Child of Vengeance

by David Kirk

  The boy found himself next to a potter’s shop, a small place open to the street with vases and bowls displayed upon chests and tables. In the center of the room the potter himself sat upon woven straw mats, painting a plate. He was an old man, a small length of rope bound around his skull keeping his gray hair out of his eyes, his tongue running the length of his lips as he worked.

  Bennosuke broadened his shoulders and stuck his chest out, for though he was miserable he knew that he should still try to appear like a man as he moved to stand in the doorway. He coughed pointedly and then spoke in a voice striving for depth: “A moment if you will, good craftsman.”

  “Eh? What’re you wanting?” said the potter irritably, blinking his focus away from the detail he was painting. The pair of swords silhouetted at Bennosuke’s side checked his tongue. “Oh. Ahah, a thousand apologies both honest and eternal and so on, young sir. You would care to become a patron of my humble establishment?”

  “No, I am samurai,” Bennosuke said, enjoying the man’s reaction. “What do I need a plate for?”

  “To eat from, sir?” the old man said. Bennosuke flushed slightly, and his shoulders fell to somewhere more natural. His masquerade of grandeur had failed twice now; perhaps humility was worth a try. He licked his lips, and spoke in a less pompous tone.

  “That may be, but I am searching for cheap lodgings. Could you help me?” the boy said.

  “Which way are you going, sir?” the man said, thinking. “Westward or Kyoto bound?”

  “I …” said Bennosuke, beginning to construct a lie, but then he remembered honesty was part of humility. “Actually, I’m staying here. I’m to serve under Captain Tomodzuna.”

  “Oh—you’re Lord Shinmen’s man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, I used to serve the old lord, the current Lord Shinmen’s father, sir, years ago,” the potter said, nodding as though he were a sage. “Carried a spear for him through two battles, one up in the hills and the other over to the east somewhere, sir. Killed three men, sir.”

  “What do you mean?” said Bennosuke, confused. “Artisans are forbidden weapons.”

  “We weren’t always, master samurai. Whole armies of artisans and peasants used to be drafted to serve the lords, until one day they decided we no longer had the right blood to wield spears,” said the man. “Wish they had done it before I dangled my ass out over the edge of hell for them. Or they hadn’t done it at all.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Who else? The government, samurai, you know—your folk,” said the man. “Hierarchy is everything, isn’t it, sir? Above all sits the emperor, out of the sight of us, and then there’s what …? My lot is to serve you samurai. You serve our Lord Shinmen. Lord Shinmen has some power, but not so much. He serves the great lords, and above them still sit a handful of men who have no formal name for their kind of power. Call them greater lords, if anything, and the closest one to us is the Lord Ukita. And whom does he serve?”

  “The Regent Hideyoshi Toyotomi,” said Bennosuke.

  “Indeed, and when he came to power he was the one who decreed that none but samurai could have swords or spears,” said the man, and then a malicious glint came into his eyes and he leaned in closer. “And therein lies the interesting thing.”

  “What?”

  “Toyotomi was born a rice picker. Why do you think he never took the noble title of Shogun—he’s forbidden it! Fought his way up through the Oda clan, took power bit by bit. Forgot where he came from along the way, prevented anyone else from following him, and sure enough kept his swords and his country,” said the man, and then smiled as he realized the tone he had taken. “I’m not bitter or anything.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” said Bennosuke. “You let them take your weapons from you, after all.”

  “Hard to say no, what with your wife and your mother and father all at home under the yoke of samurai, none of them with a spear or an ax between them. Still, one door closes, sir. Afterward I got started here, and well … I suppose I have your kind to thank for this,” the old man said, and gestured around his shop with the same smile as before upon his face.

  “Well, that was the choice you made,” said Bennosuke. “I’d die before I surrendered my swords.”

  “Would you, sir? Really?” said the man, slyly enough that Bennosuke could not respond, and the potter’s smile unfurled completely at Bennosuke’s silence. Sardonic as the grin was, the boy felt himself smiling in return. It was as though the two of them were sharing a dirty secret.

  “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” said Bennosuke. “If another samurai heard you slandering them or the regent so, he could lawfully kill you. Why do you say such things?”

  “I don’t quite know, sir,” said the potter. “Maybe it’s because I’m old enough that I’m no longer bothered about dying. Or maybe it’s because you’re young enough that you might listen, sir.”

  Bennosuke made to reply, but a scream of challenge came from behind him. The boy turned, caught a glimpse of burgundy motion rushing toward him, and then something flashing at his head. Impulsive instinct made Bennosuke’s body take a step to the side, and whatever it was it slashed past him close enough that he felt air upon his face.

  It was a sword, he realized.

  There was a young samurai in a burgundy kimono before him, murder in his eyes. The blade in his hands swung around for a second try, but he was slow and Bennosuke found his own body lunging forward to grab at the man’s wrists. The boy’s ankle hooked behind his, the full brunt of his weight barreled onward, and then the burgundy samurai was sprawling on his back.

  A cry went up as the man tumbled, and then a scattering as the passing crowd, which had been stupefied by the sudden commotion, saw the naked blade and understood. Bodies started pushing outward, away from Bennosuke and his attacker. But one body came inward—another burgundy samurai pushed through the current of the crowd, cried his challenge, and then threw himself at Bennosuke with his sword high above him. His belly became a target and, quicker than he thought he could, Bennosuke dropped to one knee, drew his shortsword, and stabbed. The hilt of his weapon met flesh, a twist of the blade as Tasumi had taught, and then he withdrew.

  Blood came with the sword, warm where it spattered across him. The man shrieked, staggered, and collapsed with his hands clawing at the wound. The first samurai was scrambling back onto his feet, hands pawing at his sword in the dirt. The boy’s eyes flicked up into the great, panicked circle the crowd was forming behind the samurai. He saw him then: striding forward, face contorted in fury, three more burgundy men at his side.

  Hayato Nakata.

  “Get him! Get him! Get him!” the man screamed, finger jabbing at Bennosuke. Any pretense of lordly decorum was forgotten; he was driven solely by the base lust to avenge the insult of the boy spitting on him.

  His remaining samurai drew their swords and charged. Four men coming for him now, Bennosuke knew he was hopelessly outmatched. There was a moment of horrible indecision as his eyes darted between the weapons coming to claim his life, and then some deep part of his brain ignited once more and stirred him into desperate action.

  He could not fight; he had to flee. Hurdling the man he had stabbed as he writhed upon the floor dying, Bennosuke bundled the old potter to one side and made for the small doorway at the rear of the store. There had to be an escape through the back of the building somewhere—a way to get to anywhere but here.

  Throwing himself through it and then under the low beams of the house, behind him he heard cries of rage and the shattering of pottery as Hayato’s samurai pushed after him. He flung another door open, and he found himself in a room with a great kiln that shimmered with heat, the potter’s tools spread around. An old lady looked up from a bowl of food, surprise written across her old, round face.

  “Where’s the way out of here?” snapped Bennosuke, and she pointed mutely toward a small door.

  The first of his attackers entered the room behind him
as he twisted past the kiln. A large wooden handle protruded from the oven mouth. Bennosuke pulled it out, whatever it was, and hurled it at the man. The red-hot coals that had been on the end of the shovel soared through the air and caught the samurai full in the face. The man stepped back, screaming horribly and flailing at his head, his stumbling body filling the doorway.

  Grateful for the seconds, Bennosuke hurtled through the tiny door and found himself in a narrow back alley. There was barely enough room to walk straight, so the boy skittered along, half turned sideways. The alley was riddled with byways, and he picked one at random on the right, then one on the left, then came to a halt and pushed himself flat against a wall, listening. He was panting, he realized, and he did his best to silence himself.

  Clattering, shouting, and the rapid clack-clack of wooden sandals on the rough stone paving echoed around him.

  “Where is he?!” shouted one voice.

  “He can’t be far!” shouted another.

  “Tear his eyes out, ugly bastard dog!” came a third, thick with a pain and fury born of scorched flesh.

  The samurai wasted no time deliberating, and split up to search. Bennosuke listened as the echoes of their harsh footsteps fanned out around him. The alleys were more of a maze than the town itself was. Cursing under his breath, he tried to control the panic welling up inside him.

  He had no clue how they had found him, but there was no time to think of that. An instant alone had saved him; the instant the first samurai had been honor-bound to offer between the cry of his challenge and the sweep of his sword from behind. He was living on such instants now, whereas Nakata’s men had all the time they needed to slowly squeeze him into their trap.

  Bennosuke would give them no further advantage; he slipped out of his own wooden sandals. The stone of the alley was shade-cool on his feet as he started sidling along like a ghost. He listened for the clattering of the samurai footfalls, turning when he felt them too close, reversing along his trail if he needed to, waiting for a glimpse of an escape. His stockings grew sodden with slime, his head whipping around like a hunted sparrow’s, seeking attack from wherever it would come.

  Braced for action, he did not expect to round a corner and find a man with a woman pressed up against the wall, taking her from behind. The pair of them had their eyes closed in passion, the man running his hands through the length of her hair and the woman with the skirts of her simple clothes hiked up and held in her mouth.

  For a moment they did not notice him, but perhaps Bennosuke gasped in shock, or perhaps some primal sense of awareness kicked in, for the woman opened her eyes and saw him there, and then the skirts fell from her mouth and she was shrieking.

  She stumbled backward down the alley trying to cover herself, and the man moved himself between her and Bennosuke. But he was a peasant or a merchant or an artisan, and so instead of protesting or threatening the man started bowing and apologizing to the swords and the shaven scalp he saw upon the boy, and all the while still the woman howled in embarrassment.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Bennosuke hissed to them both, but it was hopeless.

  He scrambled past them, his heart pounding so hard now he was having trouble distinguishing between it and the samurai’s footfalls. The boy heard them shouting to the lovers, demanding to know which way he had gone. As he turned another corner he offered a prayer for himself to become invisible, but the gods were not listening.

  One set of footsteps had not headed for the commotion of the lovers. Bennosuke lurched along, listening to them, and suddenly as he came to an intersection they became much too clear—the samurai was around the corner. The boy’s stomach leapt up into his torso, certain for a moment that the man could see him somehow and was swooping in for the kill.

  But no—his footsteps were unhurried. The samurai was not charging, but searching still, unaware he was so close to his prey.

  There was no nook or avenue he could dart down this time, no choice but to fight. Swallowing, Bennosuke withdrew his longsword as silently as he could, the faint scrape of metal on wood sounding so horrendously and revealingly loud to him.

  He raised the weapon above his head and began to count downward. After three he would jump out and strike—a downward slash, no room for any other attack in the narrow space—and hope that the man was within distance.

  Three.

  The sandals were slowing, becoming more and more cautious. Had Bennosuke been wrong? Did the samurai know he was there?

  Two.

  One slow step after another—he had to know. Had to. Bennosuke steeled himself for the wound that would almost certainly come.

  One.

  Bennosuke dashed out and the man was so close that he almost collided with him. The samurai let out a shocked yelp, and began to move to raise his sword, but Bennosuke was already poised. His sword sliced down and buried itself in the man’s head so far that it split one of his eyebrows in two. It was a crude, horrific blow, and the man let out a ghastly scream. He collapsed awkwardly, and the sword was so deeply wedged into his skull that his weight tore it from Bennosuke’s grip.

  The distant footsteps stopped for a moment as the scream bounced its way to them, and then the clack-clack-clack returned faster as they came for him like wolves.

  The sword had bridged itself between the two walls as the man had fallen. The samurai’s lips still murmured mindless sounds, his dead eyes open and rolling upward as though they were trying to see the blade. Bennosuke tried not to look at his face as he went to prise his sword free. The footsteps converged on him like a noose, and so he abandoned any hope of cleanliness and simply placed his foot on the man’s neck and pulled with all his strength. The sword came free with a sucking, cracking sound, sticky strings of hair and gore sticking to the blade.

  “He’s here! Here! Here!” a voice yelled behind him.

  Bennosuke turned to find Hayato pointing at him from farther down the alley. Instead of fury there was now childlike excitement on his face. But he made no move toward Bennosuke, nor did he make any attempt to draw his own sword. Of course he would take part only in the hunt, leaving the danger of the kill to others.

  “Are you samurai, runt?” he called, amused.

  What could Bennosuke do but run? Hayato followed after him, his voice breaking with laughter as he called out to his men.

  To his right Bennosuke glimpsed a crowd, a blessed, heaven-sent crowd that filled him with a moment of elation. Cutting down that alleyway, he burst onto the street. It was another road, busy with people as the one before had been. As indistinguishable as the one before had been too, and that was no good, for Hayato and his men would surely know the town. Bloody sword still in one hand, Bennosuke grabbed a passing man roughly by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “Where’s the road out of town?” he bellowed at the man. The man cowered in shock for a few moments, and then his wits came back to him and he waved vaguely up the street.

  “Get him! Kill him! Now! Now!” came Hayato’s shrieking, suddenly close. Bennosuke turned, anticipating the arrival of the samurai, but instead he saw only the lord’s arm appear out of the alley’s mouth, still pointing. Hayato must have been turning and gesturing to his men to follow him, unaware that he was still so close.

  Suddenly, all he could see was that arm.

  He should have continued to run, completed his escape, but that arm called to him. What he remembered was the sight of the peasant’s hand spiraling in the air as Arima had cut it from him, and Dorinbo’s voice castigating him, and now suddenly here was a chance for revenge, to prove that he truly was righteous. What he felt was the sudden animal thrill of turning the hunt—of the joyous knowledge that he had been weak but now he was strong and majestic and imperious.

  Bennosuke lunged toward Hayato and whipped his sword down in a silver arc. It connected just above the lord’s biceps, the boy was sure of it, but for a brief moment the arm remained the same and he thought somehow he might have missed. Then a great tear
appeared along the kimono’s sleeve, and the arm flopped to the ground.

  It lay there, twitching like a dying fish out of water, and the scream that came out of Hayato was horrible to hear. It was a high-pitched wail of utmost agony, both the noise of a simple animal experiencing a tremendous, unendurable pain, and that of a conscious, intelligent being realizing that it was mutilated and lessened.

  So piercing and pitiful was it that it broke the spell Bennosuke had been under. Revulsion cut through him as he realized what he had done. The carp had torn the swan’s throat out; lords were untouchable and golden, but now there was part of one upon the paving slabs.

  Hayato stumbled out into a street that was suddenly empty around them. He almost tripped over his own limb and collapsed to his knees, the stump of his arm whirling spasmodically. The lord looked up into Bennosuke’s eyes—genuine terror there, far worse than anything Arima had shown—and then he fell farther and began pathetically scrabbling away along the ground on his rear.

  Behind him a burgundy samurai emerged from the alley’s mouth. He took in the scene in one shocked instant, but then he roared in anger and raised his sword to attack Bennosuke.

  “No! Nononono! Leave him! Help me!” begged Hayato.

  The samurai halted unwillingly. Bennosuke leveled his sword at him, his pulse rushing through his ears. The weapon shook in his hands, drops of blood falling from the blade as it juddered. He could see the fury in the samurai’s eyes, could see the coiled power in his shoulders and his desire to kill. The samurai was burned; skin scarred red, a large, fresh blister weeping under his right eye, a ragged constellation of black scorches across his kimono.

  The man wanted to attack, definitely, but Hayato was his lord, and a lord’s command was paramount. Whatever revenge the samurai wanted was secondary, and so he broke and bent to tend to Hayato, tearing cloth from his sleeve and starting to stanch the flow of blood.