Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  ‘No. We mustn’t panic. We must bide our time. We will draw water from the well and cook the evening meal as we have always done.’

  Kotau stood by the window and listened to the bandits talking outside.

  ‘You’re worried about the Shōgun’s man, aren’t you?’ said Sadamu. ‘When he arrives, he will expect to be entertained.’

  ‘He won’t expect us to have the means and manners of the great houses of Kyoto,’ said Genta. ‘He won’t care about etiquette. But he will expect to meet by capable soldiers, the kind of men who can hold and deliver this territory. We’ll need to impress him, offer some kind of martial entertainment, a spectacle he cannot see at home.’

  ‘We could arrange some executions. Go to town, buy prisoners from the magistrate then have them escorted here. We could line them up and offer the emissary a chance to test his blade.’

  ‘Let’s offer him something grand, something that speaks to the spirit. The old man knows letters, yes? Bring him here. Tell him to bring a brush.’

  Kotau watched from the window as the bandits sent Chikaaki to search the outbuildings for short planks that could act as signboards. He knelt on the flagstones and laid his inkstone and brush beside him.

  ‘We will hold a tournament,’ said Genta, pacing the courtyard. ‘A contest of swordcraft. We will hold the tournament on the night of the full moon. There will be a series of duels. We’ll spread the contests over three evenings to give it a sense of occasion. Any swordsman is welcome to take part. All that is required is a weapon and a willingness to fight. Each match will be a duel to the death in the presence of the Shōgun’s man. We will post a sign in each of the five villages. Word will be carried from there.’

  ‘What kind of prize can we offer?’ asked Sadamu. ‘What would induce men to cross the province and throw away their lives?’

  ‘All we have to do is offer the chance to be declared the greatest swordsman in Etchū. I’ve met these travelling warriors before. They are a romantic breed. They are always ready to die for honour. They will welcome the opportunity.’

  ‘Is there enough time to organize a contest?’

  ‘Word will soon get around. Experienced swordsmen will come. Their pride won’t let them pass up a chance to pit themselves against their peers. And plenty of amateurs will show up as well. Folk with nothing to lose. The poor, the desperate, ready to gamble their lives in the hope of some kind of life-transforming victory. They will be our main entertainment. They will paint the ground with their blood while we will keep the serious warriors apart until the final rounds. And when the burial pits are full, and all but one are dead, the victor can have his glory.’

  ‘You think the tournament will impress the emissary?’

  ‘He will value bold and ruthless men over effete courtiers. We will earn the respect and patronage of one of the most powerful men under the sun. This is a chance to raise ourselves from the dirt. What do you want for yourself, Sadamu? We’ve lived from moment to moment, never asking more of life than a cup of saké, a woman and a warm bed, but this could transform our fortunes. We could become lords. Anything is possible. We mustn’t waste a single turn of the sun.’ Genta paced the courtyard. ‘These outbuildings will house the competitors. This courtyard will be the arena. We will need food, wine and banners. Tomorrow we must get to work.’

  When the signs were completed Chikaaki propped them against a wall to dry in the sun, then returned to the tavern.

  ‘They wish me to visit the five villages,’ said Chikaaki. ‘They expect me to hang a notice in each village square. The journey will take three or four days. I’ll eat some food, then I’ll go. The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll get back. Best sleep in the same room as your mother tonight. It might be safest for both of you.’

  ‘Get back here as quick as you can, Father,’ said Kotau.

  ‘I will.’

  Acha went to the river to fetch water. Chikaaki left the inn to tell her he would be gone for some days. He crossed the courtyard and headed down the river path.

  Kotau looked out a window at the view he had known since childhood. The flagstones, the great stone face and the wooded hills. The setting sun turned the landscape the colour of blood.

  There was a commotion in the nearby bushes and he heard his father shout:

  ‘Stay away from her. Stay away from her, you dog.’

  Kotau ran outside. He found his mother sobbing in fear. She sat at the top of the river steps with the shards of her earthenware pots scattered around her. Chikaaki held off Sadamu with a broom.

  ‘Touch her again, I’ll kill you,’ screamed Chikaaki, face red with fury. ‘I was a soldier once. I’ve run men through and I’m ready to do it again. I’ll do it in a heartbeat.’ Sadamu smiled at the old man’s anger and backed off. He glanced at Acha as if to say Next time your husband won’t be around to protect you. Acha snatched up a little paring knife from beside the campfire and ran towards Sadamu as if she intended to stab the man in the back. Chikaaki grabbed her and held her arms.

  ‘No. Don’t. He’ll kill you.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Go to your room. Dry your tears, then help me prepare dinner.’

  Kotau picked up the paring knife and gripped it in his hands. He wanted to gut Sadamu but knew he didn’t have the courage. He knelt on the stones, angry and exhausted. Even if Genta won the Shōgun’s favour and got summoned to Kyoto, he would still consider the inn his property and would pass it on to whomever he chose. Kotau and his family would be evicted from their home. He was overwhelmed by despair. It was a world without justice. He studied the clouds and suddenly and understood, with febrile clarity, that there were no gods, there was no guiding hand of fate.

  Chikaaki placed a consoling hand on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘Best prepare some dinner,’ he said. ‘I have to leave soon.’

  They knelt at the courtyard table. Kotau served rice. His hands shook as he ladled food into bowls.

  ‘More,’ demanded Genta. Kotau filled his bowl to the brim then shared what little food remained with his family. The bandits gorged themselves on rice and side dishes of mushrooms and carrot then talked through the arrangements for the tournament.

  Chikaaki reached for the bowl of mushrooms but a warning stare from his son made him withdraw his hand. He stared at the mushrooms and tried to mask slow-dawning horror as he realized what Kotau had done.

  ‘We’ll need to fix up these outbuildings,’ said Genta, looking around the quadrangle. ‘We need to patch the roofs, sweep the floors and lay down some mats. We’ll transform these pig pens into accommodation fit for warriors. And we’ll need plenty of food. Rice, fish and meat. The contenders will expect to eat well.’

  The vagabonds finished their meal then paced the courtyard as sunset painted the ruins vermillion.

  ‘What about the emissary himself?’ asked Sadamu. He winced and rubbed his belly as if battling indigestion. ‘A man of his seniority will have a substantial residence in Kyoto. A palace, with servants. He’ll be used to the finest furnishings, the richest meals.’

  ‘It won’t be a problem. The emissary will hold military rank. He’ll be a senior general. He’ll have his own tent, his own retinue. We won’t need to house or feed him. We’ll be lucky to speak to him at all.’

  Sadamu nodded.

  ‘I’ve no idea how to address a man like that if we’re summoned to his presence,’ continued Genta. ‘I imagine his regiment will include outriders, folk who would prepare a locality for his arrival. They’ll explain protocol, tell us how to behave. We’ll show due deference but he won’t respect us if we grovel. Our manners may be poor but we’ll be resolute and look him in the eye.’

  Chikaaki leaned close to his son as the vagabonds talked among themselves.

  ‘You gave them grave flowers?’

  ‘A clutch of them grew on that fallen cedar near the bean rows.’

  ‘What if they survive? They’ll cut our throats when they realize they’ve been
poisoned.’

  ‘They’ve both eaten a fatal dose. They will be dead by dawn. Just stay calm and let the mushrooms do their work.’

  Chikaaki and Acha cleared away the meal and washed the bowls in a bucket. They kept their heads bowed and let the vagabonds chatter and fantasize about the magnificent estate they would build now that their fortunes were restored. The men stretched and rubbed their bellies now and again as they began to experience mild discomfort, but pushed it from their minds until it could no longer be ignored. Night fell and the first stars appeared. Chikaaki brought a torch of oil-soaked rags from an outbuilding, staked it in the soil at the edge of the flagstone courtyard and set it alight with the scratch of a flint.

  Sadamu negotiated his position as co-owner of Genta’s estate. He surveyed the moonlit hillsides and decided where best to position his mansion, then suddenly gripped his belly and doubled up. He staggered to the centre of the yard and fell to his knees. The skirt of his robe stained crimson as he shat blood. He cried out in pain, humiliation and fear.

  Kotau took his father and mother by the arm and propelled them towards the woods.

  ‘Hide,’ he said. ‘Hide until the poison has robbed them of strength.’

  Genta ran to his comrade’s side.

  ‘What’s wrong, brother?’ he said, putting an arm round the shoulders of the stricken man. He turned and shouted: ‘Fetch water. Quick. We must flush his stomach,’ then looked around in bewilderment as Kotau and his parents were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Kotau, hidden among the trees. He watched Sadamu writhe. He had never felt so powerful.

  Sadamu vomited more blood. The flagstones were splashed red. He rolled onto his back and convulsed.

  ‘What have you done?’ shouted Genta. He ran to the edge of the forest and peered into the moon shadows.

  ‘I added a few mushrooms to your meal,’ said Kotau. Genta looked around in confusion. Kotau’s voice had shifted position and now seemed to come from the other side of the quadrangle. ‘In this valley they are known as grave flowers. I’m not sure what they are called elsewhere.’

  Genta looked to the table and his own empty rice bowl. He stuck his fingers down his throat and tried to puke.

  ‘That won’t help, I’m afraid.’

  Genta snatched a knife from his belt and bellowed:

  ‘Come out and face me. Have the courage to look me in the eye.’

  He coughed, dabbed his mouth with his sleeve and looked in horror at the blood spots which stained the fabric.

  ‘How does it feel?’ asked Kotau as he emerged from the trees. ‘Your life will be over in a few moments. I’m genuinely curious to know what is going through your mind.’

  Genta ran at him but his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. The knife clattered on the stones. Chikaaki and Acha joined their son and stood at a distance as Genta fought convulsive gut pain.

  ‘This is our home,’ said Kotau. He stood over the stricken bandit. ‘What made you think you could take it? What made you think you could put us out in the cold?’ His voice grew shrill with anger. ‘Are we nothing to you? Are we insects to be crushed underfoot?’

  Genta puked blood. He pulled the ring from his neck with bloody fingers and raised his arm as if he wanted to fling it into the undergrowth as a final defiant act. Kotau gripped the leather and they fought for a moment, then the vagabond’s strength gave out.

  Kotau hung the thong round his father’s neck. Chikaaki looked down at the ring in horror.

  ‘We follow their scheme,’ said Kotau, trying to draw his father’s eyes away from the dying man. ‘We do exactly as they planned. We will play host to the emissary from Kyoto. We’ll announce a tournament and hold it right here. But we do it ourselves and reap the rewards, yes? We don’t have to live and die as outcasts. This is a blessing, a gift from the gods. Imagine the people that will be drawn here. For two or three days this paltry patch of earth will be the centre of the province. Think what it could mean for us, think of the opportunities it could present. This could be our chance to rise.’ Chikaaki stood wide-eyed with fear. Kotau gripped his shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘This is it, Father, the only chance we will get in this lifetime to change our fortunes. We can’t let this moment slip by.’

  Chikaaki stared at his son as if he was a stranger. Kotau shook his head, disappointed in his father’s lack of vision. ‘Take Father inside,’ he told his mother. ‘Give him some saké.’ Chikaaki looked down at the dying man then back to his son like he was some kind of monster. Kotau clapped his hands to spur his mother to action. ‘Go on. Take Father into the house. Keep him occupied. You will both see the wisdom of my actions soon enough. You will come to see this day as one of the luckiest of our lives.’

  Kotau was left alone with the dying man. He fetched a lamp and a shovel from an outbuilding, sat on the porch and waited for Genta to breathe his last.

  Genta crawled to Sadamu and lay beside him. He tried to speak to his comrade but blood frothed between his teeth and all he could do was grunt. He pawed the man’s face and left blood prints on his cheek.

  ‘They say a strange young man lived in the village a couple of generations ago,’ said Kotau. ‘He wanted to fly like a bird so he climbed the hill, tied branches to his back like wings and jumped from a crag. You remind me of him. You and your brother. For the briefest of moments, you took flight.’

  Genta’s strength was failing. He could barely lift his head from the flagstones. He spat blood into his hand and tried to fling it at Kotau.

  ‘I’ll bury you together,’ Kotau told the dying man. ‘There’s a glade behind the wall. A nice spot. Plenty of flowers in springtime. A finer burial than you would have had otherwise. Stabbed in a brawl and hurled in a ditch like garbage. This is better. A better end. Be grateful.’

  Genta glowered at him. Kotau gazed back and waited for him to die.

  ‘Death is stealing over you,’ he said. ‘The poison is slowly robbing you of breath.’ He crouched and gazed into the dying man’s eyes. ‘Tell me. I have to know. What’s it like on the brink of oblivion? You are half in this world, half in the next. What can you see? What waits for us? Please tell me.’

  Genta’s rage softened to an expression of intense curiosity and his attention shifted through and beyond Kotau to something only he could see.

  ‘Tell me,’ urged Kotau. ‘Tell me what you can see.’

  Genta opened his mouth but made no sound. Kotau leaned close, stared into the dying man’s eyes and waited for them to grow dull in death.

  * * *

  Acha stood at the window, looked out into the moonlit courtyard and watched her son.

  She’d discovered the place of skulls years ago. She noticed Kotau walked north down the river path day after day, so when he visited the village one afternoon with his father she retraced his steps and followed the grass his repeated passage had beaten down. The path led to a recess dug in the bank like an upright grave hidden behind a veil of vines. The cavity was full of animal skulls. Alcoves had been jammed with rat and dog bones. Perhaps Kotau found clear skulls among the leaf litter in the woods, or perhaps he trapped animals and stripped the flesh from their heads with a knife. He had a fascination with death, an obsession Acha had observed since he was a young child. He used to sit in the flagstone quadrangle and torment insects for fun. And it was there, standing in the damp and darkness of the skull cave, that she understood he was a monster. He was still young enough that she could lure him down to the river, hold his head beneath the water and rid the world of him. She was certain that if he lived to adulthood he would spread misery. He was nothing more than a peasant child from a desolate valley but everyone who crossed his path would somehow become damaged and diminished. But what mother could kill her own child? All she could do was marvel that such malign power could blossom in an inauspicious backwater. She stood at the window, watched Kotau lean over the bandit like he was drinking the dying man’s life breath, and felt proud to
be the mother to such rare and potent darkness.

  Tengu and the Monk trudged for miles. The road ahead stretched to vanishing point.

  ‘We’ve travelled too far,’ said Tengu. ‘We must have missed the junction.’

  They saw a figure in the distance. As the figure drew close they saw it was an old woman carrying firewood in a basket roped to her back.

  ‘Pardon me, Mother. There’s a valley near here,’ said the Monk, ‘home to a village and a river shrine.’

  ‘There’s nothing for you in that ravine,’ she said. ‘Nothing for anyone.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that is where we wish to go.’

  ‘Head back the way you came. There’s a fork in the road near a crooked oak.’

  The Monk clutched his injured back and fought a wave of despair as he turned and contemplated the long road behind them. Tengu waited until he reconciled himself to the return journey then helped him hobble back down the seemingly endless track and retrace their steps to the crooked oak.

  ‘Is this the village road?’ said Tengu as they stood at the head of a narrow dirt path that led into undergrowth. ‘Little wonder we missed it. It’s the kind of trail a fox might leave as it moves through the grass.’

  They ducked beneath the branches and headed down the bramble-choked track into the valley.

  ‘What kind of miserable place is this?’ muttered the Monk as he hobbled along. He forced himself to look away from his own suffering and focus on the world around him, one of the many mental strategies he employed to help himself take another step. He drew his sword and used it to swat aside thorns and nettles.

  ‘Nobody has walked this track since winter,’ said Tengu, climbing over a trunk that blocked the path. ‘No merchants, no pilgrims. It’s almost as if the place is shunned.’

  ‘It seems fortune hasn’t smiled on the inhabitants of this valley,’ he agreed. Tengu looked up at the crags above them.

  ‘They should move to the plain, move someplace where the soil is rich. It would be a better life than trying to coax a crop from these rocks.’