“And your nose . . . modern diviners never pay enough attention to noses, in my opinion.” Holding the naginata’s shaft loosely in her hands, Cat circled to the left.
Cat had studied many aspects of the warrior’s Way, but she had worked hard at only one endeavor in her life. She had practiced with the naginata from the time she was big enough to hold a small one. She had begun serious training at the age of seven.
The naginata was a heavy weapon and required great stamina to wield, but the weight of it felt good in her hands. The year away from it seemed only an instant. She remembered Oishi’s calm voice as he coached her in Ten-no-michi, Heaven’s Way. She was glad now that he had insisted she use a variety of naginata so she didn’t develop a preference for one.
Cat held her chin high and looked straight ahead. Her nostrils flared as she felt vigor flowing up into her scalp. She had a three-foot reach on the swordsmen, and they were cautious. But Cat could tell they didn’t consider her dangerous.
‘ ‘You have an eagle’s nose.” She turned to the leader to divert the others’ attention as she moved to keep the sun on her right.
You must drive the enemy together as if tying a line of fishes, Musashi wrote. And when they are piled up, cut them down without giving them room to maneuver.
With a sudden cry and using her lead hand as a fulcrum, Cat whirled, hissed, and snapped her rear hand upward. Because strokes with the naginata were made not with the lead hand, but with the rear one, it slashed faster than a sword and didn’t signal its movements. And so, when the long, curved blade swooped down, the second man didn’t move quickly enough.
Cat clearly saw, as though time had slowed, astonishment streak across his face when the blade sliced deep into his right shoulder. He dropped his sword. Blood spurted from his ripped sleeve. Cat flipped the blade up and felt the slight tug as it disengaged from his flesh. She was beyond all conscious thought now, or fear or elation.
With quick, small steps she lunged and swirled in a blur of motion. Her long blade described flashing circles in the sunlight as she parried and feinted. She slid her hands easily along the smooth shaft, snapping it downward, then reversing her grip to bring it up again in deadly arcs. She made low, horizontal sweeps at the men’s shins, keeping them hopping to avoid amputation.
From the corner of her eye she saw the painter of paper lanterns run toward her with a sword he had hidden in his rolled sleeping mat. Too fast to see, she reversed the naginata shaft and smashed the butt of it sideways into his nose as he came abreast of her. She heard a crack as the oak crumpled the cartilage. The artist’s eyes widened in surprise and chagrin before he sprawled in the sand and lay still.
Cat severed the third man’s sword hand at the wrist. People scattered as he stumbled into the tea shop. With his good arm he knocked the kettle to one side and plunged the bleeding stump into the glowing coals. It hissed and steamed and sent out an odor of charring flesh. Backed up against the back wall, the waitress screamed steadily.
“Ma!” Viper tucked his feet under him, sucked on a straw, and watched raptly.
When the leader tried to dart into sword range, Cat swiveled the curved blade downward again and sliced his ear off at the skull. Demoralized, he turned to run, and she swept the blade low, severing both ankle tendons.
“Ancient Chinese diviners wrote,” she called after him as he crawled away, “that ‘a man with a nose like an eagle’s beak will peck at another man’s heart.’ “
Cat threw the ten coppers the woman had given her onto the wide, flat prow of the ferryboat. She didn’t know if the amount was enough, but it would have to do. She turned toward the tea house where the ferryman cowered. Viper and Cold Rice and their kago had wisely disappeared before the authorities could arrive. Viper must have realized that the young priest didn’t need his help and that staying there would surely mean trouble.
Cat stood her naginata upright and hung on to it, panting. “Ferryman,” she shouted. “Take me across.”
CHAPTER 16
COLD EVEN TO HIS GUMS
Hanshiro sat cross-legged in the shelter of the straw mat he had thrown over a bamboo pole propped up by a forked stick. Up-river from Kawasaki, he shared the grove of bare willows at the Yaguchi ford with a big bronze bell hanging under a wooden roof with upswept eaves. The willows didn’t stop a cold wind from blowing in off the river.
Now and then dusty travelers stopped to dip water from a small stone basin in front of the bell. They rinsed their hands and mouths, purifying themselves for a small act of worship. They pulled on the cord that swung the horizontally suspended log into the bell. The low-pitched tolling vibrated in Hanshiro’s chest.
He could have stayed at the shack that served as an inn here at the ford, but he knew it was infested with fleas. And when possible he preferred to keep watch himself instead of hiring someone to do it. So this lean-to under the rustling, bare branches of the willows had been his home for the past three days. Frankly, as the old saying went, his teeth were itchy. He was impatient and irritable.
Hanshiro was impatient with his impatience. Time is an illusion invented by the mind, he reminded himself.
The past didn’t exist. The future didn’t exist. The only reality was the moment. But the moment was cold.
He leaned over the river embankment and dipped a broad section of green bamboo into the fast-moving water. He fed willow twigs into the tiny fire he had built between three flat rocks. Then he balanced the bamboo container on the rocks and drew closer for the warmth. While he waited for the water to heat, he mended a torn tabi.
He used his thumbnail to push the needle through the seam in the canvas. He knotted the cotton thread, bit it off, and wrapped the remaining length around the needle. He stowed it among the packets of ginseng and bear gall and powdered horn in the inro, the set of small nested lacquered boxes hanging from his sash. He put the tabi back on and tied his straw sandal on over it.
He measured tea leaves into a small cup. Using his towel to insulate his fingers from the heat, he picked up the bamboo pot and poured water over the leaves. He let it steep, holding the narrow, cylindrical cup in his big hands and enjoying the warmth emanating from the porcelain. He stared out at the parade of humanity.
In the middle of the deep ford four porters were demanding more money to carry an enormous wrestler across. Hanshiro could hear them complaining about his weight. They were threatening to tip the platform on which he rode and spill him into the icy river.
It was an old ruse; and given the fact that the collected intellect of the five would not have filled a sake cup, it was comical. But Hanshiro was not amused.
With a willow withe he drew a circle in the sand. It was lopsided. The circle was a test of clarity of mind, and Hanshiro had just failed it. He sighed.
This woman was interfering with his rhythm, with his concentration. Where had she gone? How could she vanish in less than two and a half narrow ri of road? Losing her was like losing an ant on a bell rope.
A detour west across the mountains was unthinkable. They were precipitous and uncharted and infested with brigands. Maybe she went by sea or hired a boat to cross the river, although he knew Kira’s men had been questioning all the fishermen between here and Edo. No one admitted to seeing her. And if Kira’s men were inept at swordplay, they were very able at intimidating the lower classes.
In fact, they must have visited Nakamura Shichisaburo again, and Shichisaburo’s memory must have improved. Kira’s agents were now asking about a komuso, a priest of empty nothing.
Hanshiro knew Kira’s men hadn’t taken Cat. Three of them were waiting near the ferry, and two of them were here, lounging in the shade of a roofed well on the approach to the ford. They scratched themselves frantically as they squatted over dice. They had been staying at the inn.
Hanshiro continued his methodical analysis. He was trying to slip into the body and mind of the small fugitive as he had just slipped into his own tabi. He was finding it much more difficult t
han usual.
Hanshiro had a young informant at the ferry, and so far he hadn’t reported seeing a wandering priest of Cat’s description there. Maybe she had changed disguises. Maybe a procurer had kidnapped her or lured her back into service. Maybe she had been sold and now sat in one of the lath cages in the maze of brothels back in Edo, but Hanshiro doubted it.
Hanshiro was used to looking beyond appearances into the essence of a matter, and he had revised his initial opinion of the runaway. This woman was surrounded by mysterious deaths and disappearances. She had a naginata, and she would not, he was sure, allow herself to be captured without a fight. Any such incident would have been a prime topic of conversation among the travelers and denizens of the TMkaidM.
Both Shichisaburo and the old woman who sold grilled eels had said she was alone; but maybe they were wrong. Maybe unknown accomplices had hidden her. Hanshiro decided that was the most logical explanation.
He took the blue silk scarf from his jacket and untied it. The coil of black hair inside was still glossy. He raised the scarf to his face and breathed in. The hair no longer had an aroma. After three days of separation from its owner, it had lost her essence. It was neutral and uninformative. He wrapped it up again and returned it to his sleeve.
With the willow twig he began tracing characters in the sand. He was amused by the cynical old verse that came to mind. It described three impossible things.
Sincere courtesans,
Square eggs, and a fat full moon
On the month’s last day.
Even the act of writing such a foolish verse calmed Hanshiro. It gave order to what was turning into a disordered affair. He drew another circle, much more symmetrical this time.
The wind plucked at his sleeve and funneled down the neck of his old coat. He erased the verse and wrote one of Basho’s.
The salted bream
Looks cold even to his gums,
On the fishmonger’s shelf
He felt like that bream, cold and waiting on a shelf.
“Tosa!” A boy dodged through the travelers gathered in small knots to haggle with the river porters. He raced across the sand and into the willows. He carefully avoided the poem Hanshiro had just drawn. He dropped to his knees and bowed low. “Tosa, the priest came to the ferry landing. Four men attacked him.”
Hanshiro rubbed the stubble on his chin and stared out at the river. He had given Lady Asano too much credit. She had walked into Kira’s men’s trap.
“He beat them, master,” the boy said.
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Hanshiro hissed, maybe in surprise, maybe in warning. The boy had never lied to him before. Was he doing it now?
“He’s a naginata player.” The boy jumped to his feet. He made whistling noises as he flung his arms about, imitating Cat’s fighting style. “They’re calling him the Devil Youth. They say he’s the ghost of Yoshitsune and he studied with the mountain demons.”
The boy had been enthralled by a lad, not much older than he, beating three samurai and one sword-wielding lantern painter.
“Maybe he was a different holy man.”
“I think he was the one you seek, master. The whole village is as excited as a madman stung by a hornet. The magistrate is shouting about all the reports he’ll have to write.”
Hanshiro ducked out from under the mat and began to roll it up, along with the one on which he had been sitting. “What happened?”
“He was splen ...” The boy hesitated. He didn’t want to insult Hanshiro by praising another. “He defended himself well enough for one so young. But of course a naginata is a woman’s weapon. It gives the wielder an unfair advantage.”
Hanshiro tied a cord around the ends of the roll of mats, leaving a long loop in the middle. He put the loop over his head and adjusted it across his collarbone.
“Where did they take him?”
“He escaped.” The boy grinned. “They were too busy picking up the ears and hands the Devil Youth left scattered about.”
“Is that right?” Hanshiro stared hard at him. Was the boy teasing him?
“It’s true.”
Hanshiro held out a packet of coppers, and the boy bowed and accepted them. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know, master.” The boy was apologetic. “No one rode across in the ferry with the mad priest, except the ferryman.”
Within three or four minutes Hanshiro had packed his meager gear, buried the fire, and turned to leave.
“Let me go with you as sandal bearer, master.” The boy dreamed of being Hanshiro’s disciple in the Way of the warrior, but he dared not ask for such a privilege. “I’ll serve you well.”
“I want no one trailing after me.”
‘ ‘Please, master. I ask nothing. Not even that you teach me.”
Hanshiro knew that that was exactly what the child did want. But he didn’t have the temperament to be a teacher. He felt no need to pass his skill and knowledge to others, certainly not for money. Besides, the country was full of out-of-work rMnin setting themselves up as masters of this school or that.
Hanshiro had watched many of them and had decided that if they were masters of swordsmanship, dragonflies were birds.
“I cannot take you with me.” Hanshiro turned to go, then relented. “ ‘While riding the ox the boy looks for the ox,’ “ he said. “When you can explain this, come find me.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” The boy was rigid with concentration but hardly able to contain his excitement. He knew the task Hanshiro had given him might take him years, and he was eager to start.
Hanshiro gazed across the river. Then, with the toe of his sandal, he rubbed out the circles and the poem. He put his swords into his sash, hitched up his hakama, and settled the roll of mats on his back. He took off his sandals and tabi and tied them with a straw cord to his sash. Then he waded into the icy water.
CHAPTER 17
SEEING THE ESSENCE
Cat crouched in the deep shade of the towering cedars near a small statue hall on the temple grounds across the river from Kawasaki. She began to tremble uncontrollably, and tears streamed, unnoticed, down her cheeks. She had wounded men of samurai rank in daylight, in front of witnesses.
With her father dead and the rights and privileges of his rank stripped away, Cat assumed she would be punished as a commoner instead of as a member of the upper class. There would be no official remonstrance and comfortable seclusion at home for her. The authorities would arrest her, execute her over the blood-pit, and expose her head by the roadside. Cat wasn’t afraid of dying, but she was mortified by the form it would take.
She didn’t remember how she came to be here. She didn’t remember the ride across the river with the boatman watching her warily from the stern as he poled. She didn’t remember walking across the dry floodplain and into the woods. All she remembered was the sword with a hand still clutching its hilt in the sand and a man crawling away, blood unreeling like a crimson satin sash behind him.
Cat gripped her elbows, trying to control the shuddering tremors. She looked around cautiously. No one was in sight. The temple grounds dedicated to the sainted Kobo Daishi were extensive and boasted fifty or more buildings. Although JizM-sama was a very popular bodhisattva, this small hall devoted to him apparently was not.
Cat stared at the bloody naginata leaning against a tree. She had to get rid of it. She carried it to the far side of the weathered wooden building. She leaned it against the wall while she climbed onto the barrel that held water in case of fire. She stood on tiptoe on the lid and laid the blade and the staff into the bamboo rain gutter along the chapel’s eaves.
She put her hands together, bowed, and said a prayer for both of them. They had served her well. Then she walked to the front of the hall. In the depths of the room, in the darkness behind the statue of JizM, she could see a shadowy jumble of gilt and painted carvings—gods and blue-faced guardian kings, huge lotus flowers, monkeys, and lions—all thrown together and for
gotten.
Cat reached through the barred window and as an offering to JizM-sama left her rosary near one of the lamps. JizM was clad in the usual red bib and beret. He carried his pilgrim’s staff with iron rings to warn insects of his approach so they wouldn’t be stepped on. His stone smile was reassuring, and his eyes seemed to follow her as she backed away.
Cat was still crying reflexively. Musashi’s admonition that one must always take up the long-sword with the idea of cutting down the opponent was easier to accept in the abstract. The straw dummies she had practiced on as a young girl hadn’t bled. The mutilation of one hadn’t meant sure and terrible punishment.
A small stream flowed from a waterfall splashing down the side of a hill. It had been channeled into a bamboo pipe that diverted it to a big granite basin under the trees. With the bamboo dipper lying on top of it, Cat scooped up the cold water and rinsed her mouth and hands. Only then did she notice that her hands, grown soft over the past year, were red and abraded from the naginata shaft. She drank and splashed water on her face and arms.
Cat’s pack and tall hat were gone. In her distracted state she had left them at the ferry landing. She tried to remember what was in the pack. She couldn’t think of anything that would implicate Shichisaburo or Viper or Cold Rice. The hat wouldn’t do her any good now, anyway. Her enemies would be looking for the priest who wore it. Even so, she felt exposed without it.
She took off the black overrobe and the priest’s baggy trousers and white underrobe. Shivering from cold, she stuffed the white robe into a crevice in the face of the hillside and raked dried cedar needles over it. She put the faded black outer robe back on and belted it. She used her scissors to cut off the hem, turning the robe into a jacket. With fingers still trembling she clawed at the raw edge, raveling the coarse cloth to disguise the freshly cut material. Then she tore the trousers into strips and wrapped them like leggings around her tall tabi. She held them in place with the cloth ties from the trousers.
The Tokaido Road (1991)(528p) Page 13
