Eternal Samurai

by B. D. Heywood

  “It is a samurai!” Jurou gasped with dismay. His trembling fingers pointed to the colors of the man’s once-splendid yoroi-hitarre so tattered it no longer concealed the armor beneath. Jurou picked up the horned helmet from the snow, wiped off some of the slush and held it up to the crowd. “See, this crest? It is Emperor Kurosaki’s mons.

  “It cannot be,” a doubting voice cried from within the crowd.

  Jurou stood as fast as his arthritic, old body allowed. “Dare you question me? As a youth, I saw this crest carried by his army as it marched out of Nara.” All nodded their acceptance of this statement. Only Jurou had ever been out of the village.

  “Only a real samurai could have endured crossing the winter sea and been strong enough to climb our mountains,” a villager said, voice tinged with awe.

  The head miner stepped beside Jurou and looked down at the fallen man. “But we sent our petition to the Shogun at the beginning of spring before planting began. Why send someone now after the first winter snow?”

  For the past year, an oni, an evil monster, had been brutally killing villagers during the night. Week after week, screams of horror had rent the chill morning air at the discovery of another body drained of its blood. So far, ten from the tiny community had perished.

  “It is not for us to question the wisdom of the Shogun. He does things in his time. But knows the iron we supply is the purest. He shows he values us by sending this man,” Jurou said.

  The old woman pushed herself to her feet. “Well, there won’t be any value if this man is dead,” she snapped, reclaiming her dignity through her sharp tongue.

  Jurou leaned over the inert body and placed his ear against the warrior’s mouth. “He is alive. I feel his breath.”

  “We are saved,” a young woman cried with joy. Smiles spread over the faces of the villagers at her announcement. They all bowed toward the unconscious man.

  “Not if we let him die,” Jurou shouted. “Stop this foolishness and get him to my home.” Gesturing with flapping hands, he instructed several younger men to lift the horse from its rider. Villagers clustered around clumsily pulling on the warrior’s arms, tugging him from under the bulky carcass.

  Jostling each other for the honor, the villagers carried the warrior up the icy pathway to Jurou’s wooden hut. They maneuvered through the front door and lowered the injured man to the thin straw-filled futon. At Jurou’s impatient gestures, they dragged the rough bedding closer to the smoldering firepit.

  The crone, silent now, banked her meager collection of fagots onto the coals and fanned them to life with the edge of her ragged shawl. The wood was damp, its smoke making everyone cough.

  Jurou’s grandson lit the small oil lamp. It cast a dim circle around the room. “Hurry, we must see to his injuries. Someone fetch the isha, she will know how to heal him.” Jurou regarded the warrior with deep alarm. The samurai’s gaunt, wind-chapped cheeks and the dark hollows beneath his closed eyes attested to his starvation. The right leg bent back at an odd angle, perhaps crushed by the dying horse.

  By now, eight villagers crowded into the small room. “He will need food, warm soup, meat,” one woman said as she wrung her chapped hands and trembled with fear of the privation this would cause everyone.

  “But how? We barely have enough for ourselves. There was so little rice this year, and our few chickens would not go far to sustain one so injured.” The pregnant wife of the mine engineer overstepped her social status to voice the entire village’s concerns.

  “We will all starve,” another lamented, and triggered a babble of agitated voices that filled the tiny hut.

  “Silence.” Everyone cowed at Jurou’s command. “Even if we starve, if our children die crying with empty bellies, we must save this man.” Mutters of fear and dismay rippled through the crowd.

  “What about his horse? Can we use it?” The old woman suggested in a quavering voice.

  “Iie, baka. No, you idiot. A samurai’s warhorse is sacred. We cannot eat it,” a man replied, calling the old woman a fool.

  Jurou glanced down at the unconscious warrior, saw not just an injured man, but the death of the entire village. Wakatta, he understood. Everything lay in Jurou’s hands, including the consequences of his next words.

  “Lord Kurosaki would demand we save his samurai at any cost. He will find it in his heart to forgive us using the warhorse to do so. After all, we did not kill the animal. We are not eta’s, we do not normally butcher animals. But we must make an exception. Strip the carcass. Let no part go to waste. Take the marrow and boil the hooves into a jelly. Bring me the heart of the beast. I will make a rich soup for our guest. And surely the Shogun, in his wisdom, will not begrudge the bones to feed the very serfs who are saving his valued warrior’s life.”

  Three men volunteered to butcher the horse despite the sheer repugnance of the act. They shuffled out of the hut to get knives.

  The candle burned away another hour before a harsh order at the door caused the villagers to crowd apart. Sanba the isha elbowed her way through the crowd to the injured man. Her eyes widened at the sight of the samurai’s broken body.

  “Everyone out. No one should view this man’s indignity.” she ordered. The villagers shuffled through the door, grumbling as they pulled their ragged cloaks tight against the fierce, winter wind. The last man out slid the door into place, leaving Jurou and his young grandson hovering behind Sanba.

  She knelt on the worn tatami and, without looking at the headman or the boy, ordered them to undress the warrior. Together, they unbuckled the warrior’s armor and stripped him to his fundoshi. She clucked with disgust at the filthy state of the undergarment then cut it off and threw it in the fire. A foul stench washed over them. The boy scrambled to open the door and let in the freezing but fresh air.

  “Fetch me another fundoshi. Make sure it is your finest,” she commanded. Jurou bowed in her direction before scuttling into the back room of the house.

  As her gnarled fingers probed his body, Sanba felt a certain admiration for the samurai’s virile physique. Perhaps thirty summers, he was taller and stockier than any man in the village. His broad chest covered with black hair tapered down to a slim waist. When returned to full strength, the warrior would have thick muscular thighs and calves. The samurai’s head was high and narrow with a noble brow and wide-set eyes. His face, covered by stubble, was not handsome but his wide nose, sensuous lips and cleft chin spoke of a noble line.

  Though Sanba no longer desired what hung between a man’s legs, she admired the long cock curled against the samurai’s large, dark balls. Then, almost blushing at how her thoughts violated this nobleman, she turned her mind on the business of her craft.

  Sanba sighed with relief when she found the knee was dislocated but not broken. “Hold his foot. Twist it the moment I say,” she commanded Jurou. Together they moved the limb back into place. She splinted the samurai’s leg with bamboo staves and secured it with hemp.

  Then she turned to the source of the rank stench of putrification that filled the room. The samurai’s left calf was inflamed from ankle to knee by a deep festering wound. Sanba prayed the man would stay unconscious as she scraped away the putrid flesh then washed the leg with hot water and salt. Despite his deep coma, a moan of pain escaped the man’s lips.

  As Sanba worked, she chanted healing prayers to her kami. When satisfied she had removed all the rotten flesh, she applied a poultice of mashed herbs and roots. She washed off the soiled privates. Finally, she and Jurou wrapped the man in the clean fundoshi and covered him with blankets.

  “We must do everything within our power to save his life. In turn, he will save ours.” She handed Jurou a packet wrapped in a dockleaf. “Make him drink this in a tea at least four times per day. Force it down his throat if you must. Burn everything you own if you must but do not let him get chilled. Keep him still. I have a child to deliver in the next village, but I will be back tomorrow at the hour of the dragon. Pray that he lives. If not, Shogun Kurosaki
will not be forgiving no matter how much iron we mine for him.” Sanba bowed then hurried into the storm.

  Jurou and his grandson looked at each other in fright. Yes, they feared the oni, but they feared the Shogun’s wrath even more. If the samurai died, Emperor Kurosaki would execute the entire village.

  The murmurs of voices dragged Ukita Sadomori away from the soft pillows of the courtesan’s jasmine-scented breasts. Before his eyes opened, his nostrils told him he had only been dreaming he was in the Pearl House of Pleasure. The poor incense failed to mask the unpleasant odors of a peasant’s hut. Sadomori opened his eyes to peer into the wrinkled face of a woman looming over him.

  Sadomori struggled to sit up, but the old woman pushed him down with a gnarled hand on his chest. He opened his mouth to berate her for laying her coarse, peasant hands on him. His voice came out like the croak of a summer frog.

  “Please, rest noble lord. Here, drink this tea.” Before he could refuse, Sanba placed the lip of a bowl against his lips and poured a small sip down his mouth. It soothed his parched throat. He swallowed. A warm lassitude spread through his limbs, and he slipped into a deep natural sleep.

  “He will live now.” Sanba sat back on her heels, pleased at the success of her ministrations. “Tell everyone our lives may be spared.”

  With a wide smile, Jurou hurried from his home into the snow-ladened streets. Shouts of joy soon filled the air as the villagers rejoiced in the reprieve from the fear that had gripped them for days.

  He ordered the warrior’s armor and yoroi-hitarre be cleaned and repaired. The nodachi remained sheathed in its scabbard. The law of the samurai—no, the law of the land—decreed instant death for any peasant who touched a samurai’s weapon without permission. But, all this reverential care of the warrior’s weapons might mean aught. Despite an exhaustive search, the man’s naginata had not been found.

  Jurou feared several in the village, including him, would pay the ultimate penalty for the loss of the spear. He forced away his worries. Life was life and death was death, neh? They would do what they could.

  He demanded every household offer what valuables it had to replace the horse. Small coins, family heirlooms and ornaments filled a cloth sack. Men went in search of a mount suitable for a warhorse. If the animal were fine enough, maybe the samurai’s anger would be mollified. If not, the warrior could demand a man’s death—probably Jurou’s for authorizing the horse’s consumption.

  Five days later, Ukita Sadomori sat up. Although weak, he vented his anger at the loss of his horse. Then acknowledged the condition of his armor—fastidiously cleaned by Jurou—with a reluctant grunt of approval. He gulped down his first meal with no show of courtly manners. A villager brought him a clay jar of sake, which the samurai downed in one long gulp. With a huge belch, the sated warrior rolled on his side away from the peasants serving him and fell asleep.

  Since that day, the village had struggled to feed the warrior who healed with surprising speed. Within a week, he began to hobble around the hut using a bamboo cane. Then he demanded pillow rights. Jurou sent his young niece. The girl was a virgin. Nevertheless, the next morning she told her uncle that Ukita-san praised her creamy skin and shy obedience.

  Ten days later, Sadomori summoned the village elders to Jurou’s hut. The five men pressed their foreheads to the tatami. They trembled, afraid yet prepared to die at Ukita Sadomori’s whim. True, they had saved the samurai’s life but they had butchered and consumed his horse. After a wait of many interminable minutes, the samurai grunted permission for them to raise their foreheads from the floor.

  Jurou’s face reflected nothing but calm although his heart pounded with fear. He cast a sideways glance at the samurai who was truly resplendent in a new kimono sewn by Jurou’s daughter. Yes, her work was above reproach and the fabric the finest the village had to offer. Jurou’s satisfaction further increased as each man suitably groveled before the warrior. Surely, the honor of his village would increase.

  Sadomori sat immobile on a stiff cushion with his healing leg extended straight out. His nodachi rested by his left hand. The blade faced away from him ready for use at a moment’s notice. He was not pleased with the new yukata. The garments were crude, the silk not fine. The undergarment scratched each time he moved and bunched awkwardly around his waist. He had the right to kill these simpering men for this affront alone. However, Shogun Kurosaki needed them.

  Jurou’s daughter entered on silent feet, her back bowed almost flat, eyes downcast. She placed tea before Sadomori and backed out of the room on her knees. The samurai nodded to the headman to pour.

  “Tell me about this oni, every detail. Leave out nothing even your own cowardly actions. Only then can I form a plan to rid my Lord of this nuisance.” His impassive expression revealed none of his doubt in the villagers’ story.

  One by one in order of social rank, the miners told of the fifteen bizarre deaths since the previous spring. Over the next few hours, Sadomori listened implacably to their tales of horror. He searched for inconsistencies as much as facts, winnowing out embellishments that arose from pride or fear.

  “Get out. I’ve heard enough of your simpering.” He dismissed them with an annoyed wave.

  The miners shuffled out of the hut. “What if he doesn’t believe us?” one man voiced the fears of all.

  “Hai, hai, he showed no emotion as we told our tales,” another replied.

  “Baka, fools. Of course he believes us. But samurai never show emotion. Now get back to work and stop these foolish musings.” The head miner Hideke stomped away toward his hut to hide his concerns. Ukita-san had snorted with derision at their descriptions of the killings. There was no proof of the oni’s existence.

  The next morning, Hideke’s eldest son was found dead, drained of blood. The villagers’ wails of sorrow echoed off the mountains as they carried the body to Jurou’s home.

  Ignoring the grieving family, Sadomori examined the corpse, taking his time with the four puncture wounds in the throat. “Bring me your maps of the mine,” he ordered.

  “Hai, hai, most noble lord.” Still sobbing, Hideke dashed from the house to return a few minutes later with a worn rice scroll. He dropped to his knees, lowered his head until it pressed against the tatami then, at Sadomori’s grunt of acceptance, scuttled closer to proffer the precious map.

  Sadomori spread the fragile document across his lap. His leg was stiff but now bore his weight with little pain.

  “As you see, most noble Lord, there are several blind adits that we use to enter the mine.” The engineer’s grimy fingers shook as he pointed to lines branching from the central chamber. “Several sections collapsed during last spring’s snowmelt, and water fills many. We believe the oni hides in one of them during the day.”

  The samurai studied the scroll for a full candlemark. During that long hour, the miners knelt immobile, fearful of making the slightest whisper of sound and interrupt his concentration.

  “Tomorrow give me a torch bearer. I kill this demon. I shall bear its head to my Lord Kurosaki. My family and my descendants will have proof of my prowess and my honor.”

  “My grandson will accompany you, most noble Lord.” Jurou bowed, head pressed hard against the tattered mat. He was unable to keep the pleasure from his voice at this rare opportunity to gain status for his family.

  The next morning, the anxious villagers huddled inside their huts. None would venture out to watch the warrior leave on his mission. Nevertheless, through their paper-thin walls, they heard the samurai order the youth to follow, and the fading crunch of their footsteps in the snow as the two entered the forest.

  At the entrance to the iron mine, Sadomori squeezed through the narrow opening of the adit into the main chamber. He squatted and studied each branch. The minute but odd displacement of fallen rubble at the entrance to one tunnel spoke volumes to the seasoned warrior. This tunnel hid the lair of the oni.

  Ignoring the bone-deep chill permeating the air, he avoided the many pool
s created by constant drip of water from the ceiling and down the scarred walls. They inched down the incline deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Soon he and the boy were ankle-deep in freezing water.

  Twice Sadomori turned to cuff the youth for lagging behind. Terrified yet determined to fulfill his duty, the boy accepted his punishment with no noise. Sadomori gave him a small, grudging approval.

  Frequently, he halted, held his breath and let the darkness speak to him. Heard nothing save the groans and creaks of the mountain, the pervasive drip of condensation down the walls.

  Their feet slipped as the incline of the slime-wet ground increased. The tunnel narrowed, forcing even the boy to crouch. Sadomori discarded his helmet. He cursed the bandits who had stolen his naginata. However, in the confines of the mine, the long spear would have been a hindrance. Hours passed as they navigated turn after turn, going ever deeper into labyrinth of the mine.

  At every deep fissure and juncture, Sadomori paused and scrutinized the shadows before moving on. It was now night by his estimate. He grunted with a deep satisfaction. By his reckoning, the monster should be awake. In his pride, Sadomori planned to fight the demon not slay it while it slept.

  The torch flame flickered wildly as a sharp gust of air blew past them. Sadomori smelled the hint of an odor not natural to man or beast. Then he heard the merest exhalation of a breath. It was the only warning he had.

  The boy shrieked once before death took him. His body fell with a splash into the stream, extinguishing the torch with a hiss, and enfolding Sadomori and his attacker in complete darkness.

  Sadomori, trained to fight blindfolded, spun toward the enemy, locating the oni by the wet sound of its breathing. With lightning moves, Sadomori slashed his blade back and forth. Snarls of anger and pain followed every strike.

  He felt his blade tip of graze some part of the creature’s torso. Sadomori lunged, putting all his strength into driving the sword home. As he shifted his weight to his front leg, his sandaled foot slipped, only a little, but enough. His deathdealing thrust skidded along the monster’s ribcage. Before Sadomori recovered his balance, talonned fingers locked around his throat.