‘That is the face of General Ito,’ said Chikaaki. ‘There was a great battle here, by the side of the river, generations ago. The shrine was built as a monument to the General’s heroism, and as a monument to the dead of both armies.’
Genta laughed.
‘I bet you have a story for every visitor, don’t you? You saw my scars, supposed I used to be a military man, so you have decided these stones should be the relic of a great general. What do you say if a priest comes by? Do you tell them they are in the ruins of an ancient monastery, gazing on the face of Buddha, in the hope they’ll leave a gratuity for the upkeep of this shrine?’
‘I would not dream of deceiving an honoured guest.’
Genta held out his right hand and Kotau started to clean his chipped and dirty nails with a splinter of bamboo. Kotau shook so much he broke the sliver. Genta clucked in irritation and pointed to his piled clothes.
‘Use my knife. Go on. Fetch it.’
Kotau searched the clothes, found Genta’s knife and pulled it from his sheath. He contemplated the old bone handle and the chipped blade, and wondered how many men had shrieked as the knife was thrust into their guts. Genta snapped his fingers and beckoned Kotau. Kotau stood at the side of the tub and used the tip on the blade to dig dirt from beneath the man’s nails.
He held out his left hand and beckoned Acha over, as if he expected her to provide the same service. As soon as she got close he grabbed both of them by the back of the neck and forced their faces beneath the water. Acha gripped the edge of the bath and tried to raise her head, but Genta was too strong. Kotau’s feet raked dirt as he tried to squirm free of the man’s grasp. He dropped the knife at his feet. Eventually Genta released him and he fell to the ground gasping for air.
‘Where’s the chieftain?’ he demanded. He still had Acha by the neck. She tried to twist free but couldn’t escape his grip. ‘You’re going to tell me where he is.’ Kotau snatched up the blade and lunged but Sadamu grabbed his hair, beat the knife from his hand then pinned his arms.
‘Let her go,’ shouted Kotau. ‘Please, just let her go.’
Genta forced Acha’s head beneath the water once more. She struggled, but was too weak to resist. The water churned as she choked and thrashed.
‘I’m going to drown her, understand? She’s nothing to me, and she’s nothing to anyone else. I’ll toss her away like a chicken bone and no one will stop me, no one will care. The chief was here. I want that ring, the one he kept hung round his neck, and I want his saddlebag. If you want her to live, then you best tell me where he is.’ Acha’s struggles slowly diminished and she hung limp over the lip of the tub. A final froth of bubbles suggested she had lost consciousness.
‘We buried him,’ blurted Kotau, pointing to the underbrush on the other side of the courtyard. ‘We buried him over there.’
The vagabond released Acha. She fell beside the tub and crumpled as if she were dead. Chikaaki threw himself down beside her and pounded her back until she convulsed, puked bathwater and started to breathe once more.
‘Wash my hair,’ said Genta. He reclined in the tub and closed his eyes. ‘Then fetch a robe.’
* * *
Genta stood at the edge of the courtyard, freshly bathed and wrapped in a kimono, and watched while Kotau dug. The body lay an arm’s length beneath the soil.
‘Out of the way,’ said Genta. Kotau stood back while he crouched by the grave. He reached into the pit and brushed dirt from Makoto’s face. He flicked soil crumbs from the dead man’s eyes and probed the arterial wound with his thumb.
‘It was me,’ gabbled Kotau. ‘I meant him no harm. I was shaving his chin. He moved. It was the littlest cut.’
Genta waved his hand as if he was dismissing any concern for Makoto’s death.
‘I’m not interested in your excuses, and I can’t imagine anyone else will want to hear them either. I doubt Makoto will be missed. By all accounts he was a pig and a fool.’
Genta dug for Makoto’s neck thong, wrenched it free and examined the ring. He rubbed soil from the tarnished metal and held it up for Sadamu to view.
‘He rode around with silver hung round his neck. An open invitation to anyone who could summon the courage to take it. The man deserved everything he got.’
They heard the smash of a breaking pot behind them. Chikaaki had returned from the village and had been unloading bottles of saké from a wicker back pannier when he saw the vagabonds exhuming Makoto’s body. He stood frozen to the spot, a look of horror on his face. One of the bottles lay smashed at his feet, wine soaking into the soil. He ran towards the men and threw himself to the ground.
‘It’s my fault, honourable sir. Kill me. Spare my family.’
‘Get up,’ said Genta. ‘Where’s the saddle?’
‘We threw it in the river.’
‘A leather saddle like that fell into your hands? And you simply threw it away? No, you kept it. It’s hidden close by.’
‘Sir,’ said Chikaaki, about to launch into another denial.
‘Enough lies. I’ve been patient, but it’s time to tell me the truth.’
‘Look,’ said Sadamu. He kicked a couple of branches aside and exposed a patch of disturbed earth near to the grave. ‘There’s something buried here.’
Genta beckoned Chikaaki.
‘Dig,’ he ordered.
Chikaaki hesitated for a moment, but had no choice but to comply. He knelt and clawed away dirt until he unearthed the balled fabric of the lord’s shirt.
‘It’s just some clothes,’ said Sadamu.
‘But why bury them separately?’ said Genta.
He pushed Chikaaki aside and pulled the lord’s shirt from the hole. The filthy fabric unravelled and revealed a wooden box. It was as if time had come to a halt. Genta and Sadamu froze and stared at the lacquered box for an age.
‘You said you threw it in the river,’ Kotau hissed at his father.
‘I couldn’t bring myself to do it,’ said Chikaaki.
Genta picked up the box and studied it with reverence.
‘Who knew?’ he murmured. ‘That fat tub of lard. He looked like a cattle herder, looked like he didn’t have a place to lay his head, but he took possession of the iron sword.’
‘The iron sword?’ said Kotau, his fear of the bandits supplanted by intense curiosity.
‘It’s old – very old – and of incalculable value,’ said Genta, his voice dropping low into feverish gold lust, ‘forged generations ago before history began.’ He suddenly began to weep and hugged the box to his chest. ‘You’ve no idea what this has cost me. My house, my family, everything I owned sacrificed in the pursuit of this prize.’ Genta dabbed his eyes with his sleeve. ‘A strange ship was dashed against rocks countless years ago. Fishermen watched as waves lifted the vessel onto crags at the foot of a cliff and began to smash it to pieces. There were no sailors on deck and nobody tried to swim ashore. By the time the storm had finished its work the crewless ship had been reduced to planks. Next day the fishermen scoured the beach to see what had been brought ashore. They salvaged ropes and canvas, and dragged home flotsam to patch a shack roof. They found the sword protruding from the sand at low tide. One of the fishermen claimed it as his own. Legend has it that a while later he got caught in his net and dragged over the side of his boat to his death. His wife decided the sword was cursed and threw it back in the sea. One of the other villagers retrieved it and tried to sell it in a nearby town. He got killed in a tavern brawl. The weapon has passed from hand to hand ever since, always bringing death.’
‘Why do you want it?’
‘I’ve been chasing this trophy province to province, more years than I can remember. Legend suggests that the weapon needs to be tamed like a wild horse. A true warrior will master this sword then redirect its lethal power against his enemies. Imagine striding into battle with such an ill-omened blade in your hand. What enemy would dare face you? Many nobles would exchange half their fortune to possess such a talisman. And now it’s
mine.’
‘We’re are rich,’ said Sadamu. ‘Rich beyond measure.’
‘We can’t squander this opportunity,’ said Genta. ‘Think of the years we have spent chasing this treasure. What we do in the next few days, what we do with this blade, will define our lives. Will our story be the chronicle of heroes who overcame every obstacle to pursue their quest, or will it be a tragedy, a woeful tale in which fools threw away the great opportunity that came their way?’
‘Why didn’t the peasant take it, do you think?’ asked Sadamu. He spoke like Chikaaki wasn’t there, spoke like the old man was a servant or a dog. ‘He could have taken his wife and son and gone anywhere, done anything. Instead he consigned this treasure to the dirt.’
‘He is a poor shrivelled soul. Everyone dreams of fame and wealth, but give some men a real opportunity of greatness, actually put it in their hands, and they drop it and run. The old man is used to grubbing in the mud. He can’t live any other way.’
‘My heart is racing,’ said Sadamu. ‘Let’s have some saké.’
‘Wait,’ said Sadamu. He crouched and pulled a scrolled sheet of paper from the shirt. He unravelled the tea-brown paper and looked at the brush strokes with incomprehension. Genta took the paper and examined the wax stamp at the foot of the missive.
‘This is the Shōgun’s seal,’ he said. He held the document at arm’s length, squinted and struggled to focus on the tight columns of symbols.
‘If your Lordship will permit me,’ said Chikaaki, holding out a hand to take the letter. ‘I know how to read. A priest taught me when I was a child.’
They sat at the table. Chikaaki smoothed the scroll and followed the text with his forefinger.
‘An emissary of the Shōgun is coming. He is going to visit the five villages.’
‘Why?’
‘It says something about an oath, something about loyalty.’
‘When?’
‘The next turn of the moon.’
Genta thought it through.
‘The province of Etchū has split into feuding territories. The Shōgun must be trying to knit the territory back together, trying to get every local lord to swear allegiance to him instead of his great rival, the Emperor. Evidently this dead chieftain intended to meet the Shōgun’s embassy, swear loyalty and dedicate this patch of dirt to his service.’
‘And the sword?’
‘The sword fell into the hands of a gang of thieves who didn’t understand its value. Makoto won it from them in a game of Chō-Han during his last visit to town. Perhaps he intended to present it to the Shōgun’s man in the hope of winning some kind of preferment. Or perhaps he simply had no idea of its value.’
‘We should hand over the innkeeper,’ said Sadamu. ‘Take him to the village and present him to the mob. They’ll want to blame someone for the lord’s death. Let’s make sure we aren’t the ones who get beheaded.’
‘You’re looking backwards. We need to look forward. The Shōgun doesn’t care who delivers this territory. He wants an oath of loyalty from the local strongman. So why not give it to him?’
‘Declare yourself lord?’
‘Who would argue? No one will miss that pig. No one at all.’
‘The villagers want our heads.’
‘We have the ring, we have the sword and we have the emissary’s letter, stamped with the Shōgun’s seal. That will be enough to cow them.’
He hung the ring round his neck and tied the thong. He stood with his hands on his hips and relished his new badge of office.
‘Open the box,’ said Sadamu. ‘Let’s see the sword.’
Genta used his knife to snap the gold lock then slowly raised the lid. He and Sadamu stared in awe at the crude iron sword lying in a wooden bed.
‘It’s real,’ said Sadamu. ‘It’s actually real. I’m not sure I truly believed until this moment. Imagine what a nobleman would give to possess this sword. Imagine the prestige it would give them among the palaces of Kyoto. We can name any price.’
Genta reached for the weapon.
‘It’s death to touch the thing,’ warned Sadamu.
‘A stupid superstition,’ said Genta. He gripped the weapon by the hilt, held it up and examined the stump of the blade. ‘All those years chasing the prize and now, finally, it is in my grasp.’ He offered the sword to Sadamu. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Go on, take it.’ Sadamu shook his head.
‘Sir,’ said Chikaaki. ‘You have the ring and now you have the sword. No one need know how you came by these things, and you can rely on our silence. Who could we tell? No one would believe us. We are poor folk. We are nothing to anyone. Please have mercy. Please let my wife and son live.’
‘Get up, old man,’ said Genta, replacing the sword in its box. ‘This place belongs to me now. This is where I will build my new home. By next summer these vines and stones will be gone and the timbers of a great palace will be raised in their place. But don’t despair. I’m sure there will be a place for you and your family, somewhere on the estate.’
‘You honour us, sir.’
‘Fill in the grave then disguise the spot with leaves and branches. The chieftain’s death is to remain a secret, for now. If anyone comes around here asking questions, tell them you know nothing. If they push the matter, send them to me. I’m sure, after a little chat, their curiosity will diminish.’
Chikaaki and his son reburied Makoto. They crouched either side of the grave and scooped soil into the pit with their hands while Genta watched them work. He paced and rehearsed his story aloud.
‘The fat man died a hero. We were travelling through the valley on a pilgrimage. We camped in the woods one evening and were attacked by five bandits as we sat by a fire. They were desperate brigands, filthy and demented. They drew their knives and screamed that they would rip out our guts and cook them. We were terrified. We thought we were dead men. But Makoto came to our aid. He had been travelling down a nearby road and heard the commotion. He burst from the trees with his sword drawn. He was outnumbered five to one, but he didn’t hesitate for a moment. He fought all five at once. He fought like a demon. He killed two of them and drove the rest away, but took a mortal blow as the battle drew to a close. I held him in my arms as he died. I can see by your eyes you are a good man. Please, remain here in the valley and take care of my people, he said. The five villages. They need your protection. Swear to me you will stay, and be their sword and shield. I didn’t want this burden. I’m not cut out for leadership. But I will fulfil my oath. I will protect the five villages, and carry Makoto’s golden example before me.’
‘The man was a fool,’ said Sadamu. ‘You heard the way the villagers spoke of him yesterday. The last time he drew his sword to see off a ruffian he cut his hands so badly he wore bandages for a week. He couldn’t even get the weapon clear of his saya without injury. He was a danger to himself. No one will believe he fought off five bandits.’
‘He died a gallant warrior. That is the story we will tell. This pit is a temporary grave. We’ll have the farmers build a proper tomb near the village shrine. A tomb befitting a hero.’
‘But nobody will believe this nonsense. The idea that this fat buffoon dispatched a bunch of seasoned thugs is laughable.’
‘Peasants are impressionable, easily swayed, ready to believe any tall tale we care to weave. Their memories of the man can be easily rewritten. They’ll pick a compelling story over a boring truth every time.’
Genta paced the courtyard.
‘All those years of searching have led me here, to this sacred place. I always knew I had some great destiny. Even at my lowest point, destitute and starving, I knew my fortune would turn. Imagine what I could build in place of these ruins. This will be the perfect place for my new mansion. A natural plateau near running water. It will have a foundation of bedrock and will tower three, no, four storeys high. It will have sweeping roofs and a wide courtyard. I will have the finest silk and furnishings brought from Kyoto. I will have the trees cleared from the hillside. The
re will be paddies, and grazing for cattle and horses.’
Chikaaki, Acha and Kotau sat on the porch and watched the vagabond pace out the phantom corridors and reception rooms of his palace.
‘I despise these men,’ muttered Kotau, speaking low so the bandits couldn’t overhear. ‘They treat us like animals, as if we’re less than people.’
‘They hate us because they are like us,’ said Chikaaki. ‘They may have been born noble but now they are outcasts too. That’s why they insult and humiliate every peasant they meet. We remind them of their humble origins, and we are a portent of the wretched life that awaits them if they grow too old to terrorize the countryside. When they are old and toothless they will have no skill, and no family to support them. They will be destitute and alone. The best they will be able to do for themselves is find some hamlet that will tolerate their presence, let them shovel pig shit and dig latrines for a fistful of rice. They know this will be their miserable end, so their anger and fear drives them to degrade us, to prove to themselves that the day when they are forced to bend their backs and scrabble in the dirt is still a long way off. And we let them, because that is how peasants survive these hard seasons. Bow to their masters. Grovel. Wait for the storms of history to blow themselves out.’
Genta faced them and said:
‘Go inside. Vacate your rooms. They are ours now.’
Chikaaki and his wife and son went inside the tavern.
‘They are monsters,’ said Kotau.
‘A very common kind of monster,’ said Chikaaki. ‘Every town, every village, has louts who live off the sweat of others.’
‘So what now?’ asked Kotau. ‘Are we their slaves? Can they simply turn us out of our home?’
‘For the time being we will do whatever they ask. Don’t argue with them. Don’t provoke them in any way.’
‘Maybe we should flee. Start again somewhere, anywhere.’
Raven's Sword Page 7
