itself, and the tune was . . . contented. The baby’s voice cut like a knife through the thin walls of the hut, over Naoko and Kiosé’s quiet cooing at her new child, and Kiosé’s laughter of joy and exhaustion. Hearing her laugh was so rare that Ken’ishi wondered for a moment if he had ever heard it before. She sounded so happy, and that pleased him. Her happiness found its way into the tune emerging from his flute. Gone were the mournful, lonely notes he had played for Kazuko.

The sky slipped deeper into darkness. Stars emerged from their daytime slumber, and his gaze rose to meet them. His awareness of his surroundings dimmed as he floated on the music.

Then a harsh unfamiliar voice said, “You there! I’m looking for someone.”

Ken’ishi stopped playing, lowered his instrument, and regarded the man standing perhaps twenty paces away. He was tall and lithe, and wore a basket hat that concealed his face. He looked like a ronin, with his soiled, ragged clothing, two swords and something else that looked like a dagger thrust into his belt. With his music now fading on the night air, he suddenly heard the roaring, thrumming sound in his ears that was the voices of the kami speaking to him. He put down his flute and placed his hand upon his sword.

The man had approached without Ken’ishi noticing.

Ken’ishi said, “I’m the constable of this village. Tell me who you’re looking for.”

The man began to laugh, starting with a slow chuckle that rose in strength and volume until it reached the edge of madness. The voice was hoarse, dry, and there was no mirth in it.

Ken’ishi stood up and squared his body with the man. “Who are you?”

“I am. . . . Who I am is not important. I’m looking for a ronin. That is what’s important.”

Ken’ishi tensed for a moment, then let his body relax. His spirit sought the Void. This conversation was almost finished. “There are ronin everywhere.”

“The ronin I’m seeking, he . . . he must face my vengeance.” The man’s voice was queerly halting, as if he was struggling for words. “I have followed his . . . trail to this village. I have . . . been searching for a long time.”

“I think you have come to the wrong place.”

“No! I know he is near! I can . . . I know he is near.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He . . . he . . . he has a sword. A special sword.” The man’s breath became more ragged, and he seemed to be having difficulty speaking. “And he . . . he had a dog.”

“Who are you?” Ken’ishi asked again.

“It’s not important! Only when the ronin is dead will my vengeance be satisfied!”

“What harm has he caused you?”

“We . . . we fought. He . . . hurt me.”

Ken’ishi searched his memory. Why didn’t he remember his man? “Why did you fight him?”

“He . . . he killed . . . someone. Someone important.”

At that moment, Ken’ishi realized the man’s identity. The young deputy from Uchida village. The dagger-like weapon in his sash, the jitte. Takenaga’s swords. But he had severed that boy’s right hand. This man
had
a right hand.

“Tell me who you are!” Ken’ishi shouted.

“My name is Vengeance!”

At that moment, Ken’ishi’s spirit settled into the Void. Words were a distraction now. And this man’s identity was no longer important. Evil radiated from him like waves of heat, and Ken’ishi felt it on his face.

“You have found the ronin you seek.” He drew his sword.

The man chuckled again. He reached up and removed the basket hat, tossing it aside, revealing his face.

Ken’ishi could not see clearly in the dark, but his face appeared to be streaked with dark, vertical blotches, stretching from his chin up over his forehead and across his hairless pate. The whites of his eyes seemed to glow within those dark streaks, and his gaze fixed on Ken’ishi with unwavering hatred.

The man said, “You do not know me, do you.”

Ken’ishi did not reply. He raised his sword to the middle stance, holding Silver Crane before him with the point of the blade aimed at the level of his enemy’s throat.

The man continued, “I am not surprised. I look different now.” His voice took on a deep, rumbling timbre. “Are you so eager to fight me again that we cannot talk first?” The man laughed so harshly that the hair stood up on Ken’ishi’s arms. “Why do you not speak?”

“There’s nothing to say. You’ve come here to kill me. Why waste time with useless talk?”

“Oh, you’re wrong. I didn’t come here to kill you. I came here to cut you. I came here to carve off bits and pieces of you and feed them to passing dogs. I came here to maim you, and to burn you. No, not kill. You will die, yes, but I will not kill you. You will live until your soul longs for release from the agony, until your body can cling to life no longer. And when you’re dead, I will splinter your bones with a hammer and scatter them to the winds.”

A cold chill gripped the back of Ken’ishi’s neck, and it jarred him from his readiness. The point of his sword wavered a finger’s breadth.

Instantly the man leaped.

In mid-leap, the man’s sword jumped into one hand, and his jitte into the other. The sword glinted like an icicle in the starlight as it whistled toward Ken’ishi’s head, slicing the air with a sound only the razor-sharp edge of a sword could make.

Ken’ishi brought Silver Crane up to deflect the blow, and stepped to the side, but the sheer force of the blow knocked him off his feet and nearly tore Silver Crane from his fingers. He sprawled on the ground, and rolled to his feet just in time to avoid the slash that whished through the space his body had occupied in the dirt.

Ken’ishi no longer believed this was a man. No man could leap such a distance. And he had seen such a leap once before. At closer range now, he saw the man’s face. “I do know you.”

The man snarled, his teeth showing white in the night, and hatred pulsed from him like waves of heat from a sword smith’s bellows. “And I know you,” Taro said and leaped forward again, slashing one-handed with the katana. Ken’ishi blocked the blow, and the jitte came up the moment after their swords met, sliding onto Silver Crane’s blade and twisting, wrenching. He was losing it!

In sudden desperation, he fell back and dragged his sword with him, just barely jerking it free. This . . . creature had almost taken his weapon from him! He had never imagined such a thing was possible. That jitte would be his death if he were not wary of it.

The baby wailed, and Ken’ishi saw a sliver of light spilling from the interior of the birthing hut as Naoko peeked out the door.

Taro’s smile stretched into a lustful grin, stretching beyond the normal proportions of a human face. “Yes, watch, old woman. Watch him die!” He launched himself forward again in a flurry of blows that drove Ken’ishi back five steps, toward the edge of the forest. Taro’s raw ferocity shattered Ken’ishi’s rhythm and jarred his spirit out of the Void. He was fighting for his life, but the sound of the baby’s wail reminded him that he was fighting for more than himself. He had to protect Kiosé and the baby! But to attack, he had to find his rhythm.