Child of Vengeance

by David Kirk

  The heavy door lurched opened, startling them all. The crash of wood was much too close and much too sudden, and the bandits swiveled like panicked sparrows. Two of the corpsehandlers entered. They looked as though they had purpose, and they came down to stand before the cage.

  “Right,” said one, wasting no time, dropping into a squat so he was at eye level with the prisoners. “You’re bandits, and famous ones at that. That means you have something stashed somewhere. We want it, whatever it is—gold or weapons or anything.”

  Shuntaro’s men did not respond. The corpsehandler grinned. He was remarkably clean, his teeth as full as any man’s and his eyes quick and clever. From a bag at his waist he produced a thin stoppered vial made from a hollowed young bamboo trunk.

  “This is a nice little concoction of viper’s spit and poison leaves and mushroom caps,” he said, still grinning. “Drink it and you’ll be dead within a minute. Tell us where you left your goodies and it’s yours. Only enough for one, mind, so first one wins it.”

  Silence.

  “Come on,” said the corpsehandler, the grin faltering, “you really ought to take this. I’ve seen what they’re preparing for you out there.”

  “Ask the samurai,” said one of the bandits, jerking his chin at Bennosuke, and the others laughed.

  “A nice idea, but we already have his treasures there on the wall,” said the crouching man, laughing with them in an attempt to build repartee, and waving a hand to where Bennosuke’s swords were hung upon the rack. His partner picked the weapons up and rocked them as he would a baby with a sarcastic leer upon his face.

  “Now,” said the crouching man, still smiling, “I don’t believe for a moment that you have left nothing behind unclaimed. What you have to understand is that you are dead already. No one will remember. No one will care if you ‘betrayed’ something. This is a simple choice between agony or a quick and private end. Do you understand that?”

  “ ‘Viper’s spit and mushroom caps,’ ” said one of the bandits mockingly. “You think we’re stupid? No vipers in these woods.”

  “I cut the fangs myself,” said the man, and he leaned in close to the bars. “We breed them. Snake leather fetches a fine—”

  He was interrupted by his friend, who had placed the swords between his legs as though he were endowed by the gods, poking him in the cheek as he mimed masturbation. The first one tried to stop the disgusted grin on his face as he slapped them away. “Take this seriously.”

  “I am taking it seriously,” said the second man, and he slung the swords into his leather belt and as he spoke started marching up and down in mockery of a samurai’s stride. “I told you they wouldn’t spring for it. Just look in their eyes. Pride, there. Stubborn gang of pricks, like a bunch of samurai.”

  At that an inspiration for further mirth came to him, and he turned to Bennosuke. “You, come here,” he said. The corpsehandler stood close before the cage, as imperious and majestic as a man in rags could be. Bennosuke stumbled forward on his knees, making a show of how he was bound.

  “What do you think, eh, samurai?” he said, and his hand was running back and forth across the handle of the longsword, a similar gesture to before, though now he was unaware of doing it. “You think they suit me?”

  Though he kept his eyes down, the boy saw dull iron keys hanging at the man’s waist opposite the weapons.

  “You’re wearing them wrong,” he said.

  “What?” said the man.

  “You’ve got them upside down,” said the boy. The corpsehandler had thrust them into his belt with the edge downward so that the smooth arch of the swords appeared a shallow dish. “Imagine the swords are bows. You want the string at the bottom toward your feet so that the edge of the blade curves over the top.”

  “What difference does that make?” said the corpsehandler.

  “You can’t strike from the draw with the edge downward like you’ve got now; it’s hard to get any real strength going underhanded from low to high. Overhand, though, you can flick it out in one movement, bring it down, and take an arm off or attack the chest,” said Bennosuke. “There’s another reason too, you know.”

  “What is it?”

  “It makes it very easy for people to disarm you,” he said, and shook the ropes off himself.

  The look on the corpsehandler’s face for one glorious instant was of complete shock. He could do nothing as Bennosuke’s hand whipped out through the bars and grabbed the handle of the shortsword, could only watch as the inverse curve of the scabbard all but caressed the blade free, and could only yelp as Bennosuke grabbed the back of his head, hauled his body against the bars of the cage, and leveled the point of the sword at the quivering base of his throat.

  “Give me the keys,” said Bennosuke, and he knew he was grinning as he said it. “Give me the keys, or I’ll skewer you.”

  A set of hands came from behind and grabbed Bennosuke’s, forcing the sword forward. The blade lanced up into the corpsehandler’s neck, and the flesh split and blood flowed and then the man was gurgling and sputtering his terror through the hole in his neck as he died on his feet.

  “Stop fucking around,” hissed a bandit in Bennosuke’s ear, driving the sword in farther, his knuckles white over Bennosuke’s.

  The other corpsehandler stared in complete shock, and before he could move out of his squat the other bandits threw themselves against the cage and grabbed for him. They hauled him against the bars, four or five of them taking his arms and his legs, and then fingers were around his neck and over his mouth, and the man whimpered and struggled and bit down upon any flesh he could find, and blood flowed and men swore in pain or anger, and the corpsehandler thrashed and he thrashed until he weakened and his face turned red, then purple, and then he was dead.

  The bamboo vial lay upon the floor, the stopper fallen out. No liquid was inside. The bandits dropped the pair of bodies to fall alongside it. In the silence Bennosuke stared at the blood on his sword for a moment, then at the open eyes of the corpsehandler from whom the blood had come. That was cold murder, he knew, and in his head something whispered:

  Would Hayato Nakata look any different with his throat slit?

  Though there was no sound he knew that it was Dorinbo’s voice. For a moment shame coursed through the boy, but he quickly shook it away. This was a low deed to beget the high, he told himself, no more than that. The sword stopped quivering in his grip. He looked up to find the bandits frozen like the thieves they were, listening to see if they had been heard and if men were storming toward them now. There was neither footfall nor bark of command.

  All they heard was a distant, agonized screaming.

  “It’s now,” said one, trying to keep what he knew that sound meant from his mind. “Let’s go.”

  Things happened quickly; they fished the keys from the body, unlocked the gate, and began to pour out. Bennosuke retrieved his longsword from where it lay, and when he brought it up he found the bandits were looking at him, suddenly fearful. He tucked the weapon into the rope around his waist, raised his hands pointedly away from the hilts of both blades, and nodded in attempted solidarity. They did not look convinced, but there was no time for debate.

  The bandits slunk up the stairway to ease the heavy door open and peeked out. No one there, they began to scuttle out, bent double, as though being close to the ground might hide them in the light of day.

  The screaming was rawer here in the open air. A thin plume of smoke rose into the sky above the shimmering of heat, the source of both hidden from view. The sound tore at each of them, but they turned their backs on it and made for their escape, dashing from one hiding place to the next.

  Bennosuke followed them. The bandits must have been brought here with their eyes uncovered, for they knew where they were going. The enclave was not a large place, and it was only a matter of a few dozen thumping heartbeats before they turned a corner and saw a crude wall with a cruder gate of nailed planks hanging wide open.

  The
re, by the gate, horses were tethered. Big, strong warhorses, saddled and loaded with baggage. The boy looked at them like an idiot for a moment, scarcely believing his luck.

  Three samurai stood at guard. They stood facing outward, knowing that no threat could possibly come from behind, and with little more noise than the thrashing of a man having a bad dream the bandits took them. Skilled in ambush, they rushed the warriors in silence and leapt on them from behind, wrestling them down three to a man with their hands clamped over the mouths of the samurai and reaching for the swords at their waists. Blades came out and then down, and it was done.

  The bandits began to scatter the horses, slapping the beasts on the hinds to send them galloping out into the wilderness. None of them could ride, and now the samurai would have to chase them on foot. Bennosuke took the reins of one before they got to it, and though they stared suspiciously at him they said nothing. The boy simply stared at the beast in a dazed euphoria, patting the muzzle; he was alive and free, he had a horse, and the road was before him. None of those possibilities he would have envisioned the day before.

  They were on the threshold then, their freedom right there, and yet they hesitated. Unspoken, something ran between the bandits that forced them to stop and look at one another.

  The screaming persisted. The smoke still rose.

  “Come on,” hissed one. “We’ve no time.”

  “We can’t leave him,” said the rearmost, looking back at the plumes curling in the sky.

  “Are your wits gone?” said the first man, walking backward and away as he spoke. “We have to go now!”

  “I can’t …” said the rearmost, and that was all he could formulate. He looked at the rest of them, and with tears in his eyes he shook his head, bowed a good-bye, and then ran back into the village.

  “No! Idiot! Come back!” hissed the farthest man. He made to go after him—they all did—but he forced himself to stop after a few faltering steps.

  Three other men broke, though, and they charged back into the village toward the flames. Those who remained beseeched them to stop with voices as loud as they dared raise them, but either they were not heard or the men could not bring their legs to be still. Bennosuke watched them vanish into the streets of the hamlet, once again witnessing something he could not comprehend.

  The bandits who were left had no choice but to leave. The samurai would be alerted soon enough, and so cursing and crying they began to flee. The boy hopped up into the saddle, and he kicked the horse as fast as he dared go. This time there was light, and though he was far from comfortable atop the animal he did not fall.

  The road out of the hamlet quickly became wooded, and the bandits began to vanish into the trees. Bennosuke let them go; the samurai would search for them before him. He followed the cleared path, ignoring the first two trails leading off it before arbitrarily choosing the third, a narrow trail that led up a hillside. It wound along, branches whipping at him from above and his horse whinnying on the uneven ground, but suddenly it opened out and he could see back down the slope across the tops of trees.

  The enclave of the corpsehandlers was there before him, small and distant.

  In the midst of it, surrounded by a ring of crucifixes held high on pillars, the blackened diagonal crosses of some of them still bearing sad, ragged corpses, was not a cauldron but a huge square copper bath of oil on top of a bonfire. The samurai who had not set out in pursuit of the bandits stood around it, looking on in impassive, ordered ranks as within it five men writhed in silent agony. The boy could not help but look at the little figures as they flailed.

  There had been no chance to save Shuntaro. He had been dead the minute the samurai had taken him from the cage. They could not have spared him even a moment of pain. Did they think the simple fact of their presence would bring him comfort, or was it to comfort themselves that they were not cowards? Was it to show that they understood duty and honor in some bleak and agonizing way?

  What would that achieve? What did that even matter?

  One of the men who had turned back, he remembered, was the one Shuntaro had called his son. Which was he? The bodies were naked, twisting and entwined in senseless agony, so far away.

  The hill he was climbing was the tallest for some distance, and the boy saw then the village in the scope of the world; the sole mark of man among tree and slope and rock and river and sky and cloud. The village was so insignificant within all that, stripped of all import by scale, yet for those men who had chosen death for the sake of loyalty, or duty, or love, what happened there was everything.

  It was ultimate and pure and meaningless. The mountains would no more tell of the righteousness or perversity of it than vapor could of the shape of water.

  Above it all the smoke still rose as it had above Munisai’s pyre, and he couldn’t understand. The vista swam and bobbed, and Bennosuke realized the dizziness was back. The exhaustion had caught up with him now that the thrill of escape was passed, and he felt only loosely present in his body. The world was big and they were far and he was free was all he knew, and so he turned and spurred the horse away from this place of death to go and find the place of his own.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  An earthquake woke him. Bennosuke’s body rocked very little, but the old beams and pillars of the inn rattled noisily. One of the men he slept beside muttered a hungover curse, his breath musky with sake and bile, and then slept once more. Bennosuke remained awake and watched the man snore, envious of something lost to him forever now. It was the day of the Gathering.

  He rose, washed, and ate. The inn was busy, but not with samurai. His berthmates were merchants, musicians, shoers of horses, cookers of food, poets, dancers, idiots who drooled, and wide-eyed fanatics, all the entourage of people who had come to the Gathering for spectacle or profit. They eyed Bennosuke warily.

  He ignored them, preparing himself. He checked that the dagger Tasumi had given him a year ago was firmly strapped to his wrist. The thongs of the sheath were tight enough that he could feel the blood swelling his veins on either side of the cord. Then it was invisible under the sleeve of a kimono, and he was gone from the inn.

  For the first time in a year he felt some measure of comfort. There had been numerous sacks and pouches hanging from the horse he had taken from the enclave, and within one, to his delight, he had found a small bag of coin. He had slept in real beds and eaten real food, and even had money left over to bathe in a hot spring and buy new clothes for himself.

  As he had lain in the waters, he had had a mirror brought before him and saw how he had changed. He had not thought of his appearance in months. His face, golden in the copper expanse, was gaunt. The bright red welts of his rash had mostly faded, though some remained, but he saw and felt with his fingers that those that had gone had left little flecks and scars across him.

  His hair was odd—his shaven scalp having grown in a quarter of the length of his longer hair—and it was tangled beyond what any comb could part. There was nothing to do but hack it off. Eventually he was left with a finger’s length of hair that fell around his head as it had not done since he was an infant. He tossed the discarded strands into a brazier, and the stink of them as they had been incinerated was foul.

  The horse awaited him in the stables. It was comfortable with him now. Bennosuke stood in the straw looking at it for a moment, and then he took it by the muzzle, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the mare’s. Of all here, she alone knew who he really was and what this day meant.

  The fortnight since his escape from the corpsehandlers had passed quickly, a lot to remember from the riding lessons Tasumi had given him in his childhood. He had been taught the basics of balance and control, but he had never been allowed to ride at a gallop, only cantering around a paddock in circles while his uncle had called advice to him. A horse at full pelt, legs pumping and body writhing, was something else.

  Again and again and again Bennosuke tumbled from the saddle, and each time he picked himself
up winded or bloody, always he found the horse looking at him. The first time he had uttered an apology to her for his failure he had been surprised, but the urge grew within him. Soon the boy was whispering to her constantly, telling her of his mission, of Munisai and Hayato and why the latter needed to die.

  It was good to have a companion after so long alone. It was good to have a witness. He spoke on and on, as much to himself as to her, and he remembered the long, horrendous moan Munisai made just before his death and the triumphant sneer of Hayato. Around him his anger grew and hardened like armor.

  Driven toward vindication, slowly they had made progress—the mare had come to understand his smell and weight, and he how best to ride her. He was no master, certainly, and was uncomfortable without the reins in his hands, but then, he did not need to be comfortable. All he needed was a dagger in one hand. All he needed was reasonable balance. All he needed was courage. These three things he was certain were his.

  In the stable in the light of his last morning, the mare nuzzled in his grip. He smiled, ecstatic for a moment. The day was here, finally here, and he told her this under his breath and thanked her for being here at the end, at this summit that all his suffering had led to.

  Bennosuke allowed himself the smile for only an instant, though; there was still much to do. He composed himself, forced neutrality onto his face, and then he mounted and rode for the tournament grounds.

  As the horse wove between the crowds, he wrapped a cloth loosely around his face and donned the helmet of the previous owner that he had found among the other bags and satchels strapped to his mare. It was a cheap thing the color of a pot, but it covered his head well enough. It was not a brilliant disguise, but then, genius subterfuge was not needed. The streets were thronged with enough people that spotting him would be difficult even if Nakata’s men were looking for him. What guards there were lounged idly at attention, talking to one another or watching the tournament from their perches. Bennosuke passed untroubled. His stomach squirmed, excited at his infiltration.