Spirit of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  Ishitaka threw an arm around Ken’ishi’s shoulders. “You are coming with me! After everything you’ve been through, you need to find some enjoyment.”

  Ken’ishi stiffened. “You heard about the—”

  “The flogging? Of course. I was very sad about that. Especially when it was the other man’s fault. What an uncouth bag of filth.”

  The thought of his friend hearing about his disgrace made Ken’ishi lower his head.

  “Brace up, Ken’ishi!” Ishitaka said, guiding him into movement. “The way you withstood the flogging is more on people’s tongues than the reason. And you took half his strokes! I’ve heard that forty strokes can kill a man. You look so glum, it’s as if you’ve resigned yourself to another round of torture. Let us look toward the future! A future where saké and girls await us!”

  “Girls?”

  “Of course! You don’t see any around here, do you? What better way to lift one’s spirits than the attention of a pretty girl?”

  Ishitaka’s boyish zeal scratched at the black shell of Ken’ishi’s mood. He smiled. “Very well.”

  * * *

  The Roasted Acorn was the largest saké house in town, with a spacious common room on the ground floor, and two floors above for private meals and meetings. Tonight, the common room was alive with boisterous company, the men from the castle mixing with townsfolk and farmers. The aromas of hot saké, smoke from cooking fires, roasting chicken and fish, and steaming broth and steaming rice awoke fires of hunger in Ken’ishi’s belly. He and Ishitaka enjoyed course after course of simple food in sumptuous quantities. Jar after jar of hot saké poured warm honey into their veins.

  Some of the men broke into drinking songs, and one of them stood up and began to dance with comical exaggeration, contorting his face into farcical expressions. Before long, he dropped his trousers and continued the dance with the utmost earnestness, trousers around his ankles, amidst roars of laughter.

  The villagers of Aoka, where Ken’ishi had lived most of the last three years, had seldom been this boisterous except at New Year. The village’s fishermen had been a taciturn bunch. Ken’ishi had never had the opportunity to share the company of so many warriors, and he found himself enjoying their camaraderie and good humor.

  Some of them, however, looked at him and whispered to each other. He often felt eyes upon him, but the kami were silent, so he was able to relax. Let them gossip. He need prove himself to no one except his lord. The man married to—

  He slashed that thought short, sharply, and tossed back another cup of saké, letting the warmth assuage the cold buzz in his belly.

  Ishitaka clutched Ken’ishi’s arm. A new serving girl had just brought a tray of fresh jars to a nearby table. She moved with incredible grace and a delicate, fetching sway. Ishitaka stared, rapt. Her hair was long and lustrous, hanging free over her shoulders.

  “Ken’ishi!” Ishitaka gasped. “By the gods and buddhas!”

  She glanced at them, then turned away and hurried into the back.

  “She was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen!” Ishitaka breathed.

  Ken’ishi said, “She was very pretty, but so young. Hardly fourteen.” But in spite of her youth, there was something older about her, a loss of innocence in her lips and eyes, the way she looked at all these men without a trace of fear, as if she knew precisely how to handle herself around them, heedless of all the ways they could hurt her. The kami niggled at his awareness like tadpoles.

  “The perfect age! I am sixteen! A man should always be older than his wife!”

  Ken’ishi laughed. “Wife? The son of a high-ranking samurai marrying a peasant girl?”

  “Well, perhaps just concubine then,” Ishitaka chuckled. “I must speak to her!”

  “I’m sure she will return.”

  “I cannot wait that long! I must ask the proprietor if she’s available.” Ishitaka tried to stand and found himself somewhat unsteady.

  Ken’ishi pulled him back down with a thump. “Calm yourself. Let us just observe.”

  She did indeed return with another tray of saké jars and came to their table.

  Ishitaka needed no more saké; his eyes drank only her. “What’s your name?” His words slurred together.

  She smiled at him. “Yuri, Lord.”

  “What kind of ‘yuri?’ What are your characters?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know, Lord. I cannot read or write.”

  Ishitaka’s brows furrowed in concentration. “Surely your parents told you why they gave you that name?”

  “I...” Something passed behind her eyes, and the kami voices grew louder in Ken’ishi’s mind. “It is a kind of flower, I think.”

  “Ah, yes, the lily!” Ishitaka’s face bloomed with pleasure. “What a perfect name for the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

  She bowed and began to back away. “I am just a serving girl, Lord. Please excuse me.”

  “No, wait! Stop, you must sit and drink with us!”

  “Why me, Lord?”

  “Because I desire it, and it is my intention to woo you until your heart is mine forever!”

  Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “I am sorry, Lord, I must—”

  Ishitaka lifted himself higher and gently took her hand. “You must stay.”

  Ken’ishi raised an eyebrow. Such a gesture in public was incredibly forward.

  She tried to speak, but half the eyes in the room were upon them, brimming with amusement.

  “No, wait,” Ishitaka said. “Send your master to me.”

  “Yes, Lord,” she said, then bowed and hurried away.

  As soon as she disappeared, the room erupted with cheers and laughter.

  The music continued. Another man got up to dance with the first, this one striking exaggerated feminine poses in Ishitaka’s direction. Ishitaka ignored them and said to Ken’ishi, “Did you see, my friend? A goddess walking among mortal men! Have you ever experienced that before?”

  Ken’ishi emitted a wry chuckle. “I have.”

  “I swear I will have her, or else my heart shall break into ten thousand bleeding shards.”

  A short, balding man with a thin face came out of the back, wiping his hands on a towel, with Yuri just behind him, looking toward where Ken’ishi and Ishitaka sat. Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes when he saw Ishitaka. He slapped on a smile and approached their table. Ishitaka gestured the man to sit, poured a cup of saké, and offered it.

  “I am Otomo no Ishitaka, sir. And you are the owner of this splendid establishment?”

  “Heikichi is my name, and yes, Lord, this is my place. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord. Your exploits in battle precede you. Please look with favor on my humble establishment.”

  Ishitaka waved a dismissive hand. “How is it that you have such an exquisite creature working here as a simple serving girl? She should be a princess! An empress!”

  “She is new, Lord, only started this week—”

  “Is she for sale?”

  “Her bed is her own, Lord.” The man spoke haltingly, as if a number of conflicting urges tangled his words. “I do not offer her to customers. I do not own her—”

  “Good! Because she is far too good to be a common whore. Is she a hard worker? Do you pay her well?”

  Ken’ishi covered the amusement on his lips with a hand.

  “She does passably fine, and customers seem to like her—”

  “Excellent! How much are you paying her today? No, never mind that. Whatever it is, I will double it.”

  “But, Lord—”

  “Very well, sir, you drive a hard bargain! I will triple it if you consent to allow her to join my companion and myself for the rest of the evening.”

  The proprietor’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Very well, Lord. You are most generous. May I interest you in a private room upstairs?”

  “That sounds splendid! Just splendid!” Ishitaka’s words were losing their intelligibility. He beamed at Ken’ishi. �
��Now we must find you a girl, too!”

  “But, sirs—”

  Ken’ishi raised a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Heikichi. We don’t want to put you to any more trouble.”

  The proprietor bowed to them. “Thank you, sirs, for your generosity and patronage.” He pointed to a beaded curtain in the corner leading to a stairway. “Up the stairs, second door on the right. I’ll send Yuri up with fresh saké and some mochi cakes with my compliments.”

  “The No-Mind is the same as the Right Mind. It neither congeals nor fixes itself in one place. It is No-Mind when the mind has neither discrimination nor thought but wanders about the entire body and extends throughout the entire self….

  “When this No-Mind has been well developed, the mind does not stop with one thing, nor does it lack any one thing. It is like water overflowing and exists within itself. It appears appropriately when facing a time of need.”

  —Takuan Soho, “The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom”

  Upstairs in a small private room, Ishitaka and Ken’ishi settled themselves—somewhat unsteadily. Conversations and boisterous laughter seeped through the rice-paper screens, mostly masculine voices, but a few feminine as well. A servant boy brought a brazier and a bucket of coals and set them up to warm the room.

  Ishitaka was still beaming. “The gods are smiling upon me today, Ken’ishi, I can feel it. How could such a beautiful creature be found in a place like this? Did you see the way she looked at me?” His eyes glowed.

  Ken’ishi could not help but smile at his excitement. “Perhaps we should switch to tea. Too much saké, and your little warrior will not stand at attention.”

  “Bah!” Ishitaka laughed. “She could make a dead man rise to greet her.”

  The door slid open, and Yuri entered with a tray of fresh jars. She tucked a lock of hair behind a delicate ear. Ishitaka’s eyes devoured her. Ken’ishi could appreciate his friend’s infatuation, but she was so young, with womanly curves only beginning to show.

  She smiled graciously at them both. “I am at your service, gentlemen.”

  Now, with her sitting right there, Ishitaka seemed to have been struck mute. His face flushed scarlet, and his mouth was frozen. Ken’ishi leaned back with an amused smirk at his friend’s discomfiture.

  She said, “May I pour?”

  Ishitaka said, “Of...of course.” He raised his earthenware cup.

  She raised a jar and with dexterous grace did not spill a drop, even though she was aiming for a moving target.

  Ken’ishi decided to let his companion catch his breath and asked the girl, “Aren’t you a bit young to work here? Have you any brothers and sisters?”

  “No, sir, I am an only child. My father is a...a merchant. He travels a lot.” Her clothing was not the faded threadbare of peasants, but a fine weave, crisp and new.

  Ken’ishi watched for a reaction from Ishitaka. Merchants held the lowest social standing of anyone besides whores and eta, as they produced no food, built nothing, crafted nothing, served no one but themselves, and made money solely on the efforts of others.

  Ishitaka seemed not to care. “And your mother?”

  Her head bowed. “Alas, she is dead.”

  Ishitaka said, “That is a pity. You must be very lonely when your father is gone.”

  She nodded sadly. “He tells me he is trying to find me a fine husband.”

  “Is he traveling now?”

  “Yes, sir. I like coming here to work when he is gone.”

  Ishitaka’s eyes sparkled.

  Ken’ishi watched her over the rim of his cup, measuring Ishitaka’s chances. If Ishitaka were a certain kind of man, his status as the nephew of Lord Otomo might allow him to force her into his bed, regardless of her wishes. Thus far, Ken’ishi could not discern whether she truly liked Ishitaka, or was simply indulging his infatuation with politeness. And there was something else about her. As if he had seen her somewhere before...

  They whiled away another hour. A few cups of saké and her cheeks flushed and smiles bloomed on her lips. There was a darkness in her eyes, however, that the smiles could not disperse, some part of her spirit that had been lopped off or stuffed away. Ken’ishi had seen the same in Kiosé, after several years working as a common whore. But this girl was younger even than Kiosé had been. She asked many questions and looked interested in hearing them talk about life in the castle. She said, “I look up at the castle and wonder what it must be like up there, looking down on us poor creatures in the town.”

  Ishitaka did his best to regale her with tales of his exploits, but the saké seemed to mix up the details. Nevertheless, Ken’ishi just leaned back, offered occasional corroboration, and watched. She listened with fascination, prompting Ishitaka with smiles and surprise.

  Over time, she edged closer to him, until their shoulders brushed.

  Ken’ishi finally excused himself to use the privy, and when he came back, found them leaning close, looking brazenly into each other’s eyes. At the sight of him, Ishitaka’s eyes flashed with frustration. Taking this cue, Ken’ishi said, “The night grows late, and I feel I must retire. Thank you, Yuri, for being such a charming companion. Perhaps we shall see each other again. Lord Otomo, by your leave.”

  Ishitaka beamed a drunken smile at him. “Yes, yes, Ken’ishi, you must be very tired. I will see you again tomorrow.”

  With that, Ken’ishi bid them goodnight, settled the bill with the innkeeper—a surprisingly large sum, considering the innkeeper had offered refreshments on the house—and walked out into the night. He could not afford another night like this anytime soon.

  The sky had cleared for the frosty stars. He slipped his arms into his robes for warmth. His step meandered slightly. The town was quiet, redolent with the smells of wood smoke. A lantern man walked the streets, striking his bell four times to call out the Hour of the Pig. The hour would soon be midnight.

  Ken’ishi chuckled at Ishitaka’s moony-eyed ardor, remembering how it felt. He yearned to feel such feelings again, unencumbered by the bitterness of loss. But he swore he never would.

  At least now, he knew the answers to many of his questions about Kazuko. She had borne Lord Tsunetomo no heirs, and Ken’ishi wondered why. Had the gods cursed her for giving up her virginity to him?

  He wanted to hate the man who had stolen her. But Tsunetomo had shown him incredible generosity and fairness in many ways. High- and low-ranked alike, the men respected their lord. The higher their rank, the greater their reverence and devotion. It was not just a matter of duty. Tsunetomo’s presence and bearing commanded this devotion, called men to follow him. It seemed an even worse torture that Ken’ishi could not hate him. Lord Nishimuta no Jiro, Kazuko’s father, on the other hand, Ken’ishi had plenty of reason to hate. But not the man to whom Kazuko had been given.

  Perhaps, as long as Ken’ishi did not have to see her, he could accept her being just on the other side of a few walls, where at least she was safe and well. He wondered if Hatsumi was still with her, and how she was faring after what Hakamadare had done to her.

  He drew a deep breath of frosty, invigorating air and gazed up at the castle silhouetted against the tapestry of stars. A needle-thin streak of fire shot halfway across the sky and then sparkled into non-existence, all in silence. He stared in wonder. The stars swam in his vision, misting with iridescent halos. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  “Hey, samurai!” a voice called.

  Ken’ishi paused.

  A man’s outline stood bathed in the glow from within a shop. A fringe of graying hair glowed around a head backlit by a lantern. “Care to have your soul polished?” A wooden placard above the door read Souls of samurai polished here. As samurai believed their souls to be their swords, such signs were customary for sword polishers.

  “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be working, Uncle?”

  The man gave a moist chuckle. “It’s never too late. I’m a bit of a night bird. My name is Tametsugu, and I polish a great many swords for
Lord Otomo’s retainers. You might say I’m famous in these parts. That looks like an interesting sword. One doesn’t see tachi much anymore. Is it a family weapon?”

  “It is.”

  “May I examine it?”

  Ken’ishi untied it from his obi and offered it to the man with both hands.

  Tametsugu bowed and accepted it with both of his long-fingered hands. Then he turned his rheumy-eyed scrutiny upon it. “If you’ll forgive my rudeness, I must say the scabbard needs some sprucing up. Perhaps some new ray skin on the hilt. But the silver fittings are not tarnished at all. Very unusual for a piece this old. Do you polish the silver yourself?”

  Ken’ishi shook his head.

  “Very interesting.” The old man drew two hand-spans of blade from the scabbard and peered closer. His eyes widened. “No! It cannot be!”

  “What is it?” Ken’ishi said with growing alarm. The sword had not been polished in years, not since he had passed through the capital and a high-ranked samurai had had it polished for him as a kindness. It had since bathed in buckets of barbarian blood. In spite of its use, however, its edge remained unmarred.

  “Pray, sir, tell me if this sword has a name.”

  After having Silver Crane stolen from him, after what he had suffered to reclaim it, he lied, “Not to my knowledge.”

  The old man deflated slightly. “Ah.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, do you see the hamen? See how the temper line along the cutting edge looks like feathers? This is the work of one of the old Heian mastersmiths. There is no one left who knows how to do this. With the cranes on the guard and the silver fittings, it matches the description of a sword named Silver Crane.”

  “What do you know of it?”

  “Silver Crane was a treasure of the Taira clan. Taira no Tomomori was the last to possess it, and he died at the Battle of Dan-no-Ura, over a hundred years ago. The Minamoto clan caught the Taira fleet in the straits and wiped it out, destroyed most of the clan and even His Highness, the eight-year-old boy emperor, Antoku. The stories say Tomomori tied an anchor rope around his own waist and let it drag him to the bottom of the sea.”