Spirit of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  Shoulders hunched, Hatsumi shuffled into the chamber of Lady Otomo no Kazuko, clutching her belly. Here in the high room of Lord Tsunetomo’s central keep, the winter wind slunk among the heavy ceiling beams like a thief, stealing all warmth and wringing a shiver from her, even in her quilted winter robes. She wondered if it were this cold in the other, smaller keep, where dwelt Tsunemori and his wife, Lady Yukino. Even the tatami was cold through her slippers. She was only twenty-seven, but she too often felt like a doddering old woman these days.

  When Hatsumi saw that Kazuko was brushing her own hair, she gasped in annoyance. “My lady! You must allow me!” She hurried forward, reaching for the brush.

  Kazuko flashed her a brilliant, beautiful smile and kept brushing. Hatsumi was struck by how the young woman had matured in the three years since her marriage. When they had first come to Lord Tsunetomo’s castle, Kazuko was but seventeen, her features still soft and girlish. Now, however, her face had taken on a regal elegance, the kind of beauty found once in ten thousand women. Why she did not blacken her teeth as proper, married ladies of means should, Hatsumi would never understand—baring one’s teeth, especially when Kazuko’s were so perfect and Hatsumi’s were not, was so rude. Besides, beautifully lacquered teeth allowed a lady to keep them longer. “It is no trouble, Hatsumi. You are not feeling well today. And I can hardly ask you to do something I can do for myself.”

  In truth, Hatsumi was not well today. Her innards clenched and writhed and had sent her to the privy far too often. But even there she found no relief. Her belly was full of rats trying to gnaw their way out. And there was a strange lump on her scalp, just above her hairline, painful like an incipient boil. It itched, but she resisted the urge to scratch. “It is not proper for a lady to do such things. That has always been my place. Now, please give me the brush.”

  Kazuko smiled indulgently and handed it over.

  Hatsumi took the brush in one hand, a handful of Kazuko’s long, lustrous, raven hair in the other, and began to brush. She had always enjoyed this when Kazuko was a girl. Nowadays, in the aftermath of the Mongol attack, with Lord Tsunetomo still recovering from his wound, Kazuko had taken more of these tasks upon herself. Hatsumi did her best to conceal the hurt she felt at being swept aside, her purpose diminished, for it was not her place to complain. Kazuko was the lady, Hatsumi the servant. It had always been so.

  Hatsumi said, “And how fares your husband today? His wound is healing well, yes?”

  Kazuko nodded. “At breakfast this morning he said he will try to draw a bow today.”

  “Ah, good! That’s good!” Hatsumi continued brushing. “A comfort that he mends so well. Such a strong husband your father found for you.”

  A wistful look crossed Kazuko’s face. “A comfort, yes. Such a strong man.” The look hazed into some memory for several moments until her face flushed. “Open the shutter please, Hatsumi. It grows warm in here.”

  “But, my lady, it is winter!” The nearby brazier of coals barely warmed the room.

  Kazuko’s eyes hardened as she peered back over her shoulder, and Hatsumi drew back. Fine, let us open the window and grow chilled again. She bit back this angry retort, crossed to the nearest shutter, swung it up, and propped it open to admit a blast of cold air.

  Below, in the practice yard, Tsunemori and his officers watched a group of four men sparring. Since Lord Tsunetomo and Captain Tsunemori had returned a few weeks prior, ronin and other vagabonds had been trickling daily into the castle, new recruits to replenish the ranks of troops slaughtered in the barbarian attack. A ragged-looking bunch to be sure, but perhaps they could be polished into proper samurai.

  Her gaze drifted over the faces from on high. Then she thought she saw something. A familiar face. A familiar, shaggy topknot. She fixed her attention upon the man. Standing one among many, oblivious to her presence as Tsunemori addressed them.

  No…

  It could not be him.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  Not ever!

  “What is it, Hatsumi? Do you see something?”

  There was no mistake. The man below was Ken’ishi.

  Hatsumi backed away, gripping her hands to keep them from shaking. “No, I was just trying to get a better look.”

  “Another batch of recruits today? Are they all hale and strong?” Kazuko’s voice was playful, and she rose to come to the window.

  Hatsumi cleared her throat and intercepted her. By all the gods and buddhas, no, not him, not here. He’ll ruin everything. “They look like a bunch of unwashed scoundrels.”

  Hatsumi’s mind, all of her will, focused on one thought. Kazuko must not see him. She must not know he was here. Hatsumi’s mind raced. She must get rid of him! The ronin Ken’ishi must be driven from the castle like a dog. Or killed. He must never trouble Kazuko again. He must remain forever only a memory. Three years had passed since they had last seen each other, and only recently had Kazuko seemed to stop pining for him.

  If Kazuko saw him, she would throw away everything.

  “Come, my lady, sit back down,” Hatsumi said. “The wind is freezing. Please let me close the window.”

  Kazuko sighed. “Very well.”

  Hatsumi hurriedly closed and latched the shutter. As she did, another stabbing pain doubled her over, like a bite into her lower belly, into her womb. She gasped and clutched her middle, biting back a scream.

  Kazuko voice rose. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Hatsumi tried to speak. “I...am not well today.”

  “Oh, Hatsumi, again?”

  Hatsumi went to her knees.

  “I must call for my husband’s physician!”

  Hatsumi groaned, “Yes! Please!” Fear cinched a rope around her heart.

  The pain coalesced again in her womb, as it always did, like the oni Hakamadare’s enormous member tearing into her, its savage claws puncturing her flesh.

  Kazuko gathered her robes and hurried out.

  Hatsumi knelt on the floor, praying for the wave of pain to subside. It always did, but the agony of its presence was a thing of terror.

  Her brain reeled with what to do. If Kazuko saw Ken’ishi, she would fall in love with him all over again, and Tsunetomo would see it.

  She staggered to her feet, straightened herself as best she could, and went to find the only man who could fix this situation.

  * * *

  Yasutoki sipped his afternoon tea and hated the world.

  Since his return to Lord Tsunetomo’s estate, after the destruction of everything he had built in the guise of Green Tiger over almost twenty years, after the loss of his house near Hakata Bay, after the loss of the sword Silver Crane, for which he had spent years searching, after the utter failure of the invasion in which he colluded with the illustrious Khan of Khans, after so many schemes within schemes had been wiped out in one great swipe by the hand of the gods, he wanted to kill something. He wanted to snuff the life from some hapless creature put in his path to settle his nerves.

  The afternoon light was gray and cold here at the beginning of winter, seeping through the slats in the shutter to steal the warmth from his office and his bones. His aging bones. So much lost. His body was no longer as strong as it had once been, nor as resilient, the curse of age that eats away the efforts of conqueror and commoner alike.

  In the weeks since the typhoon had wiped out the barbarian fleet, Yasutoki had taken stock of what he had lost, and it pained him even more now. Immense wealth, washed away. Underworld contacts, slain or lost. His henchmen, Masoku and Fang Shi, slain. In the onslaught of burning and destruction, his gambling parlors and whorehouses in Hakata and Hakozaki, all destroyed. Silver Crane, fallen into the hands of some strange, masked figure with a trained bear at his side, according to Tiger Lily’s account of that night.

  The only good news was that, in such an emptiness left by the immense destruction of the invasion and the storm, new opportunities could be prised from the wreckage. One of these days, he w
ould finish licking his wounds and stand ready to rebuild Green Tiger’s underworld empire. He would fight for the re-ascendance of the Taira clan.

  Amid endless whorls of black thoughts, he sipped his tea and contemplated death. Death to the Shogun and the Minamoto clan. Death to the Hojo clan that propped up a corrupt and useless government. Death to anyone who opposed him from this day forward. One bit of good news was that sweet, tender, obedient Tiger Lily awaited him every night in a small hovel he had arranged for her in town. Their secret meetings had become the poultice for his wounds.

  A timid knock at his door almost roused a snarl from him, but he restrained it. Best not to reveal his black mood.

  “Enter.”

  The door slid open, and there stood one of the people he least wanted to see in all the world.

  Hatsumi knelt at the door jamb and bowed. “I’m very sorry to disturb you...”

  His voice was cold. “Hatsumi. You may come in.”

  She swallowed hard and entered. Her face was pale, taut, sheened with sweat despite the chill, fringes of her hair falling loose around her ears. When had she started to gray? She kept her eyes downcast, her lips pursed over her horse-like teeth. She knelt before him like an upright sack of grain settling into place, then winced as if in pain.

  How he had ever stomached bedding her, he could not fathom. “What is it?”

  She cleared her throat. “This is a delicate matter, dearest—”

  “Do not call me that,” he snapped.

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Hatsumi. I do not love you. Our liaisons are at an end. No more letters. No more poems. Do you understand?”

  She flinched as if struck, her face crumpling, eyes tearing. She spun away from him and collapsed onto her hands and knees, shoulders convulsing.

  He waited for her to compose herself.

  She inched away from him as if every sob was driven out of her by a lash in his hand.

  Finally, after the interminable, shameful spectacle, she pressed herself upright on her knees and turned halfway to face him. Her face was even paler now, eyes rimmed with blood. “I am very sorry, Lord Yasutoki, but I did not come here to talk to you about...us.”

  “Then do continue, and be quick about it,” he said. “I am certain your mistress requires your services.”

  “It is my mistress I wish to discuss with you. Well, not her directly, but a...difficulty involving her. There is a man, a ronin. Before she was betrothed to Lord Tsunetomo, she loved this man. I believe she still loves him.”

  Hatsumi’s presence suddenly became less tiresome.

  On the night Lord Nishimuta no Jiro had announced his daughter Kazuko’s betrothal, at a banquet with Yasutoki in attendance, the flames of love had risen clearly between Kazuko and the ronin Ken’ishi. By a chance encounter, Ken’ishi had delivered her from the hands of the oni bandit, Hakamadare. Kazuko had stolen from the castle in the dead of night, presumably to meet her lover, and in the morning, the ronin had fled the province on pain of death for the killing of a village constable in a duel. For three years, Yasutoki had nursed this knowledge, saved it for the time when he might have to exert some leverage against Lady Kazuko. Did Hatsumi not know Kazuko had stolen out for a tryst that night? Ken’ishi had been a more-than-capable warrior, with a spirit the likes of which Yasutoki had rarely encountered. Unfortunate that he had escaped Green Tiger’s clutches. Being devoured by sharks or drowned in Hakata Bay was too ignominious a death for such a man.

  Hatsumi continued, “This ronin is among the new recruits. I saw him in the courtyard—”

  Yasutoki jumped to his feet, his teeth clamped down upon an exclamation. The ronin lived!

  “What is it?” Hatsumi asked, cringing. “Have I offended?”

  He took a long, deep breath and let it out, slowly. And then another. Then he spoke. “No, Hatsumi. It is not that. I know of this man. I was there at Lord Nishimuta’s announcement, do you remember?”

  Hatsumi nodded. “I remember.”

  “The stories of his fight with the oni have become the stuff of songs. What a strange happenstance.”

  Hatsumi cleared her throat again, and tears trickled down her cheeks. “Lord Yasutoki. You must drive him out.”

  The knowledge that Ken’ishi lived was still too fresh, too shocking for him to have considered his next move, but, given their frequent contact in the bowels of the torturer’s den, Ken’ishi was one of the few men in the world who might recognize Yasutoki as Green Tiger. Such an exposure would be disastrous. In all of their meetings, whenever Green Tiger had visited Ken’ishi in his underground torture chamber, he had kept his face concealed by mask and basket hat, but there were other ways to recognize a man.

  All he said to Hatsumi was, “Why?”

  Hatsumi’s voice quavered, and in her face Yasutoki recognized her awareness of the betrayal her next words represented. “She still loves him. For the good of our lord’s house, for the good of his honor, the ronin must be destroyed. For the love of this ronin, Kazuko will bring dishonor to the Otomo clan.”

  “And why do you think I can accomplish this? I am but Lord Tsunetomo’s advisor.”

  Her gaze flicked to him and held there for a hard, bitter moment. “You forget, ‘dearest,’ that I know you.”

  A smile curled the corner of his lip. Perhaps she was not so stupid after all.

  She said, “My lady must not know of the ronin’s presence here. Whatever you do, it must be done quickly.”

  “Tonight is the fealty ceremony for these recruits. Our ladyship enjoys attending these. After being left in charge of the castle, she fancies herself a warrior-lady.”

  Hatsumi’s voice lost its quaver. “I will keep her away from the ceremony tonight. What are you going to do?”

  “That is not your concern. You may go.”

  Hatsumi stiffened at the dismissal, but gathered herself and departed, walking with a pained, uncertain gait.

  Yasutoki sipped at his tea again, the buzz within of nascent machinations helping to ease the former blackness of his mood.

  So the ronin had escaped after all, which made a bald-faced lie of Fang Shi’s account of his disappearance from the cell in the tidal cave. Unfortunate that the Chinaman had been slain in the White Lotus Gang’s attack. The death of a betrayer like Fang Shi would have gone far to scratch Yasutoki’s murderous itch today.

  Was it possible that the ronin had been the one to steal Silver Crane from Yasutoki’s house near Hakata? Unlikely—his body had been too ravaged by torture and confinement—but Ken’ishi had a greater motive than anyone. His attachment to the sword was plain; he had searched northern Kyushu for it. At the time Ken’ishi had escaped, he could not have defeated a skilled ruffian like Masoku. How could he have recovered in so little time? How could he have known where to find Silver Crane, hidden as it was under Yasutoki’s house shrine? Had someone told him of its location? Who among Yasutoki’s retainers would betray him so? Only Masoku and Tiger Lily knew of the sword’s location. So many questions without answers. Which was precisely why he would not kill the ronin…not just yet.

  “A certain general said, ‘For soldiers other than officers, if they would test their armor, they should test only the front. Furthermore, while ornamentation on armor is unnecessary, one should be very careful about the appearance of his helmet. It is something that accompanies his head to the enemy’s camp.”

  —Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

  Captain Yoshimura was a man of about thirty years, with a round face, a barrel body, and tufts of mustache at the corners of his mouth. In the surety of his gait, Ken’ishi recognized a warrior’s strength. Once set into motion, Yoshimura would not be diverted from any chosen path.

  He led the newcomers to a long, whitewashed structure built into the wall of the castle. Beside the door hung a wooden placard that read “Barrack Six.” Inside was a row of fifteen two-tiered bunks. In each bunk was a narrow futon and a blanket, both carefully folded. About half of the bun
ks appeared to be occupied, with boxes and gear stowed nearby.

  One side of the barrack was interspersed with small, shuttered windows. Through one open window, Ken’ishi peered below to the terraced incline of one of the castle approaches. These windows were built to serve as a firing position for archers against any attack from that direction.

  Captain Yoshimura called the men around him. “I am the commander of the castle garrison. Through your chain of command, all of you report to me, and I to Captain Tsunemori, and he to Lord Otomo. Claim your bunks. Each bunk has a trunk for your possessions. By the look of some of you, I should tell you that in Lord Tsunetomo’s service, thievery warrants execution. The privy is down at the end over there.” He pointed. “The bath house is just beyond. The induction ceremony is, as Captain Tsunemori said, at the Hour of the Cock. If you’re late, you may as well pack your things and leave. Training begins tomorrow.”

  Ken’ishi and the other recruits bowed deferentially, and Captain Yoshimura departed with the same abruptness as when leading them here.

  The recruits filtered among the bunks, placing their packs on the floor, and began to introduce themselves. More than one grumbled, “When do we eat?”

  The man with the scarred lip, Ken’ishi’s former sparring partner, thumbed his chest. “I’m Ushihara, from Shimazu country.”

  “You’re far from home,” another man said, one of the better appointed of the new recruits, about Ken’ishi’s age, with the shaven pate and topknot of a samurai.

  “I came to join the defense,” Ushihara said. “By the time I got here, the fighting was over.”

  “You’re not samurai,” the man said, gesturing toward Ushihara’s bedraggled mane.

  Ushihara bristled. “And what of it? I’m here to prove myself. What have you proven with your topknot there?”

  “I fought in Hakozaki,” the man said, standing straighter. “I am Michizane, of the Ishii family, vassals to the Otomo clan.”

  “You fought,” Ushihara scoffed. “From the tales I hear, it was more likely you ran like a rabbit.”

  Michizane lunged for him, fist cocking back and then forward. It landed hard across Ushihara’s nose with a meaty crack. In a flurry of arms and sleeves, grasping and scuffling, more blows fell.