How long they had been waiting, he did not know. The village had long since gone to sleep, and the gibbous moon had gone away, leaving only the porcelain spatter of the stars against the night sky. This was the deep, dark of night. The sound of the crickets and frogs outside lulled Norikage toward sleep, but he had to stay awake.
Then he heard something. The muffled thump of wood on wood. A faint metallic clinking. Again. Rhythmic like the movement of a walking staff, the butt of the staff brushing the floor, the metal rings on the other end brushing each other. Coming closer to their hiding place.
Norikage froze, holding his breath. Ken’ishi touched his arm. It was time. Ken’ishi slid the door of the inn’s storeroom open and stepped into the main room. Norikage uncovered his lamp but hung back. Yellow-orange light spilled across the man carrying his walking staff, wearing his basket hat to conceal his face. The man held up a hand to shield his eyes.
Ken’ishi said, “Where are you going, Sir Monk? Trying to leave without paying your fee?”
What happened next came too fast for Norikage to react. The man threw his hat at Ken’ishi’s face. Ken’ishi drew his sword and slashed the hat in twain with a single fluid motion. The length of the monk’s walking staff parted as if by magic, and became a sword. The long, straight blade licked out at Ken’ishi, who caught the blade on his own, forced it toward the floor. Ken’ishi thrust at the man’s belly. The man still had the rest of the walking staff, the wooden sheath of the hidden sword, in his other hand, and he used this to turn Ken’ishi’s thrust to the side. He planted the butt of the staff against the tatami mats and used it to support him as he lashed a kick high at Ken’ishi’s head. The man’s foot slammed into Ken’ishi’s cheek, and he staggered to the side, wide open to attack.
Norikage dashed his lantern at the man’s face. The man flinched and batted it aside, but it gave Ken’ishi the instant he needed to recover from the blow. The lamp clattered on the wooden floor, spattering a pool of oil and fire and brightening the room with its flickering orange glow. The growing fire cast dancing shadows against the walls and ceiling as the two combatants struggled. Ken’ishi faced the man again, sword in the middle guard position, pointing at the man’s throat. The ceiling was too low for a powerful downward stroke. He edged toward the front hallway, blocking that escape. The man squared against him for a moment, sword in one hand with its jangling rings at the end of the long, wooden hilt, and shortened wooden staff in the other hand.
Norikage could only stare as a strange calm passed through Ken’ishi, as quick as a ripple of water settling into a bowl. Norikage glanced at the other man. His angular features were crafty and calculating, like a poisonous snake readying himself to strike. But Ken’ishi acted first. Norikage had never known a man could move with such speed. Ken’ishi’s body and blade moved as one. A clang of steel, then the soft, meaty sound of metal against flesh and bone, and the man fell backward. But Ken’ishi did not stop moving. Even as the man’s body landed hard against the tatami, arms and legs splayed, Ken’ishi leaped forward and landed a hard kick against the underside of man’s wrist, tearing the sword from his grip and sending it bouncing across the room.
Norikage crept closer and saw the wet, dark stain spreading underneath the man’s clothing. Ken’ishi stood over him, looking down at him. The man’s breathing was ragged and wet, and his lips were red with blood.
“Who are you?” Ken’ishi demanded.
The man started to laugh.
“Who are you!”
“The master,” the man gasped, “was right about you!” Then he laughed again.
“What?” Ken’ishi stepped back.
Norikage said, “Did you kill Tetta?”
The man’s laughter trailed off into a death rattle.
For a long moment, the two of them just stared at the dead man. Then Gonta burst into the room. “Fire!” he cried. “Fire!”
Oil from Norikage’s spilled lamp was still burning in the hallway, licking dangerously near the rice-paper door of the closest guest room. But the fight had lasted only moments, and fire had not yet gained purchase in the tatami or the wall. Gonta snatched a blanket from the storeroom and smothered the fire. Before they were left in darkness, Norikage lit another lamp in the smoke-thick air.
With the fire put out, Ken’ishi stood staring down at the dead man. “Did you hear what he said?”
Norikage answered, “Yes, I did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone knows you. Someone is looking for you.”
“Who?”
“The father of your . . . woman perhaps? Or her husband?”
Ken’ishi’s brow furrowed like carven granite. He sheathed his sword.
Norikage knelt and searched through the corpse’s clothes, avoiding the thick, wet stain across the man’s torso. He found a wooden charm box, shook it, and heard something sliding within. Inside he found a folded piece of paper. He took the paper, opened it and held it toward the lamp so that he could read.
He read it to himself, then looked at Ken’ishi, who stood waiting expectantly. “Ken’ishi, someone is indeed looking for you. Someone powerful enough, wealthy enough, to hire a man like this to find you.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Master, I have found the ronin you seek. He has made himself a constable in Aoka village, along the northeastern side of Hakata Bay. I await your instructions. Signed, Yellow Tiger.’ ” Ken’ishi’s mind raced behind his eyes. For a while neither of them spoke.
Then Gonta’s voice broke the silence. “Did this man kill my father?”
Norikage’s mind seized upon a sudden inspiration. “Yes, Gonta, I believe he did. He has been snooping around the village for some time, and I believe your father discovered him and was killed because of it.”
He met Ken’ishi’s silent gaze. Why did you lie to him?
Gonta sighed, but Norikage sensed a strange relief pass through him. Gonta said, “Such a horrible business, but I’m glad it’s over now. It’s over.” He wiped at his eyes. “Father has been avenged.”
Norikage caught Ken’ishi’s glance. Now he understood. This Yellow Tiger would be blamed for Tetta’s death, so that life in the village could return to normal, and the villagers could be at ease again.
“Gonta,” Norikage said, “there is one other thing.”
Gonta looked at him, wiping his eyes again. “This note, you must forget about it. You must forget everything that you heard here tonight, save that we dispatched your father’s murderer. No one in the village must know of anything else! Do you understand?” He kept his voice even and calm, but firm as basalt and with a hint of underlying threat.
Gonta blinked once, then nodded. “As you say, Norikage-sama.”
Then several other villagers came running into the inn carrying buckets of water. Their eyes were wide and fearful. “Where is the fire?” said one.
“Be at ease, everyone,” Norikage said. “The danger is over. Ken’ishi has slain Tetta’s murderer.” He watched the parade of emotions pass through their faces, surprise, horror, relief, curiosity. “Ken’ishi and I are weary now. We must rest. If you will excuse us.”
Then he led Ken’ishi outside and back to his office. Kiosé still waited there, and the relief and joy on her face when they returned were palpable. She had not slept. Norikage said, “Do not fear, my dear. All is well.”
“I’m so happy to hear it!” she breathed. “I was so worried!”
“You may go home now.”
She bowed and departed, but he could sense her disappointment. She wanted to stay, but discussions like these were not meant for a woman’s ears.
“Ken’ishi,” Norikage began, “I know you are troubled by what happened here tonight. I’m wondering who this man was, and who is looking for you.”
Ken’ishi nodded, his brow thick.
“I can do nothing to reassure you, unfortunately, other than to tell you that after tonight, the villagers will be e
ven more vigilant about strangers in town. Rest assured that if any other strangers come through, we will hear about it. Everyone will be watching.”
Ken’ishi nodded again, saying nothing.
“And you understand why I lied to Gonta about this man?”
Another nod. The man was so damnably taciturn sometimes!
“It was for the good of everyone in the village.”
“I hope there are no more disappearances. This man had nothing to do with Tetta’s disappearance. Another disappearance will make us look very, very foolish, after what you said about Tetta’s killer.”
Norikage was taken aback. He had not yet reached that thought, but it was true. Another disappearance would be bad indeed.
Thirteen
“It is missing the point to think that the martial art is solely in cutting a man down. It is not in cutting people down; it is in killing evil. It is the stratagem of killing the evil of one man and giving life to ten thousand.”
—Yagyu Munenori
“Sir, are you all right?” The little boy’s voice was as clear and sweet as a temple bell. He stood there beside the street, bits of sticky, fermented beans clinging to his plump, pink cheeks. His hands clutched an empty wooden bowl and a pair of small chopsticks. He looked up with big, brown eyes, brimming with childlike fearlessness. His thin black hair formed a shock tied on top of his head.
Taro stopped and peered at the boy from under the edge of his large basket hat. The child’s head barely came to his waist. Taro said, “I am fine.” The hoarseness of his voice surprised him. He hadn’t spoken to another human being for some time. “Why do you ask?”
The boy drew back a step. “Well, because you were walking funny.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Taro’s mouth for the first time in weeks. “How was I walking?”
The boy imitated a peculiar shambling, meandering gait, and Taro’s smile widened. “Like this. Are you sick? My grandpa walks that way sometimes when he drinks too much sake. Only he’s all hunched over like this.” The boy put down his bowl, then bent over at the waist and pretended to walk with a cane.
“So I walk like an old man, eh?” Taro said.
“Uh-huh! Are you sick? Grandpa is always sick too.”
“No, I’m not sick. I’ve never felt better.”
“Why is your hand all wrapped up like that?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Why is it all wrapped up like that?”
“Because, I burned it. It’s ugly now.”
“Really? Can I see it? Show me!”
“No. I . . . don’t want to frighten you.”
“I won’t be scared! I’m strong and brave! My mother always says so.”
Taro looked up and down the street. Hakozaki was a busy port town, but this neighborhood was quiet this afternoon. All the men were working the wharfs, and the women were going about their household duties. A few children were playing with a cloth ball down the street. “Then come over here.” He walked over into the space between two houses, out of sight, and motioned the boy to come closer. The boy followed him without hesitation.
He knelt and took off his basket hat.
The boy said, “Do you drink sake too? Grandpa’s eyes look like that when he drinks sake. All red and stuff.”
“I drink sake sometimes, but not today.”
“And why is your hair falling out?”
“You ask a lot of questions. Do you want to see my hand or not?”
“Yes! Show me! Show me!”
“You are a special boy. I don’t show this to anyone!”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Really?” He grinned, exposing the wide gaps between his brand new front teeth.
“Yes, really. What is your name?”
“I’m Shota.”
“My name is . . . Taro.”
“Are you a ronin? You look like a ronin.”
“No!” He realized that his voice had come out as a snarl. The boy stepped back again and almost ran away. Taro softened his voice, mellowed his tone. “No, I’m not a ronin. I’m a constable, and I’m looking for a ronin.”
“Why did you talk that way? That was scary.”
“I’m sorry. My voice is rough sometimes.”
“Show me your hand!”
“Very well.” Taro unwrapped the linen wrappings around his right hand, revealing the disfigured member that now served him so well.
Shota’s eyes grew wide when he saw the strange reddish flesh and the long, yellowed nails. His voice was a mixture of wonder and fear. “Scary! It’s the color of the oni statue guarding the temple.”
“Yes, that’s why I don’t show it to people. But you’re special. You won’t run away.”
“No, I won’t run away. I’m strong and brave.”
Taro looked at his hand with fresh eyes. Every time he exposed it, he felt a strange sense of wonder, as if it was not his own. His hand felt the same as it always had. Almost. The day he fought with the ronin, he had passed out from the bleeding. When he had regained consciousness, he was lying in a pool of his own blood, and his neatly severed right hand lay beside him. He remembered little, except for picking up his hand and feeling a sudden urge to hold the arm to the severed stump. A sudden slithering sensation, like worms in his skin, snakes in his muscles, spines in his bones. He was so surprised that he would have dropped the dead limb, except that it was attached once again by writhing shreds of flesh. He remembered losing consciousness again, and when he woke up, the arm had reattached itself completely. It took several more days before his fingers would work properly again, but he was whole again and able to pursue his vengeance against the ronin who maimed him and left him for dead. Over time, the flesh had changed color, as if he had dipped it in a vat of dye the color of clotting blood.
Since that day, not an hour passed that he did not burn for vengeance. Images of the horrible tortures he would inflict upon his prey filled his dreams. Painstaking dismemberment, burning, flaying, tearing, flensing, breaking, puncturing. The shivers of glee grew stronger with each more depraved thought.
But his thoughts were right and just. The ronin deserved it all. What was the ronin’s name? He couldn’t remember anymore, but he didn’t need to. He did not need to ask people if they had seen the ronin or knew where he was. Taro already knew how to find him. When he awoke in the morning, after a night of terrible, bloody, gleeful dreams, he could smell his quarry like fresh blood on the air. As the mornings wore on, the smell of the ronin’s blood became too confused with other smells, and he lost the trail, but he always picked it up again the following morning. And it was not just blood that he smelled; it was something else, something warm and metallic, like the taste of a silver coin. And it stirred memories of pain. When he thought about that smell, that taste, his heart thumped ever harder in his breast, until he was sure that everyone around him could hear the sound.
Since he left the sword school, he had made his way to the city of Hakata, then moved on to Hakozaki. He did not remember why Master Koga cast him out, but he remembered a reprimand of some kind, then leaving the school carrying his things. . . . He was too strong for the other students anyway. He always had to be careful, to hold himself back from hurting them. Well, they would not have to worry about him anymore. Master Koga could rest easy now that none of his other students would be harmed in practice again. They had all been weak.
His way seemed to point northeast along the coast. And every morning the scent strengthened, as if he was drawing nearer. Every morning, he could follow a little longer.
Then he wondered, why had he fought the ronin that day? Why had they dueled? What was the reason? The ronin had killed someone he knew? The ronin had cut him to pieces? Killed all his men and robbed him of a beautiful girl? Wait, that was not right. Parts of his memory felt like a dream. Why had he been chasing the ronin in the first place? He could not remember now, and it made him angry. Why could he not remember?
Shota reached out and touched Taro
’s disfigured hand. But only for a moment before he recoiled, and the smile of wonder faded from his face.
“Don’t be afraid,” Taro said. “It’s only a hand.”
Shota took a step back, and his big brown eyes brimmed with fear.
“Where is your mother, Shota?”
The boy turned and pointed across the street. “She is home, washing laundry.”
“Where is your house?”
“Over there.”
“Your mother will be getting worried soon.”
The boy shrugged.
“Where is your father?”
“He’s working. He goes to the docks every day.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“Two sisters, but they are just babies.”
“Ah, so you’re the big boy, eh?” As Taro spoke, he found disconcerting thoughts passing through his mind, like strangers in the street. Thoughts he did not know, thoughts that did not feel like his own. Like how it would feel to crush this boy’s little skull like an eggshell, and how it would taste to drink his blood. And stranger still, part of him already knew! Part of him already knew that it would feel good, would taste good.
He realized that his crimson right hand was stroking the top of the boy’s head. The boy’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide, staring up at Taro.
Taro pulled his hand away quickly. “There is no reason to be afraid,” he said quickly. “You are strong and brave.”
The boy gulped, and his voice was a whisper. “Strong and brave.” Then he took a step back. A tear trickled from his eye, making a streak in the dirt and fermented beans clinging to his ripe, red cheek.
Taro tasted blood on his lips. He touched his mouth with his left hand and found blood where he had bitten his lower lip. He licked the blood and a shudder went through him.
Heart of the Ronin Page 32