As he retraced his earlier path through the grass, faint whispers filtered through his awareness. The whispering sounded tense, fearful. A cock pheasant and his wives lived on this slope, hiding in the long grass. Perhaps it was them he heard.
One voice clucked, “Is it gone?”
“I don’t know,” said another.
“Don’t move,” said another.
“Hush,” said the cock. “The man-chick will hear us.”
“It was angry,” said another.
The boy could not distinguish the voices of the hens from each other.
“Maybe it will come back,” said another.
“Should we warn him?”
“Maybe he sees it.”
“That’s why he stopped.”
“Maybe he heard us.”
The boy asked the pheasants, “What are you talking about?”
“Shut up, you hens!” snapped the cock. They all fell silent. The hairs on the boy’s neck stood on end, and chicken skin rose on his arms. He froze.
Something moved near the bushes at the edge of the patch of grass. Something much larger than a bird. The hens whispered, “He should hide!”
“It will kill him!”
“He cannot hide.”
“It will smell him!”
Fear rose up in the boy’s breast and shot back down into his legs, turning them to wood.
“He should run!”
“He should hide!”
The rustling at the edge of the underbrush grew louder, along with a breathy huffing, snorting. The thing’s head emerged from the bushes, its snout raised to sniff the wind, yellowed tusks bright against the bristly, dark hair of its face. Then it turned its snout toward the boy and snorted a challenge. He should run, but he could not. The boar snorted again, tossing its head, tensing itself to charge.
“What can we do?”
“Should we help him?”
“If we fly away, it can’t hurt us.”
The boar threw up its head and lunged straight at the boy, its beady, bloodshot eyes blazing with rage, its body an undulating knot of solid, wiry muscle. The boy flung his bucket at the boar and fled for the nearest tree. The boar was closer than the trees, tearing the grass into pulp as it came. Terror lent wings to the boy’s feet, but the boar was too close. If he could only reach that tree. But it was too far. The boar’s heavy, snorting breaths warmed his naked back.
Then a furious, fluttering, clucking commotion burst out of the grass. A flurry of rainbow-colored wings, tails, and grass leaped into the air directly in the boar’s path.
The boar swerved away like a diverted boulder.
The boy strove for greater speed. This was his only chance.
The flock of pheasants rose toward the treetops. The boar remembered its prey and charged again, shocking in its speed. How could such a big, clumsy-looking animal be so fleet of foot? The beast was upon him. Its cloven feet tore through the sod and grass.
The boy reached the tree, leaped up, caught a branch with both hands, and swung up onto the lowest bough. The boar snapped at his dangling ankle, its hot spittle spattering his bare foot. He jerked his foot up out of reach and stared down into the boar’s fierce eyes. His heart hammered in his chest like a rabbit’s, and his limbs quivered like grass in a breeze.
The boar snarled up at him, then gave a snort as if satisfied that it had proven its superiority, and began to root through the earth around the base of the tree. It cast him the occasional contemptuous glance. The boy climbed higher. After a time, the boar seemed to grow bored, looked up at the boy, and snorted again as if to say, “And stay up there!” Then it wandered off into the bushes.
The boy stayed up there for a long time, waiting for the sounds of its passage to disappear. Then he waited some more to be sure it had gone. The shadows had grown long when he warily climbed down and retrieved his bucket. It was empty now, so he had to refill it, but he did not mind.
Every day after that, for a long time, he brought a handful of rice to the grassy mountainside for the pheasants.
* * *
Ken’ishi let the evening fade around him. As the sky deepened to purple through the open patch of sky above the pond, a pheasant cock crowed for his wives. A hen somewhere clucked back.
Something about their exchange bothered him, but other thoughts shoved consideration of it aside. He had wanted to wipe Chiba’s blood from his sword. He had killed men before. Why should it bother him now to cause pain? Was his heart not hardened to such things as ending a man’s life? Why would causing a bit of inadvertent pain to Kiosé bother him so?
The night air cooled his skin. Moonlight dappled the pond’s misty surface. Night creatures scurried and skreeked and sang around him as he sat on the bank of the pond. Frogs bubbled and hopped in the waterside reeds.
Anger splashed inside his belly, mixing with guilt for having hurt Kiosé. He had hurt her worse than Chiba had, and that had been the opposite of his intention. He had never heard her speak with such venom to anyone. He felt like throwing something, but the bank was empty.
His old teacher’s words floated out of his memory. Master oneself above all things. They sounded hollow to him just now.
The sound of ruffling foliage disrupted the chorus of night creatures.
A plump old man with a straw hat hanging down his back shuffled into sight. A tuft of white beard sprouted from his chin, with two like tufts sticking out from around his ears. His eyes squinted in the darkness toward Ken’ishi. “What’s this, old sot?”
Ken’ishi’s eyebrows rose. “Eh?” He found himself annoyed at the intrusion into his foul mood.
The old man tottered out with a strange, bowlegged gait and plopped down onto the dirt with an explosive sigh, settling his paunch between his thighs. “I said, what’s all this, old sot?” The man gestured around Ken’ishi’s face, his own face an exaggerated, exasperated grimace. “Kill someone you didn’t mean to, samurai?”
“I failed to kill someone I should have long ago. He still causes me trouble.”
“People do that sometimes. Life would be so much simpler without other people, yes?” The old man smiled and winked.
“I have never seen you around here, Uncle.”
“Oh, I have been around these parts for some time.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, most things I please.”
“Where is your village?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“Are you a monk?”
The old man laughed one long, airy guffaw. “Hah! Hardly. Although I do pretend from time to time. Perhaps I should ask you what you do. Not much call for warriors these days, especially not alone in the forest.”
“This place … I like it.” In spite of the horrors Ken’ishi had once uncovered in this pond, he did like this place. Here, a predatory kappa had killed the old innkeeper, Gonta’s father. The same kappa had almost slain Ken’ishi and Norikage, until Ken’ishi had managed to drive it away. In the three years since, Ken’ishi had visited this pond often.
“A long walk back to your village in the dark, samurai.”
A whisper of warning raised the hairs on Ken’ishi’s neck. The kami were speaking to him, warning him. But how could this old man be any kind of threat? “I might say the same to you, Uncle.”
“Oh, I’m quite at home in the dark. These old peepers still catch the moonlight.” He bulged his eyes, then grinned.
Ken’ishi frowned.
“So tell me, old sot. Why the face like a beaten dog? It can’t be just an old grudge.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because people have problems. You have problems.” He stood up and bowed with exaggerated aplomb. “Allow me, old sot, to lend my wisdom to your problems.”
Ken’ishi sighed. “Your wisdom is much appreciated, Uncle. My dilemma is this. I am a warrior. I have been trained to kill. I would kill at the command of a master, or to end the life of an evil man. I have looked evil in the eye and slain
it. But how can I, knowingly, in good conscience, cause pain to a person who has never done me wrong?”
“A woman. I knew it.”
“The weight of her feelings for me bears me down like a yoke full of river stones. And yet, she is a good woman. I bear her no ill will. I am fond of her, and yet—”
“Foolish, old sot, foolish. You are too attached to outcomes, too attached to the future. Samurai are not supposed to worry about love and such nonsense. To be truly happy, a man must forget the past and the future.”
Ken’ishi raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean? How can a man forget the future. It hasn’t happened.”
The old man shrugged. “How should I know? I’m just spouting monk-drivel.”
“Are you a monk?”
“Sometimes.”
Ken’ishi stood, scowling. “You’re toying with me.”
“Sorry, old sot. Sit down. Sit. Sit!” The old man patted the ground.
Ken’ishi sighed and sat.
“Some creatures were just not meant to mate for life. So it is with human beings.”
“But men and women marry.”
“But they hardly marry for love! There are many reasons, but never for that. Families trade children to cement alliances, keep family names and bloodlines growing on down through the lifetimes, yes? Love comes later, so they say. Marriage getting in your way, is it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
The old man clucked his tongue. “I, on the other hand, have been ‘married’ many, many times.” He winked and elbowed Ken’ishi. “Usually because she has lovely eyes, or because I like the way her backside sways.” Ken’ishi noticed that the old man’s trousers bulged under his paunch, as if he carried two small melons between his legs. How peculiar.
“So, have you given me any wisdom?” Ken’ishi blinked and shook his head. His thoughts were suddenly muddled, unfocused.
“Of course. You become wiser simply by being in my presence.”
Ken’ishi yawned. “Then I should thank you, Uncle, but I don’t even know your name.”
“Call me Hage.”
“I am Ken’ishi.” His eyelids were growing heavy. He rubbed his eyes.
“Sword-stone, eh? I must be careful not to cross you.” With a grunt and a sigh, the old man climbed upright on his walking stick. His legs were bowed apart with the weight of something hanging between them, bulging his trousers. “I must be off, old sot.”
Ken’ishi put his hand on his knee to lever himself to his feet. “I should go back.”
“It’s all right to rest for a while.”
“Oh, I suppose it is.” A profound weariness filled Ken’ishi’s limbs. He sank back down.
Hage turned and waddled into the forest.
Ken’ishi lay back, and the earth felt like the softest bed he had ever slept in. Frogs and crickets sang him to sleep.
If we observe phenomena closely, it cannot be thought that anything between heaven and earth is really different. If we see differences, it is due to the narrowness of our vision. This is like Mount Fuji’s being concealed by a tree trunk with branches and leaves, and my not being able to see it. But how can Mount Fuji be concealed by a single tree? It is simply because of the narrowness of my vision and because the tree stands in the way of my vision that Mount Fuji cannot be seen. We go on thinking that the tree is concealing Mount Fuji. Yet it is due to the narrowness of my vision.
— Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”
The sun seared the Hakozaki docks like a hovering red coal. Chiba mopped sweat from the back of his neck and ignored the ever-present stench of fish, filth, and livestock. The fish-merchant had cheated him, as always. His catch was worth half again what the merchant had given him for it. Nevertheless, the weight of silver in the coin purse against his leg lent a jaunt to his step.
He wanted some cold soba noodles to dampen the oppressive heat, so he followed his nose and went off down a side street to look for just such a meal. On his way, he passed a house of ill-repute of which he had occasionally availed himself. It was a lone, narrow door with a red lantern that read “Pink Orchid Dream.” He paused a few paces beyond the lantern.
A woman’s laugh echoed out, muffled by wooden walls.
Little bitch Miwa should not have laughed with contempt as he thrust her down onto the riverbank, should have been happy that he wanted to pleasure himself on her. If her flailing knee had not slammed into his jewels, he might have gotten his little sword inside her. How she must have laughed at that! And Kiosé, that filthy whore, laughing smugly behind his back. She would not be so smug without her filthy ronin protector. Chiba should have shoved her down on the tatami, rolled her onto her belly, and taken her right there in front of him. Chiba had envisioned dozens of delightful ways for his knife to end up in the ronin’s guts. A sudden, passing attack perhaps, or a knife in the back at night, or filleting him like a yellowtail. Chiba would kill the ronin, and then he would grab the whore, throw her down, shove his little sword deep, and teach her who the real man was.
His encounter with Kiosé last night in the inn had given him an itch that needed to be scratched. He had awakened this morning with his little sword standing erect, and it had ached with need all day. He needed to spew his seed into another whore, pound it deep, pound it hard. That would show her.
He hefted the weight of silver in his purse. He did not have enough to buy the supplies he needed and pay for a whore. If he came home without the supplies again, his brothers would beat him more severely this time. He would rather relieve his little sword himself than suffer that kind of punishment.
But maybe there was a way that he could make that weight of silver grow. Maybe he could buy the supplies and a whore.
* * *
At the end of a dead-end alley, Chiba waited for what seemed like hours, pacing, pacing, leaning, pacing, the throbbing ache in his loins growing more persistent with each passing breeze. The sun sank, and the air cooled. The chirp of sparrows gave way to the skreeking of crickets nestled in the nooks of the close packed buildings.
Finally the narrow door creaked open. A spare little man came out and hung a single red lantern like a bloodshot eyeball above the door. He gave Chiba a bow. “Welcome! Come in, come in!”
Chiba grunted and followed him inside, down a narrow hallway, into a large room filled with four square tables. He hovered in the doorway.
The little man’s teeth appeared in a flinty grin, eyes flashing. “Come in, sir. Someone always has to be first. Something to drink?”
“Saké, of course.”
“Of course.” The little man bowed and withdrew through a curtain.
Lamps lent a smokiness to the warm air, still stuffy from the heat of the day. The air smelled of spirits and his own rank sweat.
Chiba called, “Can’t you open a window in here?”
The little man came out with a large earthen cup. “I’m sorry, sir, but no. We don’t like prying eyes. Please, sit!” He gestured toward a table. “I have seen you before, yes?”
Chiba grunted and wiped his mouth. “Maybe six months back. Fortune was not with me that night.”
The little man’s eyes were too shrewd by half. “Welcome back. Perhaps fortune will smile on you tonight. I am Shozuki, at your service. What shall I call you?”
Chiba grunted at his own pun. “Call me Brown Leaves.” His name sounded like the word for “leaves.”
Shozuki grinned, too widely. “A pleasure, Mr. Brown Leaves. You have plans for the money you’ll win tonight, yes?”
Good fortune swelled like a wave in Chiba’s chest. “You can fleece all the others, but tonight, fortune is with me.”
Shozuki’s eyes flashed as he bowed. “See, more patrons already.”
Two sweat-stained dock workers shuffled in, arms like ships’ masts and shoulders like boulders. Their eyes were dull, empty of the slightest spark of cleverness. Beating them in a few rounds of Ya Pei would be easy.
Shozuki beamed. “Welc
ome, gentlemen! Please, sit. We have enough to begin a game now.”
The three players sat at a table, and Chiba gave his opponents his best defiant glare while Shozuki disappeared to fetch more drinks. Chiba took a swallow of saké and let the clear, pungent warmth descend into his belly.
Shozuki produced a pack of thick rice-paper cards and shuffled them. Chiba fidgeted where he sat. His little sword throbbed in his trousers. He could already imagine a whore’s musky scent. “Let’s get to the game. Enough waiting!”
Shozuki’s mouth drew into a neutral line as he dealt with practiced skill. His fingers stroked and snapped the cards. The first game was on.
Chiba’s good fortune proved true, and he defeated both opponents and the house, winning a sizable sum. Two more rounds like that, and he would have enough for the whore. Perhaps only one more round would be necessary if he could win some side bets. Fortune was with him; he would ride her with relish.
Chiba made some sizable side bets, and Shozuki raised an eyebrow. “Oho! Bold is the man who seizes fortune!”
Chiba laughed. “Grab her by both hips and thrust home, I say!”
The dockworkers glowered at him and accepted his bets.
The next round proved less lucky. He beat the other players but not the house, resulting in only a modest gain. He frowned. At this rate, he would be sitting here for hours. His hulking opponents grumbled and scowled.
Shozuki smiled at them. “I’m sure your fortune will soon turn, sirs.”
“Hah!” Chiba snorted. “Not if I have anything to say about it!”
One of the dockworkers spoke with a voice like gravel on a barrelhead, with a thick Yanagawa accent. “You’re loud.”
Chiba leaned back and fingered the wooden handle of his knife under the table. “Care to make another side bet?” He had won the last one.
The man gripped the table edge. “Just shut up and play.”
By this time, the room had filled with other players. Other dealers played games of Sticks and Leaves or Hanging Horse, but Chiba preferred Ya Pei. It was a bold man’s game.
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 6
