Yes, perhaps Hakata’s sea breezes would be a welcome respite from the heat of summer.
When it is necessary to kill, he kills. When it is necessary to give life, he gives life. When killing, he kills in complete concentration; when giving life, he gives life in complete concentration means that in either giving life or taking life, he does so with freedom in a meditative state that is total absorption, and the meditator becomes one with the object of meditation.
— Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”
The castle rose against the pink streamers of sunset. Tall, sweeping walls, a stately central keep, and a prosperous town nestled against the slopes of the castle’s hill.
Ken’ishi’s feet ached after another long day of walking. The cool stream where he had cooled them this afternoon already felt like a distant memory. A refreshing splash to remove the road dust, followed by a quiet soak would be welcome.
He hailed a passing woodsman and pointed. “Excuse me, Uncle, but whose castle is that?”
The woodsman’s heavy-laden rack hunched his back and bowed his skinny legs, but he turned and bowed politely. “This is the domain of Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo, sir.”
Distant scarlet banners above the gates flapped on the breeze, caught the dusk light.
Ken’ishi thanked the woodsmen and tried to remember where he had heard that name before. The half-recollection felt like a sliver in his flesh so fine that he could not find it.
Hage poked him with the walking stick and grinned. “Perhaps you should ask him for a job, a strapping young samurai like you.”
He frowned. “The last time I asked a lord to be taken into service, I was chased out of the domain upon threat of death.”
“Ah, old scars I see.” Hage clicked his tongue. “Why must I drag every tidbit of tale from you? Why couldn’t I have chosen a more loquacious companion?”
“I would rather do than say. It saves breath. Perhaps if you talked less, you’d breathe easier coming over some of those hills.”
Hage pointed a meaty finger. “You watch your tongue, boy. I do just fine for someone my age.” He breathed deep of the scents on the air. “This looks like a good town to rest for the night. These look like well-fed people.” Hage patted his belly, then adjusted his groin. “Besides, it’s been two days, and you’re still chewing on the name of Green Tiger. Is he anyone you would truly want to meet?”
The kami buzzed like mosquitoes at the edges of Ken’ishi’s consciousness, perhaps with warning, perhaps significance. He pursed his lips and continued down the street.
“You’re so serious today, old sot.”
Too many things on Ken’ishi’s mind, too many half-glimpsed connections and half-forgotten names, like leaves blown from his grasp by the wind. He stopped beside a saké house. The rich smell of grilling fish and vegetables wafted out alongside sharp tinges of saké.
“Oho! Your pause here makes its own merit! The Roasted Acorn, eh? I’m famished and thirsty.” Hage parted the curtain over the door and ducked inside.
Ken’ishi could say the same, so he followed into the dim interior.
Hage seated himself at the counter, behind which sat rows of shelves and jars of saké. The bar man shouted a jovial “Welcome!” Several other patrons occupied the room and the counter near Hage, their conversations filling tatami-floored nooks.
Ken’ishi and Hage ordered food and shared a jar of saké. As they ate, Ken’ishi’s mind floundered around the name of Otomo no Tsunetomo. Where had he heard that name before?
Meanwhile, Hage struck up a conversation with a neighboring patron. They spoke of the heat, the quality of the fare here at the Roasted Acorn, the general state of the town. The other patron was a leathered farmer with gnarled, callused hands, a broad, blunt countenance, and an easy manner. Soon Hage and the farmer were chatting like long lost friends.
Ken’ishi listened with half an ear, but he had never been good at affable conversation. Between when Kaa had saved him from assassins and then later sent him away at the age of fifteen, Ken’ishi had seen only one other human, a mendicant monk. Nevertheless, Hage soon tried to draw him into the conversation. Ken’ishi could only sit awkwardly while Hage’s words filled every space between breaths. When Hage regaled the farmer with an embellished yarn about how they had trounced some uncouth brutes in Oita town, the farmer’s eyes sparkled.
The farmer said, “Ah, it’s good to hear when someone stands up to the rough element. Filthy ronin and foreign gangsters think they can tell everyone what to do. The country is just going to hell with all those foreigners in Hakata. The government ought to send all those Koryo and Chinese back where they came from.”
Ken’ishi leaned forward. “Have you ever heard of someone called Green Tiger?”
The conversation in the room hushed for a moment. The barkeep cocked an ear and looked askance at Ken’ishi.
The farmer stiffened and looked away. “Never heard of him.”
Hage chuckled amiably. “You’ll have to forgive my young friend. He’s a bit short on social graces. Barkeep, a fresh jar please for my new friend here.”
The barkeep filled another jar from the larger barrel. “Looking for someone, are you?”
At a warning glance from Hage, Ken’ishi shrugged and held his tongue.
The barkeep set the jar on the counter, and Hage held it up to fill the farmer’s cup. The farmer nodded and raised his cup to accept. The barkeep eyed Ken’ishi for a long time, and the kami tingled over his neck.
For almost an hour, Hage drank with the farmer, and Ken’ishi did not try to keep up, only sipping his saké. With possible danger nearby, he would not weaken his faculties or unsteady his body. Hage, on the other hand, poured it back as if he were dying of thirst. Patrons eventually wobbled to their feet and meandered out. The farmer’s eyes grew bleary and bloodshot, and Hage’s cheeks reddened, words slurring. Eventually, Hage’s forehead descended to the counter, and soft snores followed. The farmer finally stood, bid Ken’ishi good night, and departed, leaving him alone with the barkeep and the sleeping Hage.
The barkeep gathered up empty jars and cups.
Ken’ishi said, “What do you know of Green Tiger?”
The barkeep stiffened again, but only for a moment. “Why, nothing, sir. I’ve never heard of him. Why do you ask?”
“Many people in these parts seem to know about him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. That is why I asked.”
“Why do you seek him?”
“His name came up in certain dealings.”
“With a name like that, those might be dangerous dealings.”
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to help me steer away from danger.”
“Too much knowledge can be dangerous.”
“Who is he?”
“My cousin, he ... ran afoul of one of Green Tiger’s gangs in Hakata.”
“So, Green Tiger, he’s a big man in Hakata?”
“And other places.”
“What about here?”
“Not here. Lord Otomo doesn’t tolerate rough men. Ronin, gangsters, bandits, they don’t fare well if he catches any. Perhaps Green Tiger stays away from here for that reason.”
“What happened to your cousin?”
“They tied him up, sliced up his face, and buried him in shit up to his neck until he died. This was in the height of summer a few years back. So, I say to you because you have an honest face, if you start looking for such men as Green Tiger, they might find you instead.”
Ken’ishi nodded. “I understand. And I thank you for your concern. Is there an inn nearby?”
“I have a room if you want it, above the storage closet. You won’t have to carry him so far.”
Hage’s head bobbed off the counter. “Carry! Carry me? What?” He slapped Ken’ishi’s arm with a limp hand. “Discretion, old sot! Discretion!” His words slurred oil over one another. “You can’t just go around throwing a name like Green Tiger around!
He must be some sort of gangster! Have you learned nothing?”
Ken’ishi said to the barkeep. “We’ll take your room.” He took Hage by the arm, slung it over his shoulder, and hoisted him to his feet.
Hage tried to poke his chest, but missed, whispering so loud someone outside could have heard, “Discretion, I say! Subterfuge!”
* * *
Destiny.…
The word rang in his mind like a receding shout.
Ken’ishi opened his eyes with a gasp. He reached for the silver thread that had been so sharp and clear in his dreams, but it had disappeared in a wash of worldly smells and sounds and darkness. The sound of the town coming to life outside his window, the musty tatami and dust of the cramped room, patches of dawn gray filtering through the small window.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, expecting to find Hage in a senseless lump, but the old man was gone. The futon and blanket lay neatly folded, as if Ken’ishi had not left him sprawled amid the bedding like a great, snoring beast.
The steps downstairs from the room above the storage closest were steep and narrow, and Ken’ishi wondered how an old man, likely still suffering from too much drink, could have negotiated them without making enough noise to call ancestors from the afterlife.
Downstairs, the establishment was quiet at this time of morning, and he found no Hage there, nor outside in the privy, nor in the street. With growing consternation, Ken’ishi began walking the streets looking for him. The more industrious townspeople were already about their business, and Ken’ishi passed a building where the click and clatter of looms were already underway. The smell of bean cakes baking, the unique tang of a saké brewery, the sharp vinegar of vegetables pickling in great earthen crocks.
For an hour, Ken’ishi walked the streets, but without any glimpse of Hage. He bought a stick of incense and a rice ball and offered them to Jizo at a street-side shrine. The kind-faced god, protector of children and travelers, smiled beneficently at him as he prayed for help in his journey.
Ken’ishi wanted a sign. Memory of that word, destiny, ringing in his mind made him vigilant for signs. As he prayed, he sought the emptiness of mind and in that emptiness, he listened for the voice of Silver Crane. But there was only silence.
He made inquiries in the locale of the Roasted Acorn, but to no avail. When he returned to the Roasted Acorn and asked after Hage, a deep frown furrowed the barkeep’s face. “No, I haven’t seen that old drunkard today.”
Sensing the barkeep’s foul mood, Ken’ishi asked, “Some trouble today?”
“An animal got into my storage last night, shattered a jar of saké, ate half a dozen apples, a week’s worth of bean cakes, and half my dried squid!”
“How do you know it was an animal?”
“Claw marks all over everything. It even pissed on a sack of rice!”
“Monkey? Fox? Tanuki?”
“Whatever it was, it had cleverness enough to open the door. I’ll be ready for it if it comes back, you mark me.”
“Bad fortune. Or perhaps you angered it somehow. I’ve had experience with angering a fox. They can cause no end of trouble. Perhaps if you left it an offering outside.”
“I’d rather just kill it and be done.”
“You might risk the wrath of its kin.”
The barkeep’s lips writhed over each other.
“Good day, gentlemen!” Another voice intruded on their conversation.
The barkeep rolled his eyes.
A short, rotund man with a beaming smile, cherry-pink cheeks, and long, white, dangling whiskers bowed to them. His brightly-colored silk robes were finely woven with an eye-catching pattern. “Always so lovely to be back in Hoshiya town.”
The barkeep growled. “I don’t need any of your trinkets today.”
“Perhaps you’d like to see my new crockery. I brought it all the way from Dazaifu with you in mind. It has an acorn design.”
The barkeep grunted.
The peddler pressed on, and Ken’ishi excused himself. Outside, the rear gate of the peddler’s creaky wagon hung open, exposing a cargo of cloth bundles, boxes, crockery, innumerable things. A bored-looking black ox stood yoked to the wagon, swishing its tail as it chewed on something. A group of four small children ran up to the beast and stopped, their eyes wide with wonder and some fear.
The ox snorted at them. Clear drool dripped from its mouth as it chewed, and the children giggled.
“Ah, gross!”
“Icky!”
“It’s not moving.”
“What a strange-looking beast!”
“It smells!
“It wants to eat you,” a boy said.
“No, it don’t!” a girl said.
“Yes, you’re very tender. I can tell it thinks so.”
“Oxes don’t eat people!”
“What do they eat?”
“Those horns are for spearing people. See, they’re sharp! Go right through somebody’s belly.” The boy made a stabbing motion.
The girl’s eyes widened again, and she drew back.
The ox looked at her impassively.
Her eyes teared. She faced the ox and squared her shoulders. “You’re not going to eat me, stupid ox!” She picked up a clod of dirt and flung it at the ox’s face. The startled animal flinched back. The cart loosed a creak and clatter of wares and old wood joints.
Something fell out of the back of the wagon and landed heavily with a crack at Ken’ishi’s feet.
The ox snorted at the children and lowered its horns. The children squealed and scattered like startled gulls.
The peddler ran outside and grabbed the ox’s halter, trying to steady the beast. His gaze threw shuriken after the children, and he sighed. Then he turned to Ken’ishi with a smile. “Cute little scamps. But no harm in childish play, eh?”
A porcelain statue had fallen from the back of the wagon at Ken’ishi’s feet. An elegantly cast likeness of a crane, white and smooth, its long neck broken in the fall.
The peddler clucked in dismay and bent to pick it up. “Terrible!” He shouted after the children. “You vile little bastards!” He sighed again and said to Ken’ishi, “I don’t want to think about how much that cost. Made in China and brought all this way! The finest quality!” The peddler sighed again and rubbed his wrinkled forehead.
“It fell out when the wagon jounced.” Ken’ishi could not take his eyes from the crane statue. Destiny.…
“Stupid children! Scaring poor Pon-Pon.”
“Where are you bound, sir?” Ken’ishi said.
The peddler twisted his mustache. “Well, I’m nearing the end of my business here in Hoshiya; then I expect I will head north. This is as far south as I usually travel.”
“North to where?”
“Dazaifu, then Hakata.”
“You have some valuable wares, sir. Don’t you fear bandits on the road? I hear there are rough men in these parts.”
“One does meet such men occasionally.”
“Take me with you, and I’ll act as your guard.”
“That’s very kind, but I cannot pay you—”
“I expect no pay. I would only ask a seat on your wagon.”
The peddler shrugged. “The road does get a bit lonely. And you look like a stout, honest young man. Do you have weapons?”
“I do.”
“Then load your things. Everyone calls me Shirohige.”
“‘White Beard?’ Did your parents name you that?”
Shirohige smiled. “A joker, are you? We can have many names, many lives between one birth and one death. Shirohige is the life I am living now.”
“I am Ken’ishi.”
“I’m sure there’s an interesting story behind that name. And we’ll have time. Pon-Pon here moves at the speed of mud. You’d reach Hakata faster crawling on all fours.”
The flower that would surrender its fragrance before my brushwood door
Does so regardless.
I, however, sit and stare—
How
rueful, this world
— Jien, quoted in Takuan Soho’s “The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom”
Ken’ishi left a message for Hage at the Roasted Acorn, saying he had departed for Hakata, and had taken up with a peddler with a wagon and a black ox. He hoped nothing untoward had befallen the old man, but he could not afford to wait for Hage to return, could not disregard such a clear omen. The old man was resourceful, and his presence did not upset the kami, but there was something exceedingly strange about him.
Shirohige said, “I have one more stop before we leave town. Lord Otomo’s household may have need of some fine crockery.” The two of them climbed aboard the wagon. Shirohige snicked the reins and began to sing a rhythmic ditty. Between verses, he said, “Pon-Pon likes this song. It practically puts a bounce in his step.”
Ken’ishi could not discern any difference in Pon-Pon’s methodical, inexorable plod, whether or not the peddler was singing, but Shirohige had a pleasant enough voice.
At roughly noon, they reached the gate of the castle. Shirohige was forced to stop the cart at the guard post at the base of the hill because the steps built into the fortifications would not allow the passage of wheels. Shirohige went into the castle to seek an audience with the lord’s housekeeper.
The guards eyed Ken’ishi while he stood beside the wagon.
Ken’ishi’s gaze roved over the impervious, sloped walls of interlocking stones, the stately, white-washed central keep, the terraced tile roofs, the massive iron-bound wooden doors of the main gate, and then over the two armored guards, naginatas in hand. Their faces betrayed little emotion or interest, and sweat sheened their cheeks in the rising heat, soaking their red headbands.
After all the warriors sized each other up, Ken’ishi turned away and looked down the slope toward a well-kept orchard of cherry trees. Oh, but they would be breathtaking in spring. Among the trees, two women strolled hand-in-hand, one carrying a lacquered basket. Their faces were obscured by distance and the tangle of leafy branches, but one of them moved with a captivating grace. His gaze lingered.
The rattle of armor and the tramp of palanquin bearers turned him around. The samurai moved aside for a palanquin, carried by four stout men, coming down the path toward the gate, with four armored bodyguards walking before and four behind. Shades made of fine bamboo slats concealed the occupant. The gild and lacquer gleamed, wrought with elegant patterns of mother-of-pearl feathers. Ken’ishi watched it come, curious about who might ride in such an august conveyance.
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 13
