Spirit of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  Yasutoki practically clapped his hands with glee. This was exactly what he needed to deliver him from the depths of his blackest mood. Oh, the sport!

  * * *

  Throughout the evening, the buzz of the kami was a persistent annoyance, but Ken’ishi could not identify the spur for their warnings. His thoughts lingered on who had been at the crack and what harm they might mean for him.

  After the banquet was finished, the servants cleared away its remnants. Ken’ishi wondered at how many servants populated the quiet depths of the castle. A lord of this stature would keep a large household.

  Anticipation rose within his belly, a nervous fluttering.

  Finally Tsunetomo addressed them.

  “Gentlemen, you will now come forward to sign your name to documents swearing your fealty to me. Yoshimura...”

  He gestured and Captain Yoshimura came forward with a sheaf of documents and a small writing desk. He set them down before Tsunetomo.

  Yoshimura addressed the men. “This document contains your oath of fealty. There is one for each of you. Once you sign this document, you are dead.” He paused for a moment, letting his statement sink in to the ominous silence that fell between words. “From this day, your spirit is merely counting the days until your body must be given for your lord. Your death and the deaths of your family are bound to the house of Otomo no Tsunetomo. You swear to serve him with the deepest loyalty and the greatest courage. Your death is his to command. Those who cannot or will not take this vow, leave now.” He waited for a moment to see if anyone would leave, but no man did. No man would. “Very well. Come forward.”

  Ken’ishi watched the first man approach Tsunetomo’s dais, kneel, and press his forehead to the floor. Then the man turned to Yoshimura, who slid a document forward. The man took the brush and signed his name. Tsunetomo handed Yoshimura a kozuka much like the one that Ken’ishi had received from Tsunemori. Yoshimura bowed and took it with both hands. He handed the kozuka to the man and said, “Your blood upon the oath, Masamoto.” The man took the knife, made a quick slice across his thumb, and dripped his blood onto his signature.

  They bowed to each other, then Masamoto slid to the side, allowing the next man to approach. One by one, each of them approached the dais to sign his oath of fealty.

  When Ken’ishi’s turn came, he felt the sharp buzz of warning again, so strongly he felt the urge to duck. But how could there be danger here? He took the small blade and sliced his finger. As his blood dripped onto the paper, another surge of joy and pride washed through him.

  He was ronin no more.

  After all the new retainers had signed their oaths, Captain Tsunemori addressed them. “I am pleased. Welcome to the house of Otomo. To show my gratitude, I have gifts for all of you from our generous lord.” He clapped his hands once, and the doors at the rear of the audience hall slid open. Another procession of servants marched into the room, carrying armloads of lacquered cases of various shapes and sizes, which he recognized as containing suits of armor, helmets, and proper stands upon which to rest them.

  Ken’ishi could hardly contain his elation and awe when a servant placed a wooden box before him and opened it to display the armor within. Gleaming, interlocked scales of black-lacquered steel. The thick, silken cords of brilliant scarlet, highlighted in beautiful yellow accents. Showing the pride he felt would not be seemly, so he kept his excitement in check. He could hardly resist the urge to run his fingers over the armor’s contours and laces.

  Tears stung his eyes and the lump in his throat thickened. Only one moment in his life had been happier—the night he had lain beside Kazuko. This was a night of too much emotion, so much that he felt like an overfull cup brimming with tears.

  Then the servants returned carrying long, black-lacquered boxes that Ken’ishi recognized as sword cases. A servant placed one in Ken’ishi’s hands and bowed deeply. Ken’ishi took it and placed it reverently before him, then untied the clasps. Inside, wrapped in fine, black silk, lay a pair of swords, the long and the short, the katana and the wakizashi. His head felt light, and the swords swam in his vision as if in a dream.

  No.

  Silver Crane’s voice echoed through his mind with that single, resounding sentiment.

  He shook away the intrusion.

  Judging by the hilt-wrappings, he surmised that the swords were newly made. The modern katana-style blade possessed less curvature than the antique tachi-style of Silver Crane, with a meatier spine. Unlike the naked ray skin of Silver Crane’s grip, this katana sported black silken cords crisscrossed over the ray skin. The circular guard, the tsuba, bore a motif of the Otomo clan mon, two apricot leaves, rendered in the steel with silver inlay. The scabbards were ornamented and fitted in a modern style, meant to be thrust through the obi rather than hanging from it.

  Again, a sharp intrusion into his thoughts. No.

  Ken’ishi considered his position.

  To leave behind Silver Crane, his father’s weapon, the sword that had saved his life many times, the sword that had twisted the threads of fate to return to him, would dishonor his father, his ancestors, and the sword itself. But to refuse Lord Tsunetomo’s gift would be an insult.

  For many long moments he thought about what to do, but he could not come to a satisfactory conclusion. Finally, he said, “Honorable Lord, may I entreat to ask you a humble question?”

  The mutter of quiet conversation in the room ceased.

  Lord Tsunetomo leaned forward. “Eh? Of course, Ken’ishi. What is your question?”

  “Great and honorable Lord, words cannot express the joy I feel at the generosity of your gifts. I am but a humble warrior, from humble beginnings. The honor you have bestowed upon me I can only repay with my life, so my life is yours to do with as you will. But...you have given me swords to wear in your service. Since I reached manhood, I have worn only my father’s sword. How can I wear your sword without dishonoring my father’s memory? How can I wear his sword without dishonoring you? I beg of you, please tell me what to do. I do not have the knowledge of such things.” He pressed his forehead to the floor.

  Yoshimura bristled. “How insulting! That you would even consider spurning such a gift—!”

  Tsunetomo raised his hand, cutting Yoshimura off. “Filial piety is one of the greatest of all virtues. This young man worships his father’s memory, as well he should. Ken’ishi, you would serve me just as well with the weapon you have made your own. I know as well as anyone the comfort of a familiar hilt. This is my answer. You will wear your father’s sword, and the wakizashi of the house of Otomo.”

  An acceptable compromise. Silver Crane’s voice was a bell in the caverns of Ken’ishi’s thoughts.

  Another flush of joy and fresh tears burst from Ken’ishi’s eyes as he pressed his forehead to the floor once again. “Lord, you have my never-ending thanks, and my undying loyalty.”

  “You honor us both, Ken’ishi,” Tsunetomo said. “I am grateful to have such an earnest and forthright retainer. My younger brother has chosen well!” He nodded to Tsunemori. “And now, let us conclude. The time grows late, sunrise comes early, and training begins at the Hour of the Rabbit.”

  * * *

  Lying in his bunk in the barrack, staring into the rafters, Ken’ishi hardly needed the blanket to warm him, such was the fervor of his excitement. Here he was, having accomplished the most fervent desire of his life.

  Only one other desire rivaled even remotely the yearning for this one, and he would likely never see Kazuko again. But what would he do if he did? She was married to some samurai lord now—the pain of that night had stolen the memory of his name—probably having borne the lord an heir or two by now. But nothing would ever steal the memories of their night together. The fervor, the softness, the beauty, the ecstasy, the tears of parting, and the threat that if they were caught it would have meant certain death for him, perhaps even for her.

  What if, during his service to his new master, he encountered her? The samurai lords of n
orthern Kyushu numbered perhaps a score. Would she recognize him? He did not doubt that he could spot her instantly in a crowd of a thousand women. Her beauty would outshine the sun.

  No matter what happened, he could show no recognition, or both of their lives would be in danger. If her new husband knew that Kazuko had not been a virgin when she was wed, he might well spurn her, send her back to her father, and set fire to a new feud among often fractious men. Not since the night she came to him had he doubted that she loved him. But theirs was a dangerous love, one that must never be. That ferry had already crossed the River of Tears and would not return.

  And why was Kazuko still the first woman in his thoughts? He had spent three years with Kiosé. She had earned more of his loyalty than Kazuko had. Kiosé had loved him, with a depth and breadth he could never return. She had known this, yet she had done it anyway. She had warmed his bed, cleaned his house, and filled his belly. And she had died trying to protect their son from barbarian swords.

  In the midst of the invasion, when Ken’ishi had returned to Aoka village and found the terrible corpses of Kiosé and Little Frog, the stallion Thunder had taken a single sniff of Little Frog and known him to be of Ken’ishi’s blood.

  Ken’ishi had failed poor Little Frog in innumerable ways. Every day that Ken’ishi had not claimed the boy as a son condemned Little Frog to another day as one of the Unclean, the bastard child of a common whore. It did not matter that Ken’ishi could not have known the boy was his. He should have known.

  For a time, Ken’ishi’s thoughts spun in such circles until he finally reached a moment where he chided himself. Too long on these paths led only to black despair, and tonight was a night of celebration. Kiosé was gone. Little Frog was gone. The chances that Ken’ishi would encounter Kazuko again were so small that it hardly warranted further thought.

  As he tightened his thick blanket around him, drifting toward sleep, he thought he heard the distant ring of Silver Crane’s voice, but he could not be certain if it was only a dream.

  Destiny.

  Into a cold night

  I spoke aloud...but the voice was

  No voice I knew

  —Otsuji

  Kazuko awoke with a start, aroused by a peculiar noise: a rumbling, part thunder, part growl. The quiescent coals in the brazier glowed red-orange, casting shadows deep into the rafters.

  She had wrapped herself in a blanket and sat at Hatsumi’s side as night descended, listening to the older woman fret and whimper and cry out in fitful sleep. Sweat glistened on Hatsumi’s face. Kazuko’s legs, back, and neck ached from sitting. Beyond the ring of brazier glow, the darkness coupled with the winter chill, driving Kazuko to clutch her quilted blanket tighter around her.

  What had she heard? It was too late in the year for thunder. The sound had come from inside the room, but its timbre could not have come from Hatsumi. Could it? Its absence nevertheless left a reverberation on her soul.

  “Is someone there?” she whispered.

  A cricket’s chirp broke the deafening silence.

  Kazuko had declined her husband’s bed tonight, and he had been somewhat displeased. It was the first time she had ever refused him. That she was staying with Hatsumi rankled him even more. He had long desired to send Hatsumi away. Her erratic behavior had become too troublesome, bordering on dangerous. Nevertheless, Kazuko had begged him to allow Hatsumi to stay and he had acceded, on the condition that if there were any more outbursts or mistreatment of the servants, Kazuko would be the one to send Hatsumi away.

  She had finally received word that her husband’s physician had been injured by a runaway cart and could not come. He sent his regrets, saying that he would try to come tomorrow. But if he were injured, how could he come tomorrow?

  There was no one tonight who could ease Hatsumi’s suffering.

  Hatsumi groaned and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  And then a great, wet, resounding belch erupted from her mouth, lasting for several heartbeats, followed by a groan of relief.

  Kazuko flinched away in surprise, almost with a sense of amusement at its absurd vulgarity. Until the miasma of putrid decay washed over her.

  One summer, when she was a child, she had been passing through a village on the way to visit her father’s younger brother, lord of another portion of the Nishimuta clan’s domain. Two peasant men were attempting to load the rotten carcass of a pig into a cart. The men’s faces were wrapped in cloth, their eyes watery and desperate. The errant pig had ventured into a bog, gotten stuck, and drowned in the summer heat. The bloated purple carcass was such an unwieldy blob it was as if most of its bones had liquefied. Just as the palanquin bearing her and her father was passing, the men lost control of the carcass, and it spilled from the back of the cart and burst open on the ground. The expulsion of rancid putrescence sent the men flailing away, retching and wailing. The palanquin bearers lurched into a quicker pace. The bodyguards stopped and admonished the men for doing such work when a lord was passing by. Kazuko simply cried. She cried for the enormity of the stench her mind had difficulty encompassing. She cried for the misfortune of the peasant men. She cried for the pig that had died in such a terrible fashion.

  And she cried now for Hatsumi, whose body had just emitted the closest thing to that stench Kazuko had encountered since that day.

  The stench hung in the air like a living thing. She jumped up and hurried to the window, clutching her blanket to her face. Her watering eyes fractured her vision, catching the coals’ light and darkness together. She reached the shutter and flung it open, leaning out as the chill air rushed inside, washing over her like a fresh, sweet waterfall.

  How could a human being emit such foulness? Was Hatsumi dead?

  But Hatsumi stirred again, and something in her breathing and movement suggested the return of comfort as if some threshold of suffering had been crossed and survived.

  Kazuko steeled herself and returned to Hatsumi’s side, covering her nose and mouth with one hand and waving frantically with her other sleeve to disperse the foul air.

  Then, Kazuko saw the expression on Hatsumi’s face.

  Hatsumi’s eyes were closed in sleep, but she was smiling. It was not a smile of pleasure, or happiness, or contentment.

  It was a smile of savage glee, blackened teeth clenched, lips parted and spread wide into her cheeks.

  And still she did not awaken.

  Something worked inside her face, behind her face, as if sleep allowed the opportunity for this force to reveal itself, to revel in newfound freedom.

  The fear that washed through Kazuko was akin to the first time she had looked into the face of the oni bandit, Hakamadare. He and his gang had attacked her entourage, slaughtered all her servants and bodyguards, and snatched Hatsumi from the overturned palanquin and raped her. The same would have happened to Kazuko, had not a ronin named Ken’ishi wandered into her life, saved her, and changed her forever.

  She thought about awakening Hatsumi, but what person would look out from her eyes? The Hatsumi she had known her whole life? The Hatsumi she loved like an older sister? Or this...creature?

  Kazuko edged away, wary, her heart pounding. Then she hurried to the cabinet where she kept a dagger, a gift from her father. She removed the dagger and hid it in her voluminous sleeve.

  The image of that awful smile, seared into her memory, kept her from sleep until dawn.

  “In the words of the ancients, one should make his decisions within the space of seven breaths. Lord Takanobu said, ‘If discrimination is long, it will spoil.’ Lord Naoshige said, ‘When matters are done leisurely, seven out of ten will turn out badly. A warrior is a person who does things quickly.’”

  —Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

  Yasutoki settled himself before Lord Tsunetomo, distastefully close to Tsunemori, draping his voluminous sleeves over his thighs. He already knew the nature of this meeting.

  Lord Tsunetomo sat straight and strong as a bridge pillar unmoved by the passing of th
e river. It was a trait that made him a powerful leader of men. Tsunemori possessed a similar mien, but with a more mercurial nature, a bit more prone to fly into action on waves of emotion rather than stepping back to consider all possible facets of a situation. This made him easier to manipulate, but also unpredictable.

  Tsunemori said, “What is the news of our cousin and his prisoners?”

  Otomo no Yoriyasu kept rich holdings and rice farms to the west. Younger cousin to Tsunetomo and Tsunemori, he was still feeling his way into political and martial power. His forces had captured fifty barbarians and Koryo sailors in a ship dashed against the shore by the storm.

  Lord Tsunetomo said, “Yoriyasu and his fifty prisoners are traveling to Kyoto. No doubt, the barbarians will be interrogated and executed by the bakufu.”

  Yasutoki said, “And no doubt he will be richly rewarded for so great a prize.”

  Lord Tsunetomo said, “No doubt.” He produced a scroll and offered it to Yasutoki to read. “We are to be rewarded as well. The Shogun and the Emperor send their thanks and their congratulations once again on holding back the barbarians long enough for the gods to destroy them. A hundred prize stallions and a hundred mares. Ten thousand bags of rice. Ten thousand pieces of gold. These rewards are to be distributed to those warriors who fought the most bravely, and to the families of those who died in battle.”

  Yasutoki raised an eyebrow. “His Excellency the Shogun is most generous.”

  “And so is His Highness the Emperor. Two Shinto shrines are also to be rewarded for their part in winning the gods’ favor. They claim their prayers brought about the storm.”

  Yasutoki snorted. One of the traits he shared with Tsunetomo was a disdain for religion as anything but a tool of control.