‘There are always the sufferings of birth, old age, illness and death. Such fires as these burn endlessly. The Tathāgata, who has already left the burning house of the triple world, lives in tranquillity and dwells at ease in the forest…’
They slept by the fire. Next morning the villagers hacked at the cold ground with their spades and dug a trench. They buried the farmer at the edge of his own chicken yard and pounded in a wooden marker at the head of the grave with a rock. Tengu and the Monk queued with the villagers to offer their final condolences to the old woman, then followed the small crowd along a hillside path back towards the village.
‘I passed through this village once before,’ said Tengu. ‘They are pitifully poor, but I’m sure they’ll offer you shelter and a little rice until your strength is restored.’
‘There’s an effigy twenty ri to the east of here. A great Buddha. It is a place of healing. Pilgrims climb the hill, lay their troubles at the foot of the enlightened one and ask for his blessing. That’s where I need to be.’
‘You need some rest and a place you can recuperate in comfort.’
‘I’m going to take the valley road to the hill. I need to find the Buddha and gaze upon his face. You’re welcome to accompany me if you wish, but I’ll understand if you feel drawn elsewhere.’
‘You’ll never make it to the summit.’
‘It might take a while, but I’ll do it.’
Tengu thought it over.
‘Wait here a moment,’ she said.
The Monk sat by the side of the road while she ran on ahead and accosted the villagers. She shook an iron coin from her belt purse and held it up.
‘Could any of you kind people sell me a cart?’
* * *
The Monk lay on a low, four-wheeled cart while Tengu towed him with a rope tied around her waist. The wheels bumped over rocks as she strained to haul the cart along the valley path. It was back-breaking work but she refused to admit the effort was too much. She leaned forward, dug in her feet with each step and talked to distract herself from the effort.
‘That old man told me a story a few days ago. Something he heard in a tea house. A rich nobleman’s mansion caught fire in Kyoto. The nobleman and his family stood in the street, sobbing and pulling their hair. They didn’t care about the house, didn’t care about most of their possessions. But there was a scroll inside the blazing building that was precious to them: a picture painted on silk, the image of a crane standing at the centre of a lake. It had been painted by the nobleman’s great-grandfather and was kept beside the bedroom shrine wrapped in a leather sleeve. The thought that the scroll would soon turn to smoke caused the rich man to rip his clothes in grief. But one of his servants declared: All my life I have desired to do my master a great service. Now the moment has come. The servant ran into the burning building and didn’t emerge. Later, when labourers began to sift the ashes, they found the charred remains of the servant lying face down. When they turned him over his guts spilled out, along with the scroll. He had run into the building, cut open his belly and thrust the scroll inside to protect it from the flames.’
‘I’ve heard a lot of stories like that of late,’ said the Monk. ‘I was told a tale in a tavern last winter. An adviser to the lord of Dewa was deposed by rival counsellors. When this fiercely loyal servant was dismissed from the lord’s service his instinct was to commit seppuku straight away but he worried the death of a long-trusted retainer might reflect badly on his master’s judgement. So he took a room at a nearby inn and spent days revelling with whores, gamblers and thieves. Only then, when his reputation was publicly ruined, did he dare commit seppuku, confident his death would not sully his master’s reputation. I’ve heard that story three times during the past year, each citing a different province and a different lord.’
‘You think someone is deliberately spreading these tales?’
‘Stories are weapons. They shape how people see the world. I think noble folk in the cities are worried that the unrest in the countryside will visit them in their palaces. They yearn for the old days and encourage hymns to a golden age of deference.’
Tengu helped the Monk from the cart and lent him her arm as he headed for the bushes. She stood nearby while he hobbled into the underbrush to relieve himself.
‘Do you need any help?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Don’t be too proud to ask.’
‘I can still wipe my own backside well enough.’
He emerged from the bushes and she helped him walk back to the cart.
They camped among trees and next morning resumed their journey. They could see a white Buddha three times the size of a man at the summit of the hill. Tengu wondered how the statue had been transported to its current elevation. She guessed the titan block of blue-veined marble had been shipped from China then hauled across country and up the side of the hill by a team of slaves. An incredible feat which must have taken years to complete.
The Monk rolled from the cart and limped up the path towards the statue. Tengu took his arm and tried to help but he shook her off. When they reached the top, she sat at a respectful distance while he knelt, touched his forehead to the ground and murmured prayers. Tengu sat, exhausted from the effort of hauling the cart, and gazed at the treetops in the valley below. She knelt, looked out over the hills and said a prayer for her father. Maybe she should have visited one of the great temples and lit a candle on the anniversary of his passing, but a wild hillside seemed as good a place as any to commune with the dead.
She heard the Monk stifle a sob. She stole a sideways glance and saw him gazing upward, silently imploring the impassive Buddha to offer some sign, some hint of comfort. The blank eyes stared out across the valley as they had for many lifetimes. Eventually the Monk sprawled on the ground and silently cried his eyes dry, clearly distraught that there was no succour to be found. Maybe some childish part of him had hoped his faith, his lifelong dedication to the divine, would make him whole or at least grant some kind of serenity. But instead he had been met by the chilly indifference of the gods. He was alone with his pain.
She looked away in embarrassment and pretended not to notice his distress. When he regained his composure, they travelled down from the summit in search of a boulder or outcrop they could use as a wind break when darkness fell.
‘You ask too much of yourself,’ said Tengu as they huddled together against the cold. ‘There’s no need to put yourself through this suffering. There’s no virtue in pain, isn’t that what Buddha taught? Let yourself heal. Just let the days pass and your health will be restored.’
‘I’m sorry you had to see such a shameful spectacle. A grown man sobbing like a child.’
‘You know what you need more than anything else?’ said Tengu. ‘A hot bowl of saké. Maybe two.’ She closed her eyes and tried to get some sleep.
* * *
Tengu and the Monk huddled in blankets and ate carrots for breakfast. They looked out over the valley and watched a slow cascade of mist wash across a nearby hillside.
‘Where shall we go next?’ asked Tengu.
‘I’d better find somewhere to stay until my back is better. There aren’t any temples near here. I suppose we should simply head for the nearest village and beg some hospitality.’
They heard skittering stones and a moment later a young man came walking along the valley path towards them. He grew stiff and cautious when he saw Tengu and the Monk sitting by the side of the track. The lad was dressed in rags. He wasn’t carrying a weapon but Tengu could tell by his poise and athleticism that he was an itinerant swordsman. The boy noticed the sword lying on the grass beside Tengu and realized he had met another follower of the Way. He stopped at a polite distance and bowed in greeting. It was an invitation to duel. Tengu got to her feet.
‘Don’t,’ warned the Monk. ‘Don’t throw your life away.’
‘Nobody is going to die,’ she said. ‘Not today, at least.’
She walked over to the lad a
nd bowed. She drew her sword, cut two lengths of bamboo and threw one of them to the boy. They practised air strikes until they were familiar with their weapons then faced each other. They stood perfectly still, bamboo poles held straight and unwavering ahead of them. They didn’t blink. They barely breathed. Then, with a split-second thrust, the boy lunged. It was a short duel. Within a couple of heartbeats the lad took a hit to the shoulder and stumbled. Tengu instinctively followed up with a crack to the head and the boy fell into her arms. She laid him on the grass and waited until he regained his wits. He got to his feet and gave her a curt nod to acknowledge her victory. She mirrored the gesture to reassure the lad there was no ego involved in her victory.
‘We’re travelling to the village at the head of the valley,’ she asked. ‘Would you care to accompany us?’
They walked the valley road. The lad offered to pull the cart and Tengu was happy to accept.
‘So where are you from?’ asked the Monk.
‘The coast up north,’ said the boy. ‘Are you from these parts?’
‘I’ve passed through this province once or twice.’
‘What lies up ahead?’
‘A succession of nameless villages. Follow the trail long enough and it will take you to the sea.’
‘Hopefully the peasants will provide food and shelter. Perhaps other comforts. The women can be very hospitable. They admire a man with a sword at his hip, like him better than their soil-grubbing husbands.’
‘You are a follower of the Way,’ said Tengu, ‘Surely you don’t blunt your senses with pleasures of the flesh?’
‘Of course not,’ said the lad, chastened. ‘I was making a general observation.’
‘Do you have any news of the wider world?’ asked the Monk.
‘There is war everywhere. Lord battling lord in every province. Old loyalties mean nothing. These are dark years, my friend. There are dispossessed soldiers everywhere. No road is safe.’
‘Every generation thinks it’s their misfortune to live in uniquely corrupt times,’ said the Monk. ‘But you’re right. We have been cursed to live in an age of great upheaval. Ask the grey-haired peasants in any town, any village. There used to be peace. The Shōgun and the Emperor used to move in harmony like the sun and the moon. The old order has been turned upside down. Servants rebel against their masters. Wives rule their husbands. Would you like to hear something truly shocking? Days ago I met a girl, little more than a child, walking the road with a sword at her hip, seeking opponents for a duel.’
‘I’ve met many mad men and women walking the roads,’ said the lad. ‘People offer them food and shelter as a mercy, but they cannot be helped. They are tormented by daemons that pursue them wherever they go.’
‘This girl wasn’t mad. She was skilled with a sword, skilled beyond her years. Grown men cowered before her.’
‘A perversion of nature,’ marvelled the lad. ‘Like a dog that clucks like a chicken. Or a fire that burns cold.’
‘Yes,’ said Tengu, pitching her voice low as she could. ‘The world has truly been turned on its head.’
They reached the next village at noon. A cluster of stilted huts stood in the middle of tiered paddies. As soon as the peasant women saw the visitors walking down the track they ran inside their bamboo huts and strung the door screens closed.
‘We mean no harm,’ shouted the lad. ‘We are looking for a place to spend the night. We’re just passing through.’
He waited for a response, but got no reply. There was no sound but the gully stream and the slow revolve of a water wheel, but they knew a dozen pairs of eyes were staring at them through gaps in the weave of the huts.
‘We’re not here to rob anyone,’ shouted Tengu. ‘We will labour in return for a bowl of rice. We’ll work in the fields, if need be. We just want a little food.’
They got no reply.
‘We should move on,’ said the Monk. ‘These folk are clearly terrified of bandits. We should leave them in peace.’
‘Wait,’ said Tengu. Her attention was drawn by a signboard nailed to a tree near the village shrine. She stood beneath the tree and read the notice.
In this, the eighth summer of the Emperor’s reign, I, Chikaaki, Lord of the Five Villages, declare a contest of martial skill to find the greatest swordsman in Etchū. The contest will take place at the river tavern in the presence of his Excellency, the Shōgun’s emissary, at the next full moon.
Participants will fight for glory.
Participants will fight to the death.
The lad stood beside Tengu and looked up at the signboard.
‘Can you read?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What does it say?’
‘There’s to be a tournament. A test of swordsmanship. A death match.’
‘Where?’
‘Etchū.’
‘What is the prize?’
‘Glory. A fistful of air. But the Shōgun’s man will be present. Perhaps there will be a chance to win some kind of preferment, some kind of military position.’
The Monk lifted himself from the cart and hobbled to the tree. He stood between Tengu and the lad, gripped their shoulders for support and read the sign.
‘What do you think, boy?’ he said. ‘This competition could draw men from near and far. A good chance to test your mettle.’
‘No,’ said the lad, shaking his head. ‘I’m going north. My mother came to me in a dream. I think she’s ill. I think this could be my last chance to speak with her in this life.’
‘I don’t approve of contests,’ said Tengu. ‘Devotees of the Way don’t fight for money. They don’t fight to impress.’
They left the village and followed the path out of the valley. They parted ways with the lad when they reached the crossroads, wished him well and watched him walk down the track until he was out of sight.
‘Have you ever heard of such a tournament?’ asked Tengu.
‘I’ve seen formal contests of sumo and archery. And I’ve known groups of swordsmen convene to test their skills against each other at the centre of a town square. But these were bloodless trials in which the swordsmen fought with bamboo staffs. The kind of bestial slaughter this tournament implies would not be allowed within the city walls of Kyoto, or in any province where the rule of law holds sway.’
‘You want to watch the contest, don’t you?’ said Tengu. ‘You want to see different schools of swordcraft tested one against another. A rare opportunity to see experienced warriors stake their lives.’
‘I don’t intend to watch. I intend to compete.’
‘You can barely walk, let alone fight.’
‘I can stand long enough to face an enemy. And I can still use a sword.’
‘Do you want to fight? Or are you simply looking for an honourable way to die?’
‘I’ll let the gods decide. I’m happy to make my own way to Etchū if this blood sport is not to your taste.’
The Monk watched Tengu make her decision. The girl was tough, but lonely. She enjoyed his company but was scared to get attached. She mulled her options a while, then made her choice.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said, hitching the cart rope over her shoulder. ‘Somehow, we are joined, you and I.’
She took a deep breath and began to haul the cart down the road to Etchū.
Chikaaki ran a tavern with his wife and son. The tavern was next to the Shrine of the Five Suns, a roofless ruin near a riverbank. The tavern offered hospitality to anyone who came to worship at the shrine.
The shrine had been created at the dawn of time, the work of generations of labourers and stonemasons. Massive blocks of granite had been cut from a mountainside and hauled long miles to a plateau overlooking the river. The central wall of the shrine was dominated by an enormous face twice the height of a man. Even in its ruined state, mottled with lichen and framed by forest vines, the stern, blank-eyed visage cast a strange power. In summer the statue’s face crawled with flies. In winter it was bearded with ic
e. Passing travellers often stopped to honour the spirits that dwelled among the tumbled walls and ask their favour. They stayed at the tavern for the night before heading on their way.
Chikaaki’s life was played out in that half acre. Each morning he watched his wife bring wet clothes back from the river and lay them on the stones to dry. Then he would tend the vegetable rows until it was time to pare beans for the evening meal. Each day was the same as the last.
Then a rider came.
* * *
It was high summer. Chikaaki sent Acha to get water from the river. She came back with two pots hung on a yolk. She lit the pit fire in the courtyard and began to boil some rice for the evening meal. She stirred the pot a while then stood as she glimpsed movement beyond the screen of trees.
‘Someone’s coming down the track,’ she said.
Kotau stood by her side and peered down the lane. A rider turned the bend and headed towards the inn. A fat man with new wooden shoes and a ring round his neck on a leather thong.
‘We have a guest,’ said Chikaaki, spurring his family to action with a double clap of the hands. ‘That’s Makoto, lord of the five villages. Fetch a table and brew some tea.’
They laid mats and a table on the flagstones while Chikaaki greeted their guest and led his horse to a nearby copse to graze.
The lord sauntered over to the table, hitched his belt over his belly and rearranged his sword.
‘The village folk told me about you three living out here on your own. I’ve been meaning to pay you a visit for a long while.’ He looked around. ‘This is a pleasant enough place during the day, but at night, when the spirits fly, well, I’d want people around me.’
Raven's Sword Page 4
