“I understand.”
“So now you must tell me your secret.”
Ken’ishi hesitated, just as Norikage had. Norikage wondered in the silence what kind of dark deeds might lie in the past of a warrior as young as this one. Then the young man began his tale. The more Ken’ishi spoke, the more Norikage realized that the youth was telling more than he intended, but somehow could not stop himself, as if his life was so filled with events, so crammed into such a short time that he had to release them somehow. He had to tell someone, and so Norikage listened to the young man’s tale of poverty and want and endless wandering, and to the tale of the beautiful noble maiden, and of the oni bandit chieftain. Norikage often spurred the tale onward, enthralled by the young man’s simple words.
Norikage said, “I have heard the story about this ronin oni-slayer. It has made the rounds through every sake house in the province! That was you?”
“I have not heard any such story. Ka—the young maiden and I killed the oni.”
“I heard tales of the oni that lived in those parts. He was a bad one, they say. Sometimes he and his gang would make forays into Hakata in the dead of night to rob someone’s house or steal the wares of a wealthy merchant. A horrible creature.”
“It was.”
“In the capital there were rumors of courtiers who were really oni in disguise. Foul creatures they were, but powerful, with webs of intrigue that reached into every corner of the Imperial court,” Norikage mused. Then he grew serious again. “The girl’s father is a fool, whoever he is! But you are better off!” He laughed. “You are here!”
Ken’ishi smiled wanly. “Yes, I am here.”
“And you have Kiosé now. You can forget your noble maiden. Come now, tell me who she was!”
Ken’ishi looked out the window, a trace of wistfulness in his gaze that Norikage knew he would never admit to. “I cannot tell you her name. And as for Kiosé, I do not have her. She still belongs to Tetta. But he allows her to cook for me, and to clean my house.”
Norikage nodded. Of course, he would not mention in Ken’ishi’s presence that he had partaken of Kiosé’s womanly charms a few times before the night Ken’ishi arrived in Aoka. The young man did not interfere with Tetta’s business, but Norikage knew he did not like that Kiosé had been bedded by most of the men in the village. Kiosé made a great deal of money for Tetta. Nevertheless, Norikage recognized the young man’s protectiveness of her and had not visited her since. He did not wish to instigate any unpleasant feelings between them.
Ken’ishi said nothing.
“It is no secret. If you show too much favor for her, your reputation might suffer. You could buy her freedom.”
“Someday.” Then he looked at Norikage. “But I don’t plan to go into debt.”
Norikage smiled. “I would suggest no such thing! It’s too bad. She is a pretty girl. But you do not love her.”
Again, Ken’ishi said nothing.
“Forgive me. A man like you does not speak of such things. And yet you protect her.”
Ken’ishi nodded. “Chiba knows better than to harm her. Cowardly wretch.”
“It is only natural for him to wish to avenge his father.”
“Then he should seek his vengeance on me. A few weeks ago, he cornered her behind the inn when she was washing laundry. He beat her with a switch.”
“I am surprised that you did nothing about it.”
“She didn’t tell me about it. I overheard Tetta and his son talking about it afterwards.”
“Well, she is an easier target than you. He cannot hope to face that blade of yours.”
“That makes him a coward.” The venom in Ken’ishi’s tone and the cold, stony glare in his eyes gave Norikage pause. Until that moment, he had not realized how deep Ken’ishi’s convictions and determination ran. In the Imperial court, everyone had a price, a limit that could be reached without too much difficulty, a point of compromise, thus Norikage assumed that everyone in the world was much the same. It seemed that Ken’ishi had no such point of weakness or compromise.
“Forgive me for taking a contrary position. It’s my argumentative nature. Chiba and his brothers are scum of the worst sort. Perhaps we should see them punished.”
“They know I’m waiting for the chance.”
“Yes, unfortunately it’s not a crime to beat a whore. I think Chiba and his lot will continue to push. We will have to deal with them soon.” He rubbed his chin. “I am sorry to change the subject, but there is something else I’ve been wondering about you. You have told me nothing of your family. How did you become ronin? You sound as if it is the only life you have ever known.”
“It is.”
“What of your parents?”
“Dead. I was little more than an infant. I was raised by my teacher.”
“You have no idea who your parents were?”
Ken’ishi shook his head.
Norikage could not help laughing again. “You might not even be from a samurai family! You might be nothing more than a peasant with a pretty sword!”
Ken’ishi’s eyes flashed, and Norikage choked off his laughter.
Ken’ishi’s words were quiet, fierce, and steady. “This is my father’s sword. My father was samurai.”
“Again, Ken’ishi, forgive my rudeness. A sensitive topic of conversation, I see. Perhaps we should continue the writing lesson.”
“Tomorrow. My mind is weary. I must train the body for a while.”
“Very well.”
“And please order three more bokken from Gorobei the carpenter.”
“You wear out the wooden swords so quickly!”
“Few things in the world are as strong as steel.”
“Very well. I will contract Gorobei for three more bokken.”
Then Norikage heard a timid step outside his office. “Who’s there?” he called.
“It is Kiosé,” came a soft voice. “May I enter, sirs?”
“Yes, come in,” Norikage said, trying to observe any reaction from Ken’ishi or Kiosé when she entered the room. Ken’ishi may as well have been carved of basalt. Kiosé kept her eyes properly downcast as she shuffled into the room with a woman’s soft step. “What is it?”
“Please pardon me. I am looking for Tetta-sama.”
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” Ken’ishi said.
Norikage shook his head. “Nor I. Not since breakfast yesterday.”
“That is why I am worried. He left yesterday afternoon to go fishing, and he has not come back.”
Norikage rubbed his chin. She was not the kind of girl to make wild claims. “That is unusual for him. Perhaps his boat was swamped. The seas were high yesterday.”
Ken’ishi shook his head. “He does not have a boat. He prefers to fish in a pond about one ri inland.”
“Do you know where the pond is?”
“He told me once where it is.”
“Then perhaps I will make a few inquiries around the village to see if anyone has seen him,” Norikage said. “Perhaps he went to Hakozaki.”
Kiosé said, “Excuse me, sirs, but if he planned to go to Hakozaki, he would have told me, or taken me with him, I think. He does not like leaving me alone for long after . . . what Chiba did.”
Norikage nodded. Her words seemed reasonable. “What do you think, Ken’ishi?”
“I think I should go to the pond. Perhaps something happened to him along the way.”
Kiosé said, “Ken’ishi, would you . . . allow me to come with you. With both you and Tetta away from the village, someone might . . . something might happen.”
Norikage said, “It may be more dangerous to go with Ken’ishi.”
“Ken’ishi is a strong man, and I will be no trouble! Please, sirs.”
Ken’ishi nodded. “You may come. But you must be alert.”
Eight
“Single-mindedness is all-powerful.”
—Samurai Proverb
“I have never seen someone fight with s
uch ferocity in a mere contest,” said Master Imamura. “The other students are afraid of him!” He spoke quietly, behind his fan. It was a warm day for spring, and the training ground rang with the cacophony of wooden swords smashing together and cries of exertion, pain, and concentration. Birds sang in the meticulously pruned pine trees surrounding the periphery of the practice yard, just inside the stone wall that screened the sword academy from the rest of the world. Puffs of dust rose and hung limply in the air from the scuff of feet trampling back and forth.
A melee swirled in the practice yard, twenty-four students with wooden swords in a dangerous free-for-all. Blows from the wooden swords were usually not lethal, but sometimes accidents did happen, and limbs could be broken or skulls cracked. The students’ means of protection were padded gauntlets, lacquered breastplates, and stiff leather skullcaps.
Koga no Masaharu, master of the Koga Sword Academy, leaned toward his guest and replied, “Many of my students are afraid of him. His technique is mediocre, but he makes up for his deficiency with raw strength. In less than half a year of training, he has injured three other students so badly that they were forced to quit.”
Together the two teachers watched the surging melee. They were both in their late fifties, having devoted their entire lives to the study of the sword, fighting battles and skirmishes, and finally having gathered enough money and prestige to open their own training academies. Their schools were rivals, but the two men were old friends and had known each other since they served the Otomo clan together as young men. They wore the clothes of accomplished warriors, functional and simple but made of fine, richly colored silk. They sat together in the shade of the training ground observation platform. Their gray hair was identically styled with shaven pate and warrior’s topknot. The easiest way to distinguish one from the other was the long pointed gray beard that dangled from Master Koga’s chin. Master Imamura wore no such hair on his face, and his eyes were set deeper and further apart.
Taro had already felled two of Master Imamura’s best students by splintering their wooden swords with his own and driving the wind out of them with powerful blows to the belly.
Master Imamura said, “How did he come to be so strong? He is no bigger than anyone else.”
“I’m not certain, but it might be the desire for revenge. He told me of a ronin he fought who defeated him and left him for dead. He is training so that he can find that ronin and kill him.”
“Ah, he’s just taken down Sato! That’s three now! Poor devil, he’s unconscious! That man of yours is quick! Sato didn’t even see it coming.” Master Imamura’s heavy brow thickened into a frown.
Every two years, the old sword masters met for a tournament of their top students. It was usually a good-natured affair, but sometimes the masters’ friendship was strained by the rivalry of their students. Injuries were to be expected, but serious injuries only caused bad blood.
“Even your own students are staying away from him! See, look! They should be fighting together. Now my boys have taken the advantage by fighting as a team!” His frown changed to a smirk of satisfaction.
Master Koga saw that he was correct. Six of the Imamura students remained, facing four of the Koga students, including Taro. The Imamura students had just taken out three Koga students in quick succession by working together and fighting as a team. It was Master Koga’s turn to frown. The tournament was going badly for him. Over the years, he held a significant advantage in victories over Master Imamura, and he had been confident of another victory this year. But now his pride was at stake. Master Koga’s students stayed away from Taro, because he fought with such ferocity and wild abandon that he was just as likely to injure one of his fellows as the enemy. Master Koga had not told Master Imamura that Taro killed one of his students during a training bout a few weeks before. The death had not been intentional, but Taro lost control and struck with such force that both swords had been shattered, along with the other student’s skull. The unfortunate student had taken three days to die.
Master Koga said, “I have warned him repeatedly that good technique will beat him every time, but he doesn’t listen. And I have no student with the technique to match his strength.”
Master Imamura grinned wolfishly. “Perhaps I have such a student! Michizaemon is my best. The leader. He comes from a strong family, and his control is superb.”
“I think we will soon see.”
Three of the Koga students clustered themselves and faced the Imamura students, while Taro stood alone, edging toward the outside of the practice yard, facing the Imamura student, Michizaemon. The larger melee was five versus three, but Master Koga could not peel his gaze away from the impending confrontation between Taro and Michizaemon.
Taro’s eyes were hard and calm, like those of a warrior who had seen a hundred battles. That alone was rare for one so young, but his flesh looked so sickly as well, pale and gaunt, belying the fearsome strength in his lithe limbs. His jaw was hard-set, and his hands gripped the wooden sword too strongly. Master Koga had often warned him against gripping the hilt too fiercely with his right hand. The true power of the cut was in the left hand, and focusing on the right hand made all Taro’s other techniques too stiff and wooden to be skillful.
With a sharp cry, Taro charged, lashing out with a powerful cut to his opponent’s belly. Michizaemon easily deflected the blow, but the power of the strike drove him sideways a step, and Master Koga saw the surprise in the young man’s eyes, and the flash of restrained fear. For several thundering heartbeats, the two young men traded blows and counterblows. Michizaemon’s skill was superior, but Taro had strength. Master Koga found himself wanting to see Michizaemon victorious. He wanted Taro to be taught, once and for all, that power was not everything. The superiority lay with finesse and technique, not savage strength. Their feet scuffled back and forth across the dirt, and he heard their grunts of exertion, smelled the dust and the sweat and scent of pine needles from the trees.
A surge of satisfaction rippled through him as Michizaemon sent Taro’s wooden sword spinning away out of his grasp. Taro was now weaponless. Michizaemon prepared to strike him, which, by the rules of the melee, would mean that he was “dead.” Then Taro’s eyes blazed with rage, and he lunged forward. His left hand caught his opponent by the throat, and his right hand drew back and lashed out again. He punched Michizaemon squarely in the chest. The force of the blow cracked through the practice yard like the sound of a splintered tree trunk, and Michizaemon flew backward, skidding to a halt on the ground several paces away.
Michizaemon coughed once, little more than a wet, feeble gurgle, and blood gushed from his mouth and nose. The rest of the melee ceased, and the other fighters stopped and stared at Taro, then Michizaemon. Taro stood stock still, his fists clenched at his sides, his breathing ragged, his eyes brimming with red fury. Michizaemon spasmed once and then lay still, his bulging eyes staring at the heedless blue sky, blood bubbling from his mouth and nose. Dead silence settled over the practice yard.
A feeling of sick dread settled into Master Koga’s belly. And resolve.
Master Imamura leaped to his feet. “He’s dead! You bastard!”
The rage began to drain from Taro’s eyes. He unclenched his fists and bowed deeply. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry!” Master Imamura roared. “You are a disgrace!”
Master Koga said quietly, “Calm yourself, my friend. He is my student. I will deal with him. And as you can see, you have already won the battle. I declare this tournament finished. The victory is yours.”
Master Imamura stopped and looked around. Master Koga was correct. Only Taro remained, versus four of Master Imamura’s students. Nevertheless, Master Koga was certain that Taro could have defeated them all, even without a sword.
Master Koga continued, raising his voice to the students, “Thank you all for your display of skill and courage. I concede the victory of this year’s tournament to the Imamura School.” As he spoke, he watched Taro�
�s reaction and saw the young man’s face harden. “Michizaemon fought bravely. Let us all honor him.” He bowed to the corpse, and everyone followed his example. “Now, everyone go to the training hall to see to your wounds.” The students relaxed and turned to go inside. “Except you, Taro.” He kept his voice even. “Wait for me in my room.”
Taro bowed. “Yes, Master Koga.” Then he took up his fallen wooden sword and went into the school by a back entrance.
Master Koga turned to his old friend and said, “Master Imamura, I must express my most profound regrets. Warriors must always be ready to die, but this death was wasteful and unnecessary. I’m sure you will agree.”
Master Imamura grunted something that sounded like agreement, but his face was pale. What he had seen had shaken him, the way Michizaemon had been killed. A single blow to the heart, through a lacquered metal breastplate. . . .
“Please excuse me for a moment,” Master Koga said, “I must go and see to my student.”
* * *
Master Koga entered his room. Taro was waiting for him, as instructed. He had doffed his gauntlets and cap, but still wore the breastplate. Sweat plastered his hair to his face and neck. With the gauntlets removed, Master Koga could see Taro’s discolored right hand. Up to a point just below his right elbow, the entire hand and forearm was a mottled deep red and purple, like a puddle of congealed blood. The nails on that hand were cracked and thick and yellowed. Seeing that hand always made Master Koga feel a little unsettled, because it was so grotesque. Taro said his hand had always been that way, but Master Koga had never heard of or seen a birthmark or deformity like it.
Heart of the Ronin Page 27
