Daughter of the Sword

by Steve Bein

  “That you could,” said the abbot. “But then, had I slowed to match your pace, you could have cut me down for taking note of your weakness and accommodating it. In truth, it’s your prerogative to cut me down whenever you like. Better for me to go on as I’m accustomed, and for you to do the same.”

  They stood on the flagstones of a walkway surrounding a rock garden of gray pebbles. Large stones stood out among the pebbles like lichen-flecked islands, like turtles surfacing out of a pond. In the center of the garden stood a living contradiction: an enormous dwarf pine. Its gnarled branches twisted like plumes of smoke in a crosswind, and its moss-covered roots crawled through the rock garden like snakes. It was tall by any standards, colossal by the standards of its own species. Daigoro realized he must have seen it countless times before, for its crown would be easily visible even from the Okuma stronghold. Until now he’d mistaken it for an ordinary pine.

  “Our masterpiece,” the abbot said as Daigoro gaped at the tree. “This temple was built a hundred years ago, in celebration of the three hundredth birthday of this tree. On the day this tree first took root, that sword of yours was already an old man. Today the two old grandfathers finally meet, neh?”

  Daigoro gave a slow nod. The sunlight hit the uppermost needles just so, shooting a white light through the treetop. The sight of it took his breath away. For the first time he understood how a man could give up everything he had to spend his life in a building like this one. If he were going to pursue enlightenment, this would be the perfect setting.

  “Why is this place called Temple of the Twining Vines?” Daigoro asked. “Why not Temple of the Ancient Pine?”

  “Everything is entwined by vines, young lord. This temple, this tree—to exist is to be entwined. The vines that entangle you are so heavy I can see the lines they leave on your face. You are too young to wear such lines, Okuma-san. What troubles you?”

  Before he knew it, Daigoro was sharing everything. His frustrated desire to obey his father’s will, his inability to find the path, his care for his brother, for their mother, for his family’s honor: he laid it all bare. “I am so conflicted,” he said, “that I no longer have any idea where to go. Maybe I should stay here and send this cursed sword back home with a messenger. Maybe I should shave my topknot and spend the rest of my life in your temple.”

  The abbot shrugged. “Why don’t you?”

  “I cannot. My sense of Bushido tells me I cannot. So does the ghost of my father.”

  “Then don’t,” said the abbot. “Just walk with me instead. Let the old grandfathers visit for a spell.”

  Daigoro followed the old abbot along the flagstones leading around the garden of the great tree. They climbed the shaded steps of the main meditation hall, a low, broad building of deep brown wood and red banners. Daigoro removed his gold silk overrobe, laid it on the floorboards of the porch surrounding the temple, then removed Glorious Victory from his belt and nestled it in the silk. He laid his wakizashi beside it. It was strange being unarmed in public. He knew he should have felt vulnerable, but in truth he was strangely liberated.

  Daigoro and the abbot ambled around the perimeter of the rock garden. An eastern breeze heavily laden with the smells of copper and steam made Daigoro guess the temple’s bathhouse was nearby. “How do you know so much about me?” he asked.

  “I was a young samurai myself once.” The abbot turned and smiled at him. “Do you think your experience is so unique? All of us have turmoil. We are all entwined.”

  “But how do you know so much about my sword? The last time I saw you, you identified it as an Inazuma on sight.”

  “That is a very famous sword,” the abbot said with a chuckle. “Those of us who dedicate ourselves to the sword as I once did…well, we make it our business to know such things, neh? Yours is known as Glorious Victory, I think.”

  That gave Daigoro pause. “How did you know that?”

  “Have you ever dismantled that sword, boy?”

  Daigoro didn’t need to answer; he could tell the abbot already knew he hadn’t. They wandered along the flagstone path, passing between the south end of the meditation hall and a small tea house behind a short fence of bamboo. Soon they reached what Daigoro guessed to be the abbey, judging from the many pairs of sandals arrayed along one wall of the entryway.

  The abbot shed his own sandals, left Daigoro there for a moment, and when he returned, he carried a small oblong box of white oak. Daigoro immediately recognized it for what it was: a sword cleaning kit. The two of them returned to the meditation hall, where, as he’d expected, Daigoro found his swords lying just as he’d left them. At last he identified his earlier feeling of liberation. It wasn’t that no one here would dare to steal the swords, though of course no one would. It was that no one here wanted a sword. Even an Inazuma blade was no temptation at all.

  With precise, methodical movements, the abbot began to take apart the ōdachi’s grip. As he worked, Daigoro said, “Tell me the truth: is the sword cursed?”

  “It is and it isn’t. It depends on your perspective.”

  Looking up, the abbot saw the look of vexation Daigoro knew he’d been unable to wholly conceal. “You think I’m being evasive,” said the abbot. “You think all Zen priests speak in riddles. Well, maybe we do, but not this time. Look here.”

  He’d removed the sword’s grip entirely, exposing the metal tang at its heart. There was Inazuma’s mark stamped into the steel below the etched name of the sword: Glorious Victory Unsought.

  “I don’t understand,” said Daigoro. “My father didn’t know the name of his own sword?”

  “I suspect he knew it better than anyone. This sword has been called Glorious Victory for a long time, for that is what it brings—provided the wielder does not seek it himself. Not many understand this, but I think you will. It is a mixed blessing, neh, to bring victory only when it is unlooked for. Those who seek their fame through the blade will inevitably lose it, while those who do not seek it will gain it.”

  Daigoro frowned at the sword. “I still don’t understand. Inazuma is said to be the greatest of all sword smiths. Why would he make a weapon so fickle?”

  “Is it fickle? As I heard it told, the master’s own glory was unsought. Think of it: to be remembered throughout the ages for creating instruments of death. As I heard it, Master Inazuma was sickened by the carnage his blades had wrought. Some were said to be cursed, others were said to be blessed, but in every case his blades were the best at shedding blood. It is not a reputation to help an old man sleep at night. Glorious Victory Unsought was the last sword he made, his final masterpiece. It would reward the best of warriors and punish the worst of them. You tell me if that’s fickle.”

  Daigoro still frowned at the sword. The abbot laid a wrinkled hand on his forearm. “Have you studied the classics of warfare, young master?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you will know the line from Sun Tzu: ‘Those skilled in war subdue the enemy without battle.’ Your father had that skill. He fought only when he had to, and then fought to victory no matter the cost. His men knew their lives would never be spent rashly, and so they threw themselves headlong into any battle he chose. Such a man is terrible to face on the field. Against him there can be no victory.”

  Daigoro looked up, sudden understanding spreading through his mind like water soaked up by a cloth. “You fought against him, didn’t you?”

  “Fought?” The abbot chuckled. “No, he assured his victory before any of us had the chance to draw swords. We were outflanked, outnumbered, and outfoxed. I could not wear my topknot after that. He showed me what a samurai truly is, and I realized then that I could not both attain that status and fight against him. I could not betray my own lord, so I shaved my head and retired my swords. And now here I sit, giving counsel to the son of the man who bested my master.”

  He chuckled again, and Daigoro smiled with him. “Quite a reputation, your father,” said the abbot. “So renowned in battle, yet such a
peacemaker.”

  “That was why my grandfather made him head of the clan,” Daigoro said, as much to himself as to anyone else. “That was why his brothers were bitter toward him. It had nothing to do with the sword.”

  “I expect so,” said the abbot. “Many a skilled warrior would misunderstand that trait, and misunderstand the conquests that come with it. It was because he avoided combat where he could that his victories were so glorious.”

  “My brother would not like to hear you say it. You make it sound as if our father ran from combat.”

  “Ran? No. I said avoided. Outmanuevered might be closer to the truth. He fought when he had to, but only when he had to. That is the way your brother doesn’t understand—though he may come to understand it now, given his injuries.”

  “Hm,” Daigoro said. “You’ve been watching us very closely, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. When your father defeated my former lord, he became my teacher. I studied him carefully. How could I not study his sons?”

  Daigoro could not help but grin. “Some would accuse you of spying,” he said. “Some would say you bring warfare into what is supposed to be a house of peace.”

  The abbot inclined his head. “Peace is like everything else: a relative state. I just go on as I am accustomed. As you do. As your brother does.”

  The smile fell from Daigoro’s face. “It’s because I go on as I do that my brother is buried up to his neck. He may die, all because I did not give him the sword.”

  “He may live, all because you did not give him the sword.”

  Daigoro’s mind lurched, then stopped. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Could the sword have denied Ichirō victory just because he was seeking it? If so, how had their father survived so many battles? How could he fight without wanting to win?

  He could not. It was impossible, at least for one who was not suicidal. To fight was to fight for survival. Daigoro was sure of it. But now, looking at the serene face of the abbot, he realized he’d asked the wrong question. It was not how to fight without wanting to win, but how to win without wanting to fight.

  “Tell me what I must do,” he said. “Help me find the path.”

  “No one can lead you to it,” said the abbot. “Bushido is a path every warrior must find for himself. But I can tell you what to do with this sword. Remember what I told you before: your problem is the best kind of problem, because it contains its own solution. Go back to your Sun Tzu: ‘All warfare is based on deception.’ Find that passage; study what else he says there. You’re a bright lad; the answer will not escape you.”

  Daigoro watched in silence as the abbot’s sure fingers reconstructed Glorious Victory Unsought. He could neither speak nor move; he was totally engrossed in committing what the old man had said to memory. The ōdachi was back in its scabbard, whole and ready for battle, by the time Daigoro could utter words again.

  “I think House Okuma would do well to call a warrior like you one of its own,” he told the abbot. “I have half a mind to invite you back to the compound with me.”

  “I would respectfully decline,” the abbot said with a bow. “It’s too late for me; this old head of mine can’t grow enough hair to make a topknot anymore.”

  Daigoro smiled. “Maybe not. All the same, in times of trial you’d be a good man to have.”

  The two of them walked past the great dwarf pine toward the temple gate, this time at Daigoro’s pace. “This old tree has survived many an earthquake and weathered many a storm,” the abbot said. “That sword of yours has too. It’s all any of us can do.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Daigoro bowed to him, thanked him, and took his leave.

  48

  All warfare is based on deception,” the book read. Daigoro’s copy of the Sun Tzu was tattered along the edges. Like all samurai his age, he’d read it over a hundred times, committed whole chapters to memory, discussed it and the other classics innumerable times with his father and other martial instructors. The book was so worn that the edges of its wooden covers were soft in Daigoro’s hands. He read on.

  Even before he’d finished the page, he understood the old abbot’s advice. At last he had a strategy. At last he could put Glorious Victory Unsought to good use.

  Three months after the duel with Ōda Yoshitomo, Yagyū and his healers dug Ichirō out of the pit. His body had all but wasted away, and he stank worse than a corpse, worse than an outhouse. The stink alone was enough to earn Daigoro’s pity; even if Ichirō were to reach his hundredth birthday, he would never outlive the shame of it. Not even the eta smelled so bad. Daigoro doubted even the southern barbarians could stink so, and the stories he’d heard of them almost made him retch.

  It was another week before Ichirō could walk on his own under the red leaves of the maples in the compound, another month before he resumed daily sword practice. His skill with the bow, the healers said, would never return to him, for he could not turn his head far enough to sight down his left arm. But when he picked up his sword again, the men were astonished: it was as if he’d never been hurt. He trained with an intensity Daigoro associated with typhoons, with cornered animals. Ichirō had lost a good deal of stamina, but none of his speed and precision.

  The Okuma samurai marveled at him, but Daigoro had anticipated as much. Every day Ichirō had been imprisoned in the rice, he had relived his last duel in his mind. Daigoro expected no less of him. He was samurai, after all; dedication ran through his veins. While he was healing in the rice, the itching had brought him to the brink of madness, but every time he returned from the brink, he meditated on combat.

  “I’ve learned something of Ōda Yoshitomo,” Daigoro told his brother after a practice session. Ichirō still eyed the Inazuma blade, but said nothing about it. “He’s won over forty duels,” Daigoro continued. “Most of them with steel blades, I hear.”

  Ichirō was panting, but he stopped upon hearing Daigoro’s words. He sat next to Daigoro on the veranda, his toes brushing the sand, Daigoro’s dangling in the air. “From whom?”

  “I rode into Shimoda last week,” said Daigoro. “A meeting with the other clans—you weren’t riding yet. I overheard a pair of messengers eating on the roadside. One of them said Ōda is famous for what he calls his ‘Hawk and Phoenix’ style. They said he uses a trademark sidestepping cut—he calls it his ‘Diving Hawk’ cut. It seems you’re the only one who ever survived it.”

  “What an honor,” Ichirō grumbled.

  “I think it is. Ōda claims to have killed horses with it. These messengers spoke of a Rising Phoenix and a Diving Hawk, and they said Ōda wins nearly all of his duels with his Diving Hawk.”

  “He won against me with it too.”

  “Yes,” Daigoro said, “but don’t you see? You survived the cut that fells horses. You survived the cut that’s slain some three dozen men. What does that say of you?”

  Ichirō nodded at that, and the grim hold on his face softened so that he almost smiled. Standing, he said, “Thank you, little brother. We Okumas are forged from fine steel, neh? And not just our swords.”

  Daigoro grinned at him as he walked slowly across the courtyard under the setting sun. We Okumas, he’d said. We.

  49

  A month later, snow was thick on the ground and Daigoro and Ichirō were finishing dinner in a mountainside inn near the Ashigara checkpoint. Ichirō had come as head of the clan, to hear a request for troops from another of General Toyotomi’s emissaries. He’d invited Daigoro along for the company, and despite the wind and the chill Daigoro had been more than happy to oblige him.

  “Open this place up,” Ichirō bade the serving girl. “That wall there—open it. Let us see the garden.”

  The serving girl obliged him immediately, despite the irregularity of his request. As she slid the shoji aside, a cold draft flowed over the low table; the steam off the rice took on a whiter, thicker hue.

  “Think of it,” Ichirō said. “Not fifty paces beyond this table, the Tokaidō Road is a mi
re of brown, trampled slush. Yet here, just outside our room, the snow on the rocks is pristine and white. The sake is warm in my belly, yet barely fifty paces before me, people are miserable, trudging through the cold.”

  Broad white flakes fell like cherry blossoms in spring, thickening the blanket on the rock garden outside. Steam rose from the hot spring pond in the garden, moistening the smell of the winter wind. The pond would never freeze, nor even grow cold. Beyond the garden wall, beyond the snow-laden branches of the spruce trees, Daigoro could hear the last of the evening travelers making their way down the Tokaidō. “It is a good night to be indoors,” he said.

  “It is a good night to be an Okuma.”

  A timid knock came at the hallway door behind them, which then slid open. The owner of the inn knelt beside it, his head bowed low enough for his chin to touch the brown kimono covering his chest. At first Daigoro thought the man had come to ask them to close off the cold wind. If he had, Daigoro would have been half-impressed, half-offended, by the impudence of the request. But instead the inn owner said, “A visitor for you, my lords.”

  “Who?” asked Ichirō.

  “A master Ōda Yoshitomo. Begging your pardon eternally, my lords. He was most insistent.”

  Without a word, Ōda stepped into the room and knelt beside the doorway. He slid the door shut without dismissing the owner, and his bow to Ichirō and Daigoro was slight. “I am told you bested Katsushima Goemon,” he said.

  “That is a fact,” said Ichirō.

  “I fought Katsushima to a draw three years ago. I have trouble believing you beat him.”

  Daigoro could see Ichirō stiffen, but he was duly impressed by his brother’s self-control. His brush with death had changed him.

  “Three years is a long time,” said Ichirō. “Perhaps Katsushima has grown slower with age.”

  “He is not an old man. I doubt it.”

  “Have some tea,” said Daigoro. “Or sake, if you’d prefer.”

  “I am also told,” said Ōda, “that you boast to be the only man who’s survived my Diving Hawk.”