“How was the oni slain?” Yamada asked.
“A woodsman from Uchida village says he saw the whole thing. He says he helped a wandering ronin kill the oni.”
“A ronin?” Yamada said. “What was his name?”
“His name is unknown, but he is said to have saved the life of a noble maiden, even though her entire entourage was slaughtered in the attack.”
“And wayward noble maidens just wander these woods? Who was she?” Yamada’s voice grew more skeptical.
“The woodsman said she was the daughter of Lord Nishimuta no Jiro.”
Yasutoki started. How . . . interesting!
This coincidence was not lost on Captain Yamada, either, who paused and glanced back at Yasutoki’s palanquin.
The villager continued, “We villagers of Maebara heard what had happened, and we decided to help those from Uchida clean up the mess from the battle. The ronin had burned the oni’s body to ashes and took off with the Nishimuta maiden. All that was left was the beast’s skull. There is talk that the ronin was carrying the lady’s wounded hand-servant, but not all the stories are the same. Even stranger still, the ronin matches the description of a man who murdered the constable of Uchida village the previous day.”
“This ronin must be a dangerous man. Has anyone tried to find him? The murder of a constable is death sentence,” Yamada said.
“A young deputy from Uchida village is trying to track the ronin down, but no one has seen him.” Then the villager’s voice grew dark and spiteful. “Five years ago, the oni and his gang came to my village and stole four women and fifty sacks of rice, burned five houses, and killed my brother. People from all over the land should be celebrating the oni’s destruction, not hunting the ronin for some other offense! He is a hero!”
Yamada nodded. “Of course. The land has been freed from a great evil. What do you intend to do with the prisoner?”
Koji’s voice grew contemptuous and menacing again. “We are taking him to Dazaifu to stand trial. A quick death is too good for the likes of him!”
Yasutoki called from the palanquin. “Captain Yamada.”
The stocky samurai approached him.
Yasutoki kept his voice quiet so that only Yamada could hear. “I wish to speak to the prisoner.”
Yamada bowed sharply, then turned back to Koji. “Bring forth the prisoner!”
Koji bowed and obeyed, motioning the other villagers to bring the prisoner forward. The prisoner stumbled and nearly fell as one of his guards jerked savagely on the rope around his neck. He gasped and choked, but kept his feet as the guard hauled him before Yasutoki’s palanquin. Yasutoki regarded him through a gap in the curtain. Yamada stood close, ready to protect his master.
The prisoner seemed to regain some of his senses and tried to peer into the palanquin’s dim interior.
Yasutoki said to the prisoner, “Tell me of this ronin. Cooperating now may ease your death.” Yasutoki did not recall this man, but from his wounds, he was all but unrecognizable.
The man licked his swollen lips with a bloody tongue, and his voice came out in a croak. “I did not see him. I fell before he came. When I woke up, the fire was burning and everyone had gone.”
“What fire?”
The prisoner tried to peer deeper into the palanquin. “The fire that destroyed my master’s body.”
“Who was your target?”
“It was the procession of some noble, a Nishimuta.”
“Why did you attack?”
“My master heard that the Nishimuta maiden was beautiful and wanted her for himself. We waited near the road in ambush for them to come.”
“No one hired your master?” Could the oni have been working for one of Yasutoki’s rivals?
“No. . . .” The prisoner stopped speaking and peered again into the shadows of the palanquin. Then recognition dawned in his eyes, and he whispered, “It’s you!”
“Yamada! Kill him!” Yasutoki hissed.
Instantly Yamada drew his sword and slashed. The gleaming blade sliced into the log across the prisoner’s shoulders, and the prisoner’s head tumbled forward onto the road. As the body collapsed like a limp rag, Yamada jerked his blade out of the log.
Koji jumped forward, eyes wide. “What happened? Why did you kill him?”
“He attacked me,” Yasutoki said smoothly. “He was a madman, and serving the oni made him evil beyond redemption. Unfortunate that his death was so swift, but it could not be avoided.”
Koji stared at the twitching corpse pouring blood into the dirt and the severed head nearby. Yasutoki watched the tumult of emotions cascading through Koji’s features. Shock, horror, dismay, disappointment, and perhaps disbelief.
“You could not see clearly what happened. The prisoner went mad and threatened my life,” Yasutoki continued, attempting to reinforce his wishes with the astonished villager. “You may report these events to the magistrate in Dazaifu.”
Koji swallowed hard and nodded. “I will see to it, honorable lord.”
“Very good, Koji.” Yasutoki paused for a moment to let the headman know that his name would be remembered. “After my procession has passed, you may continue your celebration.”
Koji bowed deeply. “Thank you, my lord. It has been my privilege to speak to you. Thank you for dispatching our prisoner for us.”
“It was nothing. Now, out of the way.”
“Yes, honorable lord. Right away!” With that, Koji ran back to his place with the other villagers, and they all moved to the side of the road, prostrating themselves.
Yasutoki gestured to Yamada. “Let’s get moving.”
Yamada bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Leaving the corpse on the road, Yasutoki’s procession resumed its travel. What was the fate of the ronin and the Nishimuta maiden? The only Nishimuta maiden likely to be traveling through this area would be little Kazuko. What a strange coincidence! Some strange shift in fortune was at work. But what had happened to her? And what about the ronin? A man who murdered a constable then saved a noble maiden from a horrible fate? Could they be the same person? If Kazuko was harmed, her father’s wrath would a spectacle. Yasutoki’s impression was that Nishimuta no Jiro worshipped his daughter and she him. When he had first met Lord Nishimuta, he had filed this bit of information away for future reference. He was always looking for such bits, so that he might use them later to twist situations to his advantage.
His thoughts returned to his own loss of advantage. He had been robbed of his most useful henchman. That vexed him. Then he had a flash of inspiration. Perhaps this ronin would make a suitable replacement! Ronin were well known for their flexible morals, and this one sounded like a fierce man indeed. And the murder of a Nishimuta clan samurai sounded like useful material for blackmail, if the man proved stubborn. He must be found, and quickly. Yasutoki must know more about him, another thing he must see to when he reached Dazaifu this evening. And he knew where to begin looking. The ronin might arrive at Lord Nishimuta’s estate at any time, if his intentions were truly to see the girl to safety, and that was the perfect opportunity. Yasutoki was going there himself in a few days. If the ronin meant to spirit her away for himself, however, then Yasutoki would have to cast a wider net.
What a strange day.
Nine
Beautiful lady
Buffeted by rude spring winds . . .
What sweet storm you make
—Kito
Around mid-afternoon, the sun was too warm, and Kazuko was sweating inside layers of embroidered silk robes. Her light silk undergarments clung to her skin. She wished she could just remove her heavy outer robes, but that would not be proper. Ken’ishi had already seen too much of her, and the thought of how his gaze had been fixed on her, how his eyes had blazed so fiercely, moving up and down, filled her with embarrassment. Removing her heavy robes had been necessary at the time; she couldn’t move freely while wearing them. Hatsumi would not approve if she knew how much of Kazuko’s body Ken’ishi had seen. Kazuko
guessed she must have looked like a simple peasant trollop, clad in only her undergarments. Hatsumi often corrected her when she skirted the edges of decorum and etiquette. Sometimes it was a game, with Kazuko trying to see what Hatsumi would let her get away with. Kazuko sometimes enjoyed throwing Hatsumi into a state by acting improper, but it was only a game. She would never do anything purposely to hurt Hatsumi’s feelings.
She remembered how she had felt with the naginata in her hand, facing the oni, all but naked. She had felt . . . free. And alive. She remembered the thundering of her heart, the balanced weight of the naginata, and the determination to do whatever she could to live. Although she would never admit it to anyone, she had felt free from the restrictions of class and society, free of the weight of too many clothes and responsibilities and obligations. All those trappings of life had seemed so meaningless when her torturous death was standing over her with a tetsubo in its huge hand. She wondered if that was what it felt like to be a man, like Ken’ishi. Society placed so much emphasis on the willingness to die, especially samurai. This willingness to die was expected of samurai women as well. Before now, she had never truly considered what dying meant. Her spirit would go on and be reborn, she knew, but to die. . . . Was she a bad person, because she had wanted so badly to live?
She could sense that Ken’ishi wanted to be a part of society. He wanted to belong somewhere. She, on the other hand, wanted freedom. The wild, rebellious notion that she should leave home and become a ronin crossed her mind. She could become a famous warrior woman, giving strength to women everywhere, saving them from cruel husbands. It would be so exciting! But leaving home would hurt her father, who had no children but her, and her mother had died giving birth when Kazuko was ten years old. The infant, another daughter, was born weak and sickly and had died within a month. Kazuko sometimes wondered what her sister would have been like if she had survived. What would it have been like to not grow up alone? She missed her mother sometimes too, but she knew that her mother would have opposed her father in giving Kazuko any kind of martial training. Her mother would have wanted Kazuko to be a proper young woman, but not long after her mother’s death, her father began teaching her the naginata. The fight with the oni had shown her that the endless, grueling hours of training had not been in vain.
She looked at Ken’ishi as he dragged Hatsumi’s stretcher, his brow furrowed, placing one foot in front of the other with complete determination, the sheen of sweat on his arms and face, a single, crystalline droplet hanging from his chin, swelling until it let go, falling into the dust. Such a handsome face. A bit scruffy and unwashed perhaps, but handsome. He would make a fine lover, she thought devilishly. She imagined an affair with him, like the court ladies in the capital with their surreptitious lovers. She wondered if he could write love poetry, like her Yuta, like the famous courtiers in the capital who wooed with such eloquent abandon.
Then her gaze wandered down to Hatsumi’s head lolling to the side with the rhythm of Ken’ishi’s gait. A stab of pity went through Kazuko like an arrow, and her vision misted over with fresh tears. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.
Then Hatsumi moved her head, not a weak, helpless bobbing, but more like someone rousing from a nightmare. Her purpled eyelids fluttered, trying to open. Her mouth opened and released a dry croak.
“Ken’ishi!” Kazuko said. “Please stop for a moment.”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her quizzically.
“She’s trying to speak.”
Ken’ishi eased the stretcher poles down and stretched his shoulders and back.
Kazuko knelt beside Hatsumi. “Hatsumi! It’s Kazuko. What is it? Are you thirsty?”
Hatsumi’s dry, swollen tongue touched her cracked, wounded lips. A whisper came out that Kazuko could not hear, so she leaned closer.
Hatsumi’s voice was weak and hoarse. “So thirsty. Water.”
“Ken’ishi, please give me your water bottle.” He handed his gourd to her, and she held it to Hatsumi’s lips, allowing a trickle to flow into her mouth.
Hatsumi gulped and swallowed and the relief on her face was plain. “More.”
“Good, Hatsumi. You’re going to be fine.”
“Thank you.” Hatsumi’s voice was still hoarse but much improved. Then she reached up with a quivering hand and pulled Kazuko nearer. She whispered, “I’m very sorry, but I must make water. The pain is so terrible, but I fear I will wet my clothes. Can you help me?”
Kazuko felt the irony of Hatsumi’s words. Her previously beautiful robes were caked with dried blood and covered with dust from the road. But she smiled and squeezed Hatsumi’s hand. “Of course I will help you!” She untied the loop of twine that kept Hatsumi from sliding off the stretcher, eased the other woman’s arm around her neck, and lifted her onto her feet.
A hoarse, whimpering moan escaped Hatsumi, and her face twisted with agony.
Kazuko nearly faltered and wept at Hatsumi’s pain, but she took a deep breath and held firm. She took a slow, small step, and Hatsumi followed. Tears poured down her swollen cheeks. “You are strong, Hatsumi! You will be fine!”
Helping Hatsumi toward the bushes at the edge of the path seemed to take an eternity. All the while, she was conscious of Ken’ishi’s eyes on her, his indecision between whether he should offer his assistance or remain apart from matters of such female privacy. Kazuko was glad he did not try to help. She could manage by herself, and in spite of Hatsumi’s dire state, Kazuko still felt the pressure of ingrained propriety.
Out of sight of the road, Kazuko helped Hatsumi lift the skirts of her robes and steadied her. Again Hatsumi whimpered. “Oh, Jizo help me, it hurts! It burns!”
Fresh tears sprang forth in Kazuko’s eyes, and she squeezed Hatsumi tighter. When Hatsumi was finished, Kazuko moved her back toward the road, but she shuddered when she noticed that the wet grass was sprinkled with large, dark blood clots. The relief on Hatsumi’s face was plain, however, and that bolstered Kazuko’s strength.
Hatsumi’s voice was clearer but still weak. “Kazuko, is it really you? I have had so many nightmares. Am I dreaming? I can’t wake up from them. . . . So horrible. . . .”
“No, it’s me. Be strong! You must be strong!”
“So much blood!” Her voice quavered with mixed sobs. “So much pain! I can’t stand it!” Then her voice began to rise in pitch with the sound of delirium. “I must be in hell! And you’re not my dear Kazuko! You’re a demon! Oh, demon, take me for good . . . I cannot stand it any longer. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sagged in Kazuko’s grip.
Ken’ishi stood with his back turned, pretending to look at the trees.
“Ken’ishi, help me!” Kazuko gasped. Hatsumi was falling. In an instant, he was beside her, lifting Hatsumi’s dead weight by the other shoulder.
Hatsumi’s head lolled, and she screamed at the sky. “Don’t touch me, demon!” She struggled as they lowered her back onto the stretcher, then she sank again into limpness.
As Hatsumi lay motionless between them, Kazuko and Ken’ishi looked at each other and their eyes locked. Suddenly she felt as if her heart would burst. Sobs exploded out of her, uncontrollable and violent as a spring flood. She did not know how long she knelt in the middle of the road with her face buried in her sleeves, but when the tears had exhausted themselves, her sleeves were dark with wetness. She glanced with embarrassment at Ken’ishi. He sat quietly, gaze respectfully downcast, hands placed on his thighs.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to smile at him through her tears. “I must apologize for my weakness. I am too much trouble.”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said.
“We should go.”
As they continued on, Kazuko was annoyed with herself for breaking down. Ken’ishi must be annoyed with her as well. Most men were either annoyed or embarrassed when a woman showed emotion.
Then she heard something behind them and looked back. Standing on the road about twenty paces away was a rust-colored
dog, with large pointed ears and a bushy tail tipped with a dark spot like a fox’s tail. The dog watched them quizzically, warily, its brown eyes sparkling with cleverness.
Ken’ishi looked over his shoulder, and a wide grin split his face. He called back, “I thought you were lost!”
The dog padded closer, his nose in the air. His eyes flicked from Ken’ishi to Hatsumi to Kazuko and back again. A strange growling sound came from the dog’s throat. Kazuko stepped back and gripped the naginata in both hands.
“Put up your weapon! Don’t threaten him!” Ken’ishi snapped.
She realized that she had brandished the point of her naginata so she snapped it back upward.
“I’m sorry. Is this dog yours?” she said. Dogs had never been part of her life. She had seen them, but they were things that lived around peasant neighborhoods or were kept for blood sport by a few samurai lords. The raw intelligence in this animal’s eyes made her uneasy, as if the dog were sizing her up.
It was only a few paces away now, moving toward Hatsumi. Its movements grew stiffer, and its shoulders hunched as it slunk closer to the ground, tail down, ears flattening. It growled again.
Then she jumped in surprise as similar sounds came from beside her. From Ken’ishi. She stared and her mouth fell open.
He glanced at her and said, “He is my friend.” There was something quiet and powerful in his voice.
The dog and the man exchanged terse growling sounds as the dog padded closer to Hatsumi, nose extended, sniffing. The closer the dog moved to her, the more stiffly the reddish hackles on its neck rose.
* * *
Akao said, “Evil here. Terrible stench. Hurts my nose.”
Ken’ishi said, “The oni attacked her. We killed it. Did you see?”
“Smelled the blood and came. Followed.” The dog sniffed her clothes gingerly and drew back, snorting and spitting. “Evil!”
“We are trying to find a priest to be purified.”
The dog glanced at him skeptically. “Bad spirit here. Dirty.”
Heart of the Ronin Page 10
