by Nick Lake
‘To date,’ said Lord Tokugawa, snapping Taro back to the corridor, ‘eleven men have gone up that mountainside, mostly ronin desperate to regain some measure of honour. None of them have come back. Tell me: why would the shogun offer such an extraordinary prize to strangers, when he has men he could order to go, and a magical sword in his possession, one which – it is known by all – once killed a dragon?’
It was Hana who spoke. ‘Because the sword is not Kusanagi.’
Lord Tokugawa clapped softly. ‘Very good, girl,’ he said.
‘But—’ stammered Taro. ‘The Three Treasures—’
‘Are a lie. To some extent. The mirror and the jewels, as far as I know, are real. The sword is a fake.’
Taro felt that dizziness again. This was like saying that the Buddha had never existed.
‘Oh, there is a Kusanagi,’ said Lord Tokugawa, apparently seeing Taro’s disbelief. ‘But the Genji never recovered it, after their sea battle with the Heike.’
‘So all these years, the sword was lost?’ said Hiro.
‘Not lost. Taken.’
‘Taken?’
Lord Tokugawa leaned in close, as if what he was about to say was dangerous – which, Taro reflected, it probably was. ‘The boy emperor who drowned with the Heike fleet – Antoku – was a direct descendant of the Sun Goddess. When he died, it’s said that all the kami and spirits wept, and the dragons wreathed themselves in black mourning smoke. The dragons especially were furious: they were Amaterasu’s children too. So the dragon of the sea took Kusanagi and hid it away – until a true emperor, of pure heart, should appear.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ said Taro.
Lord Tokugawa spread his hands. ‘I would not like to see another young man die needlessly. You impressed me in there, when you stood up to the shogun. I thought it only fair to warn you. Go up that mountainside and you will die, like all the others. Unless you can find Kusanagi.’
‘I wouldn’t have any idea where to look,’ said Taro.
‘The dragon of the sea took it, or so it’s said,’ said Lord Tokugawa. ‘I would start by searching his house.’
‘His house?’
‘Miyajima,’ said Hana slowly. Lord Tokugawa was nodding encouragement. ‘It’s a shrine to the sea dragon, on the inland sea.’
Lord Tokugawa smiled that ghastly smile again. ‘And suspiciously well guarded, for a shrine. It’s Buddhist now, of course, even though it’s still a place of worship to the sea dragon – and has a large monastery attached to it.’ It was not surprising that the place should have become a Buddhist temple. Buddhism had absorbed Shinto; it hadn’t replaced it. ‘But not so large that it should need three hundred armed samurai around it, at any one time.’
‘Three hundred?’ said Taro. ‘And how are we meant to get past those, to secure the sword?’
‘We don’t have to,’ said Hana, ‘if we go as pilgrims.’
Lord Tokugawa turned to Taro. ‘You should keep her,’ he said, gesturing to Hana. ‘With her brains and your valour, you’ll go far.’ He peered at Hiro. ‘What does this one do?’
Taro put a restraining hand on Hiro’s shoulder. ‘Oh, he has his uses.’
Lord Tokugawa bowed a very shallow bow, as befitted their lowly status. ‘I certainly hope so. And I hope you will heed my warning.’ With that, he turned on his heel and strode off, disappearing almost immediately round a corner.
His footsteps echoed to silence.
CHAPTER 15
LORD TOKUGAWA WAITED in his favourite teahouse, which was a boat floating on his favourite river in Edo. Lanterns hung from the eaves, and from the side of the boat, which was open to the elements. In this way the teahouse was illuminated by the flicker of light on water. An enamel cup – worn and chipped just so, in such a way that the shadows caught it, giving it texture and meaning – sat steaming on the low table in front of him.
There was no one else there – he had asked them all to leave, and they had complied, because he was a daimyo. The most powerful daimyo, now that Taro had killed that despicable pig Oda.
Ah, Taro!
He had stood before his son that day, watching the boy shiver with anxiety. He’d seen Taro’s eyes dart to Hana, over and over, as if he were worried she might be discovered as Lord Oda’s daughter – something that seemed to worry him more than his own safety in the shogun’s court. That was good: it suggested a certain nobility in the boy, a certain desire to put others above himself.
It might be that he would even manage to find Kusanagi. Lord Tokugawa certainly hoped so.
He called for Jun. The boy had arrived earlier that day, letting Lord Tokugawa know the moment that Taro reached Edo, so that he could prepare to bump into him after his audience with the shogun. If Taro were to confront the dragon without Kusanagi, he would be burned like a kernel of rice in the furnace, and if there was one thing Lord Tokugawa was not going to tolerate at this moment in time, it was the death of another son. It was bad enough that Lord Oda had held his youngest son captive and allowed him to die of neglect, after forcing Lord Tokugawa to sacrifice his eldest son. This was why he had wanted an audience with Taro as soon as possible, even if he could not reveal that he knew who Taro was.
Now, though, there was a chance Taro, his brave son, would be armed with Kusanagi. A weapon with which he might – just might – kill the dragon. The knowledge filled Lord Tokugawa with relief. He had envisaged the boy roasted by the monster, bringing all that Lord Tokugawa had planned to a premature and hideous end.
Jun entered, bowing. He still bore the mud of the road on his cloak.
‘Dear me,’ said Lord Tokugawa. ‘Were you raised by monkeys on Mount Takao, boy?’
‘I...’ Jun looked down at his muddy clothes. ‘Sorry, my lord,’ he said. ‘I will commit seppuku, if that please you.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t please me, you imbecile,’ said Lord Tokugawa. ‘Just try to remain presentable.’
Jun bowed. ‘Yes, my lord. Was there anything else?’
‘Indeed. Your companions from Mount Hiei. I want you to watch them,’ Lord Tokugawa said. ‘When they leave, follow them. I hope they will go to the inland sea, but follow them anyway. And don’t let them see you. Can you do that?’
Jun laughed. ‘Taro and Hana just gaze into each other’s eyes. And Hiro is a simpleton. It will be easy.’
Lord Tokugawa’s movement was almost languid, but it was also terribly fast. Before Jun could even raise his hands, the daimyo’s hidden short-sword was pressed against the soft flesh of his neck. ‘Never dismiss a task before you fully understand it. There’s more,’ he said icily.
‘Y-yes, my lord?’
‘Once he has been to the inland sea, it is possible that Taro will go to face the dragon that has been terrorizing the mountains north of here. If he does so, you will help him. My son must survive the encounter. He has great things ahead of him, and he must be alive to see them out. If necessary, you will die to protect him. Can you do that? Think more carefully about your answer this time.’
Jun swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Lord Tokugawa, withdrawing the sword. ‘Now go.’
CHAPTER 16
FOR TWO DAYS Taro, Hana and Hiro had walked through a burned, arid landscape, their tongues and throats on fire, their feet blistered and sore.
It wasn’t the dragon that had burned the land. They were far south of Edo now, on a plateau, heading for the temple at Miyajima. It was a drought. The land beside the narrow road was cracked as dead skin, the rivers dry. Starving beggars supplicated them as they passed. Taro had the impression that they had died without realizing it, and found themselves now in the realm of hungry ghosts. It was a high land here, but it was flat, and for as far as the eye could see Taro could perceive only dryness – bleached earth, dead trees.
The first Taro knew of how bad it was came when their horses were stolen. They had not been in the province long – just enough to see the lay of the land, and the way the drought had bitten into the ho
pe and happiness of the people here. They were rounding a bend when at least twenty peasants stepped out from behind some trees, makeshift weapons in their hands.
‘Hand over the horses,’ they said.
‘Wait,’ said Taro. ‘We have money. More than you can sell the horses for.’ His hand went to his coin purse. He wasn’t especially afraid – these people would be no match for a samurai woman, a ninja and a wrestler, all armed with swords that no peasant could afford to buy, even with a lifetime’s wages. But he didn’t want anyone to die unnecessarily, least of all himself. Fights were unpredictable things: he could slice open eight of these men with his sword, only to have his head cut off from behind with a scythe.
The biggest peasant made a spitting gesture but didn’t actually spit. That was how thirsty people were. ‘We don’t want your money,’ he said. ‘We want the horses.’
‘Why?’ said Hana.
‘Because we want to eat them.’
Taro had hesitated, thinking about fighting for them. But they had already passed people who said that the drought had affected the whole province. Would they make it many more ri with the horses anyway? A tear had been in Hana’s eye when they dismounted, handing over the reins, and he had noticed Hiro brushing his eyes when he thought no one was looking too.
But what were they to do? They had to reach the inland sea, and this was the only passable route.
The second indication of how bad things were came when they passed some women, on their knees in drying mud that had once been a rice paddy, scouring the dirt with their fingers. Occasionally one would exclaim in triumph and lift something to her mouth.
‘What are they doing?’ asked Hana.
Taro had grown up a peasant, so he knew. ‘They’re looking for snails,’ he said. ‘They live around the roots of the rice.’
‘Gods,’ said Hana. ‘They must be starving.’
Hiro shook his head, and Taro felt a pang of sadness. There were some things Hana didn’t understand at all. ‘Usually they’d cook them,’ said Hiro. ‘But they always eat the snails.’
‘Why?’ said Hana. ‘They’re growing rice.’
‘Yes. And a third of it goes to the daimyo. That doesn’t leave much to live on.’
Hana didn’t say anything after that. Her father had been a daimyo – she had eaten the rice that belonged to people like this, people reduced to sucking the flesh of dead snails.
Just outside the next small village, they came across a group of emaciated peasants, halfheartedly carrying out a rice-planting ritual. They stood in a thin layer of mud, planting seeds that could not possibly grow and singing in reedy, dry voices.
Plant the young seedlings,
Plant the young sprouts,
Plant them far and wide,
Let women’s hands spread them out.
Yare, yare.
O mighty deity,
God of rice and home,
Were it not for him,
We’d be planting little stones.
Yare, yare.
The rice-planting god,
He ties his kimono with a bright red cord,
But then he sits on his throne
And he looks mighty bored!
Come up and stay,
He likes to say,
Come up to heaven when the rice is gone!
Yare, yare.
With the end line of each verse, they bent forward and pushed their seeds into the mud, the song giving their work rhythm. It was a measure of the misery that had befallen this part of the country that an old man was planting with them, even though planting was traditionally women’s work. Looking at the few women working alongside him, Taro assumed that many had already died. Nor were there many seeds – after only two repetitions of the song, all the rice was planted. It would not take, either, Taro thought. Not enough water. He was uncomfortably aware of the words of the final verse, how the planters wished to join the rice-planting god – a god adored by all peasants, for he provided the food that nourished them – in heaven when the rice ran out, and they died.
Taro was afraid that time would come soon, for these people. He wondered about using the Buddha ball to make it rain, but dismissed the thought guiltily. The ball was too powerful. No good could come from employing it. His hand brushing the roundness of it under his cloak, he went over to the planters.
‘Why are you planting?’ he asked. He hadn’t drunk – water or blood – for the two days they had been in this shallow valley, and his voice came out croaky and cracked. ‘With no water, they won’t grow.’
An old man straightened his back with an audible crackle. He seemed to be the leader of this little band. ‘We’ve always done it,’ he said simply.
Taro regarded their emaciated frames. ‘Do you not have grain stores?’ he asked the peasant.
‘Our taxes go up every year,’ the old man replied. ‘We give more than half to the shogun now.’
‘The shogun?’
‘Yes. He’s the daimyo of this province, and the next.’ The peasant indicated the women and children working with him, their bony frames. ‘Do you have any food?’ he asked. ‘Water?’
Taro shook his head. ‘We didn’t know,’ he said. ‘About the drought. We didn’t bring anything.’ This was mostly true – actually, Hana had a water skin in her pack that was for emergencies. What they were going to eat he had no idea. He wished he hadn’t given the cartload of rice to the shogun’s rice store now; he wished he had it here, with him, and could distribute it to the peasants.
If I was shogun, I would not steal the people’s food, he thought.
‘Here,’ said Hana, throwing the skin to the old man. He caught it deftly enough, then kneeled down in the mud.
‘Thank you, thank you, lady,’ he said.
Taro turned to Hana. She shrugged. ‘They need it more than we do,’ she said. Taro and Hiro exchanged a look. There was no use arguing with Hana – she was a betsushikime, a female warrior, and she was fiercer than her beauty suggested.
‘My lady...’ said the peasant tentatively, from his kneeling position on the ground. Hana turned to him.
‘Yes?’
‘Please... a blessing, if you would? We are simple people. A blessing from a beautiful woman, a samurai, too... it could change our luck. Just a touch, that’s all I ask.’
Hana looked embarrassed, but she took a step towards him and bent down. At that moment the peasant, surprisingly lithe and quick, reared up. He caught her by the hair, and suddenly a knife was in his hand. He pressed it to her neck. ‘We’ll take your money, too,’ he said to Taro.
Taro trembled, with anger and fear. ‘Let her go,’ he said.
‘Your money. Your food. Your weapons. Everything.’
‘Taro,’ said Hiro. ‘We can’t give him everything.’ He glanced meaningfully at Taro’s cloak. The Buddha ball. Taro thought desperately.
He was still thinking when Hana kicked the peasant’s foot out from under him, caught his knife arm as he fell, and twisted it behind his back. Wrenching hard, she made the knife fall from his hand, then pushed him face down into the mud. She left him there for a moment, struggling, then let him up. His face came out of the mud with a sucking sound, and he gasped for breath.
Hana picked up the knife and threw it away. She spoke to the women. ‘This is what happens when you pick on a samurai,’ she said. She reached for the water skin and picked it up. The man looked up at her from the mud with empty terror in his eyes.
Hana met his eyes, hesitated for a moment, then threw the water skin down again by his side. ‘Share it with the others,’ she said.
Taro smiled, shaking his head. In that one gesture were half the things he loved about her. She was walking towards him then, tucking a strand of her disarrayed hair behind her ear, and he couldn’t help smiling.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Just...’ He couldn’t tell her he loved her, the words would not form in his mouth. ‘I think you’re amazing.’
She pull
ed a face. ‘Enough,’ she said, but her tone was gentle, playful. ‘Or I’ll drop you in the mud as well.’ She could, too – at least, if his guard was down. That was another thing he loved about her.
He performed an elaborate bow, as was appropriate for a peasant greeting a samurai. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Very funny.’
With the effusive gratitude of the peasant women ringing in their ears – something which, oddly, made Taro feel ashamed rather than pleased – they carried on down the road. Taro muttered a prayer to Kannon, the bodhisattva of Mercy, to take pity on these peasants and give them rain, give them food to eat. Even the man who had pulled the knife – Taro understood why he had done it. It was thirst and starvation that had forced him. He prayed also to the rice-planting god, who seemed to have abandoned this place.
It didn’t seem that Taro’s prayer was answered – at the next crossroads, they saw a mother holding a baby. Both were dead.
Everywhere they passed they saw the same thing: inns and houses abandoned, beggars lining the road, corpses waiting to be buried. People were emaciated, hollow-eyed. The drought had robbed them of food as well as water. A couple of times Taro was afraid that they would be attacked again, their paltry supplies stolen – but when he twitched his robe to show the hilt of the sword underneath, the peasants backed off.
It was several ri after the third village they passed that morning that they saw the dead being burned. They watched as a shallow grave was dug and lined with trimmed branches and straw. Then the terribly thin, pathetic-looking bodies were placed gently inside it. Finally more wood was piled on top. A peasant dressed in torn rags crouched over a pair of sticks, calling up a spark to set the wood alight. Soon it was burning fiercely. Taro, Hiro and Hana waited as the pyre burned, paying their respects to the unknown dead.
Strangely, though, it didn’t stop there. Taro was surprised to see two men go over to a pile of large stones and begin to roll them, together, towards what were now the smoldering embers of the fire. Between them, they hefted up a rock nearly as big as a man and threw it onto what was left of the bodies. More stones followed, until there was a huge pile of rocks where the ashes had been.
