Sword of Honour

by David Kirk

  In the ring the white rooster shrieked and bristled triumphant, and then from the mess of men somebody uttered, ‘Frost of hells, what just happened?’

  ‘That bantam’s got a tiny arsehole is what.’

  ‘Coward,’ agreed another.

  ‘He wouldn’t have fled if you fools hadn’t fallen over,’ said the owner of the red rooster. ‘Anyway, the match is postponed. An impasse. All wagers are quashed.’

  ‘To the hells with you, an impasse!’ said the owner of the white.

  ‘These bouts are to the death, are they not? Your bird was unable to kill mine. So – a draw.’

  ‘What’s the ruling?’ said the bookmaker to the umpire.

  ‘I . . .’ said the umpire, his crude fan now a ridiculous mockery in his hand, he searching in his mind for some form of precedent that he could draw upon. ‘It’s . . .’

  ‘It’s victory for the white!’ shouted someone in the crowd.

  ‘Impasse! Impasse!’ shouted another.

  The hall erupted in noise once more. A lot of shouting that grew uglier quickly, men suddenly remembering the tools at their waists, things of common labour like hammers or pry bars or razor strops had other, more primal uses. Fingers jabbing into chests, noses pressed into the sides of faces, phlegm brought forth from old sinuses. Around the feet now in the ring the white rooster capered, ignored.

  ‘Dignity!’ bellowed Tadanari.

  He was shorter than most of the men there, swordless and wearing the garb of some old fop out for a summer afternoon of fun, but his tone was obeyed, had to be obeyed. All turned to look at him, found his posture regal, his eyes deadened into perfect objectivity.

  Nevertheless, someone spat, ‘Who are you, old man?’

  ‘I am Tadanari Kozei,’ he said, no trace of anger in his voice, ‘swordmaster of the school of Yoshioka. All of you will cease this shameful outrage immediately, and behave as citizens of Kyoto ought.’

  The silence manifested freezing in the hollows of chests as he was recognized, verified. The man who had questioned him threw himself to his knees and drove his face grovelling into the dust.

  Tadanari ignored his prostrate form. He pointed a finger at the umpire. ‘You, are you not in command? We shall resolve this civilly. Make a ruling.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the umpire, stared at the ground sprent with feathers.

  ‘I would suggest,’ said Tadanari, seeing the futility of waiting, ‘that victory be given to the white rooster. He is, after all, the only one left standing in the ring of combat.’

  ‘Sir.’ That meant he agreed.

  ‘Declare the red rooster killed.’

  ‘It was killed,’ said the umpire, swallowed. ‘The red rooster was killed.’

  ‘So it shall be,’ said Tadanari, but even with a samurai present a shout of protest began. Before it could devolve entirely once more, Tadanari held up his betting chit for all to see: ‘In case any of you doubt my impartiality, look at this.’

  Money on the red.

  ‘The red rooster was killed. There shall be no challenging of this, no repercussions,’ said Tadanari. ‘The rooster died within that ring.’

  There was a low mutter of agreement. Those that collected winnings collected them without gloating, and those that had lost began to leave sullenly. In the gathered hearts the rooster was slaughtered in a multitude of ways, and any actual breath it might yet continue to draw counted for nil.

  The master of the Yoshioka turned to Musashi. ‘Do you see?’ he said. ‘Left to themselves, blood would have been shed. But no – here now, life and civilization.’

  A curl on Musashi’s lips. ‘This is your conception of honesty?’

  ‘What of yours?’ Tadanari said.

  Again he probed, and again Musashi was taken back to the village of Miyamoto and to Dorinbo, to what he aspired to be.

  After a moment he said, ‘I offer you this compromise. First of all, you will take the head of Akiyama, wherever it is now, and return it to Mount Hiei to be cremated and interred in full propriety with the rest of his remains. Secondly, in place of duelling at the Hall of Thirty-Three Doors, Denshichiro must apologize to me. He must get on his knees and beg forgiveness for himself and his brother and for the entire school instigating this, in front of all in the city who would care to witness it. Then it will be over, and I will leave Kyoto. Bloodlessly.’

  Tadanari sucked air through his teeth as he considered the likelihood of it, and after a moment he nodded a nod that started tentative and grew definite.

  ‘Thank you, Musashi,’ he said. ‘I should truly like to see your style of swordsmanship one day, regardless.’

  ‘I’ll await your word. You know where I am.’

  They stood looking at one another for a moment. Neither one of them bowed. Tadanari turned and left the hall, began to head back towards the city proper. After a moment Musashi followed, called to him outside amongst the dissipating crowd. Tadanari stopped and looked back.

  ‘Your man at Sekigahara,’ Musashi said. ‘I beat him fair. He was wounded but the duel was of his urging, not mine. I offered no insult to the body.’

  The Yoshioka samurai gave no reaction. Soon he was lost amongst the bodies and Musashi was left in Maruta, simmering still.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The tortoise advanced one ponderous foot after the other through the halls of the school. Though it was well cared for and could not remember the sensation of hunger, the drive for food was perpetual and it headed now to a place where it knew sustenance was always plenty. Unneedful of the light, steady through dark corridors and hard floors treading a route decades familiar, it came now to the room it sought and found two shadows splayed across the glowing paper.

  The tension and posture in them was warding even at a primal, reptile level. The tortoise fled at its torpid pace for somewhere calmer.

  Inside that room, Denshichiro all but paced in his rage: ‘You mean to strip me of the glory? This past week of which I have devoted myself, my spirit to the thought of felling Miyamoto? Seen it in dreams with such clarity? All that tossed away on your whim, that potential majesty wasted. Your decision, old man, with neither my knowledge nor my consent, to annul this.’

  ‘You have heard me wrong,’ said Tadanari, his arms crossed and his hands up the sleeves of his kimono. ‘I have annulled nothing. You will still attend the Hall, as will Miyamoto. There you will bow to him and you will apologize to him on behalf of the school regarding our attempts to assassinate him.’

  So levelly spoken that it took a moment for Denshichiro to understand.

  ‘No!’ the young samurai said, so shocked he could only snarl the thoughts as they came to him. ‘How can you . . . ? How can you even have considered that? In the name of Yoshioka you sanctioned this? That’s not your name, old man! You may have seen the beams of this building being raised but that is not your name! My name! My name! No! Unthinkable! Miyamoto, that . . . I will not bow to the low son of a whore that felled my brother!’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘No!’ said Denshichiro. ‘How will the people ever respect us again, if they see me bowing to him?’

  ‘The tide will cover the sand,’ said Tadanari. ‘Do you not understand this? We have been here a hundred years. Miyamoto a handful of weeks. There will be scandal and rumour and low jokes for a few months, but when they have exhausted themselves things will resume as they have always been. Consider Mount Hiei—’

  ‘Cease wielding that as a weapon against me!’

  ‘I speak not of your actions. Consider the Lord Oda, who wanted Hiei eradicated. He succeeded, until he was betrayed and killed, and now monks inhabit the slopes once more because all remember that monks always inhabited Hiei. I went and spoke to Miyamoto, listened to him speak. He is nought but meaningless rage, all of what he says no more than ranting. Do you know what he stands against the most, what he waves before all as proof of the world’s wrongness?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seppuku,’ said Tadanari
, and he repeated it once more shaking his head in disgust. ‘I could hardly believe Akiyama’s missives, but it is true. That propriety to him is an affront, and do you not see that that is the kind of man with which we are engaged? Base lunacy, he no more than a maddened dog, and no sympathy will be given to him – he’s merely abnormally good with a sword. And when he is gone everything he did here will be forgotten, and everything we are and everything we have been will be remembered.’

  ‘Why not you that goes and bows to him, then?’

  ‘Because,’ said Tadanari thinly, ‘I do not carry the name Yoshioka.’

  ‘I will kill him,’ said Denshichiro. ‘I’ll take his head, and there will be no need to wait for any tide of any kind to restore any . . . I will kill him. Of this there is no doubt. I will not be bested by tricks like Seijuro was.’

  ‘Miyamoto is skilled,’ said Tadanari. ‘Your brother’s humiliation and the ten other men he killed beside stand in testament to that. You are skilled also, but not overwhelmingly so. The match would be an even contest. This is fact. Admit this. Through your pride, admit this. Either of you could prevail. If you win, we gain what will be ours anyway, what we already have. You lose, and not only do you die—’

  ‘I’m not afraid of death.’

  ‘Not only do you die, but the school is plunged further into scandal. The name Yoshioka, which your father and your grandfathers bore before you, is sullied. We are already deeper into this outrage than we ought to be. But it is salvageable, of this I am sure. If it worsens . . . There is nothing to be gained by fighting him, Denshichiro, but everything to lose. The risk is entirely ours. Why roll a die you know to be weighted?’

  ‘Because he felled my brother,’ said Denshichiro. ‘Because I am samurai, and I demand even the chance of vengeance.’

  ‘Miyamoto will find his own end regardless of our intervention.’

  ‘Dying is not enough!’ said Denshichiro. ‘He has to be killed, by me! And all have to know it! The respect the city holds for us is faltering. In their hearts, their image of us is tarnishing, rotting away with each step that dog or a bastard Tokugawa samurai takes upon our streets. I can tell. I’m attuned.’

  ‘What does the inside of their hearts matter?’ said Tadanari. ‘When has a single human heart ever altered anything outside of the confines of the ribcage?’

  ‘We deserve to be beloved,’ said Denshichiro, and he said it with such conviction, such personal umbrage in the eyes that it galled Tadanari. ‘We are this city!’

  ‘We deserve to be followed because their fathers followed us. That is the sole logic that we reap the benefit of. The logic you scorn now. Heed me: Miyamoto is a snow in the late spring, nothing more. He will be remembered here only with a passing curiosity, if at all. Nothing enduring, nothing permanent. Not like we can be. Not like we are.’

  ‘Have you no trust in the Way of the Yoshioka? In me? How did my father ever tolerate the advice of a man as gelded as you?’

  ‘Because he was not a boar-headed idiot intent on his family’s destruction.’

  ‘You call me idiot? Well I call you coward!’ shouted Denshichiro, and he raised a hand to point at Tadanari, jabbed his finger savagely again and again. ‘I will eat shit before I bow to Miyamoto, and I will eat shit before I take counsel from you again!’

  Tadanari found it hard to contain his own fury. Somehow he managed to force the words out levelly: ‘Bear a little shame now and your great-grandchildren will thank you.’

  ‘I’ll earn a great glory and they will thank me more,’ said Denshichiro, and he turned and made for the door, the frail frame of which nearly shattered as he hauled it open. He stormed off down the corridor still cursing, feet graceless and heavy.

  There in the silence Tadanari stood. Looked around at the walls, at the floor. Wondered why it was they stood.

  Some time later Ujinari appeared as lithe and silent as a ghost and asked what it was that had set Denshichiro’s temper ablaze. Tadanari explained.

  ‘I shall speak to him,’ said Ujinari. ‘You’re in no mood to. Your counsel, your strategy is wise, I’m sure he will see that. He just is as he is. Once the tempest of his blood has ceased I am certain he too will agree.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Strange times.’ Ujinari smiled. ‘I wish this summer would end, this heat would break. But we are the Yoshioka. We will endure.’

  ‘We are the Kozei.’

  ‘One and the same.’

  Tadanari looked at his son and saw the confidence there, the loyalty. He wished that he could share in it, that Denshichiro could share in it too.

  Later, within the private garden of the school, a pretty cask of lacquered persimmon wood sat upon the dais. It looked like something fine sake would be kept in. On its side was painted an image of a flowing river, a catfish rearing its head between gourds being carried merrily downstream. Tadanari had unscrewed the lid of the cask, and this lay to one side. On the rim flies congregated.

  Inside was Akiyama’s head, awaiting transport to Mount Hiei in the morning.

  The cask had been packed with cloves and mugwort and the ashes of incense, and yet still the smell of rot pervaded. This macabre company was the only kind Tadanari could tolerate that night. Yet he could not bring himself to bring the head fully out.

  He simply sat there. staring at the tip of a peeled nose and the locks of curled red hair that hung over the lip.

  ‘What was it that caused you to break from us?’ Tadanari asked Akiyama. It was an honest question and he waited some time for an answer. When he received none, he spoke on: ‘It cannot be the nonsense that masterless spouts. I listened to that. That could not have swayed you. For all your aberrations you were steady. You, of all the adepts, might have been the most loyal. Up until the moment you weren’t. Much like a murderer, I suppose. What was it, Nagayoshi? Revealed to you in an instant, like a Bodhisattva seeing suddenly the path to the pure lands? A moment when things you knew to be stone became as liquid? Can all men experience such a thing? An instant when unseen bells are struck and things that were thought jewels resonate fit to shatter?’

  He realized he was speaking aloud to an incomplete corpse.

  Tadanari turned his eyes away in embarrassment at his own unrest. He looked to his hands, where between a thumb and a forefinger he was rubbing one of his ivory netsuke pouch-clasps anxiously. He moved the thumb and saw the image of Saint Fudo looking back.

  In the devil-saint’s right hand, the Cutter of Delusions.

  At the sight of the purging sword for a moment he wavered, quailed, and he thought that all was dashed, that the celestial edge was passing through him at that instant. He rebelled, dropped the clasp, covered it with a palm on his thigh and then forced calm upon himself. His eyes found their way to the centremost boulder in the bed of sand. Always cool the surface of obsidian, the knife-ridge of it enamelled like ice unmelting, beguiling the ego away to nothingness. Formed of millennia and sharp enough to break the span of a mere handful of decades across, to rack a human life brazen for examination.

  Candles burnt. His unseeing eyes did not notice his son’s arrival. Ujinari did not disturb him, waited for his father to become aware of his presence in his own time. There was a near-startled moment when he did, then informal bows exchanged.

  ‘Deep in thought,’ the son said.

  ‘Nnn.’

  Ujinari looked at the cask and the sliver of Akiyama’s head that was visible. Tadanari grunted again, waved the flies away and then replaced the lid.

  ‘Let me ease your mind, Father, turn it away from such morbid things. I have spoken with Denshichiro: he will do it. For the betterment of the school, he will apologize to Miyamoto.’

  ‘He agreed?’

  ‘He is not happy, but he sees the wisdom of it.’

  ‘How long did it take to convince him?’

  ‘Not long. You misjudge him. Once he was calm, he was willing to listen.’

  ‘To you, perhaps. It seems you have the gift of
diplomacy. Perhaps we ought to send you out as envoy for the school.’

  ‘Hold your praise, for regrettably I am not that talented,’ said Ujinari. ‘There was one thing Denshichiro demanded.’

  ‘His acquiescence not total, then?’

  Ujinari chose his words carefully: ‘He is aggrieved by your acting on his behalf without his consent. Greatly. I think it is irrational, but it is how he is. He will only apologize to Miyamoto if you are not present, and then, the matter settled, you agree to retire from the city until the spring.’

  ‘Unthinkable,’ said Tadanari. ‘He cannot be left to govern himself, not with the Tokugawa situation so volatile. Look what he did—’

  ‘Father, I believe I can temper him.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I am his friend. As you were to Naokata. Kozei and Yoshioka, stronger together, no?’

  ‘Naokata and Denshichiro are not . . .’ said Tadanari, but did not finish. He eyed his son levelly. ‘How sure of this are you?’

  ‘Relatively,’ said Ujinari. ‘I convinced him to agree to this, did I not?’

  ‘But he is tempestuous,’ said Tadanari. ‘What of the incident upon Hiei, say? That came out of nothing. Could you have stopped that?’

  ‘I could have, yes, if I had put it upon myself to act as counsel,’ said Ujinari. ‘I was lax. I beg your forgiveness for my error. But I swear from this moment forth I will be vigilant.’

  ‘You would have to be with him as constant as a hawk on the hand.’

  ‘In your stead, I would do so. For the future of the school.’

  Tadanari looked at his son, saw the responsibility in his eyes. Ujinari had worn a longsword for seven years now, but under the shadow of Seijuro Tadanari had always thought of him and of Denshichiro as latently younger, or perhaps simply young. No truth to the thought, just felt inherent. Now, though, that shadow cast aside and Ujinari raised up into the light, Tadanari saw him perhaps for the first time as a man proper.