Memories exploded like a bomb in Ken’ishi’s mind of dreams he had seen describing just such events, and of the tales Minamoto no Hirosuke, the historian, had told him while they were imprisoned in Green Tiger’s sea cave. Silver Crane had been at that battle, lost, and then found. Silver Crane had once told him, I follow the bloodline.
The sword polisher shrugged. “Yes, this is probably not Silver Crane. It’s doubtless still at the bottom of the sea. But once I remove the hilt, perhaps the name of the smith engraved on the tang will be a clue to its origin. If Silver Crane had been found and the remnants of the Taira clan got wind of it, they would not allow such a treasure to remain in the hands of someone not of Taira blood. If you’ll indulge an old man’s curiosity, sir, where did you get it?”
“From my father.”
“And who is your father?”
“Alas, I do not know. My parents were murdered when I was a baby.”
“A sad tale.” The sword polisher clucked his tongue, but curiosity still filled his face. “But you should know that this sword is beyond the work of a present-day swordsmith’s art. It would be my great honor to polish it for you.”
Ken’ishi stilled his mind and listened for the kami. Would this man steal the sword? Was he an agent of Green Tiger? Had Green Tiger survived the invasion? The answering silence of the kami put him at ease. “I would be honored for you to polish it.”
The old sword polisher beamed with gap-toothed pleasure. “Very well, come back in three days, at sunset, and your sword will be ready.”
“That is the New Year’s celebration.”
“Make sure you come at sunset, or you won’t find me.” The old man bowed deeply. “Thank you for the chance to polish your magnificent weapon. It is an honor I will not forget. And remember, come only at sunset.”
Ken’ishi returned the bow. They bid each other goodnight, and he walked up the street. As he was not yet familiar with all the town’s streets, he paid special attention to the neighborhood, making sure that he would be able to find the shop again.
A shudder of worry brought him around. The glow of the shop door had disappeared. Last year he had suffered unthinkable agony to recover Silver Crane, and now he had just given it into the hands of a sword polisher he had never met. Had he just made a horrendous mistake? But the kami were silent. He had to trust they would warn him. But would they?
We cover fragile bones
In our festive best to view
Immortal flowers
—Onitsura
The climb up the castle hill apparently dissipated the effects of the saké, because by the time Ken’ishi reached the first castle gate, the stars had resolved themselves back into brilliant silver dust. At the orchard below the first gate, naked cherry trees entwined their black branches toward the glittering sky like fingers.
He sat upon a stone and gazed up through the spidery branches at the stars. Six months ago, while he had waited for the itinerant merchant Shirohige to return from an errand inside the castle, he had thought he recognized Kazuko walking in this orchard. As it turned out, his eyes had not lied to him, but his mind had refused to grasp it then.
Kiosé had granted him three years of her life to distract him from his pain, but now she was dead, and the pain not only remained, but now bore the added weight of his guilt. Would Kiosé have forgiven him? Would it have been best to let her go? She had been oblivious, under an enchantment to erase her memories of him, of pain he had caused her. Would he have been able to win her back, as he had promised? Would it have been fair of him even to try?
A bellyful of saké did not make such musings easier.
A group of drunken samurai headed up the hill through the gates, laughing, singing, carrying two comrades unable to walk.
Then a familiar voice, coming from not two ken away, said, “You’re doing well for yourself, old sot.”
Ken’ishi gasped and spun. “Hage!”
“Observant as ever.” A round-bellied old man, a tuft of white beard dangling from his chin, wisps of unruly hair sticking out from his head, settled himself onto another rock with a gust of breath, wooden staff between his knobby knees.
Ken’ishi could not help but grin. “I am glad to see you.”
Hage smirked, eyes twinkling. “Been diddling the saké without me, I see.”
“And you survived the barbarians, I see.”
“A bit of a tussle there. They were as thick as lice and twice as stubborn. But I did find your leathery old benefactors after the storm passed.”
“How are Shirohige and Junko?” Ken’ishi still felt he owed a debt to the old merchant and his vile-mouthed sister for nursing him back to health after he escaped from Green Tiger’s clutches.
“Ill-tempered as ever, but they were alive when I left them.”
“Thank you, Sensei, for looking after them.” Ken’ishi bowed to him.
Hage waved a gnarled hand. “Bah! You are too soft-hearted for the likes of them.”
“How did you find me?”
“The same way I always do. You leave a stench trail a ri across. But you found what you sought. Service with a fine lord!”
Ken’ishi nodded, slowly. “I have.”
“What, ’tis not everything you hoped for?”
“It is...complicated.”
Hage rolled his eyes. “By Hachiman’s hairy balls, there’s another woman!”
“Sensei—”
Hage stood and waved his arms in exasperation. “Always a woman with you! Has there ever been a human more addled by love and loins? What did you do, fall in love with some nobleman’s wife?”
Ken’ishi’s faced heated.
Hage rolled his eyes again.
“It’s not like you think!” Ken’ishi said.
“I very much doubt ’tis like you think!”
“I knew her...before.”
Hage’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Oh, you mean her. The one you would never tell me about.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I refuse to help you again like I did back in Aoka village.”
“Enchanting Kiosé’s memories was not ‘helping!’”
“I daresay you know not what help is!”
“Sensei,” Ken’ishi said. He had to draw a deep breath to push out the next words. “Little Frog was my son. And now he is dead. Killed by the barbarians. Kiosé, too.”
Hage’s eyebrows rose like white caterpillars, then he shrank with a heavy, sorrowful sigh. “Ah, I am very sorry to hear that. What a terrible pity.”
“I was a fool, a great, blind fool.”
“Without question.”
Stricken, Ken’ishi stared at him.
“Apologies, old sot. I was just agreeing with you.”
Ken’ishi stood. “Have you come to do anything but taunt me?”
“Don’t twist up your loincloth, sit down. I came to tell you what I’ve heard. About Green Tiger.”
Ken’ishi sat.
Hage untied a gourd from his rope belt, uncorked it, and took a drink. Ken’ishi caught the scent of saké. Hage offered it, and when Ken’ishi declined, shrugged and put it away. “The barbarians wiped out most of Hakata and Hakozaki. A few people managed to get away, but it will be some time before either town is rebuilt. Green Tiger’s organization was rooted in the Hakata Underworld. Gambling parlors, brothels, most of them built near the docks and seashore. Those were the areas mostly burned. Nothing of Green Tiger’s Hakata wealth remains. As for Green Tiger himself, he has disappeared.”
“Was he killed in the invasion?”
“Unlikely. Do you remember the house where we found your boar-poker?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the clan?”
“No. Most of that night is a fog in my memory.”
“I remember. Dual apricot blossoms.”
Ken’ishi let out a long, slow breath, his teeth clamped tight. “The Otomo clan!”
“We must consider a couple of possibilities, especially in ligh
t of your new situation.”
“Green Tiger is involved with the Otomo clan.”
“One of many possibilities.” He raised a hand and counted each point on his fingers. “Green Tiger is secretly a member of the Otomo clan. Or, he is closely allied with a member of the Otomo clan, close enough that Green Tiger can say, ‘Hide something for me’ and expect agreement. Or, perhaps a low-ranking servant or retainer of that house’s owner is working for Green Tiger. The connection is plain.” Hage scratched his beard with a dirty fingernail.
A chill went up Ken’ishi’s spine. Every bit of news, every revelation, gouged away at his happiness. He had once thought this was the greatest good fortune of his life. In fact, he may have fallen into a nest of vipers.
“Cheer up, old sot! Count your victories. You killed both of Green Tiger’s chief henchmen. He may well lie in a mass grave, riddled with Mongol arrows.”
“Or his web may still stretch through all the Otomo lands of northern Kyushu.”
“Well, there is that. Of all the Otomo lords, Tsunetomo casts the longest shadow of power and prestige, the perfect shadow in which one such as Green Tiger might hide.”
“This is not ‘cheering up!’ I should lose my appetite if I thought as you do.” Ken’ishi gestured at Hage’s bulging belly. “Appetite has never been a problem for you.”
“And thank the gods!” Hage hefted his paunch and heaved himself upright with a grunt. “I shall see you around, old sot. I have a few more visitations to accomplish tonight. There’s an inn with a well-stocked larder calling out to me to be pillaged. Fear not, I will pay attention for you. It would cause me sadness for Green Tiger to get his claws into you again. A tanuki’s ears can listen at more knotholes than yours.”
With that, Hage’s form shrank into the hunched, low-slung, furry shape of a tanuki. It winked at him and then ran off through the trees.
Stumbling up the hill came a lone figure. In spite of the figure’s drunken shamble, Ken’ishi recognized Ishitaka, so he waited.
Before long, Ishitaka spotted him and rushed forward, his eyes glowing with moonlight. “Ken’ishi! Ken’ishi! You won’t believe it! She...she...” The joy on his face evaporated, and he staggered to the side of the road, doubled over, and vomited.
Ken’ishi steadied him, looking up and down the path for anyone who might see. He hoped the sentries at the gate were too far away. He would have to be more careful with Ishitaka next time. Drinking could be a great pleasure, but for the son of Captain Tsunemori to exhibit such a state of excess would be an embarrassment. He guided Ishitaka into the orchard, sat him down upon a rock beside a tree, and let him hang his head between his knees. The heaving eventually stopped, and Ishitaka leaned back against the tree, eyes fluttering closed.
Ken’ishi patted his cheek. “Wake up, Ishitaka. We’re not home yet.”
Ishitaka’s eyes snapped open. “Oh! Yes! You won’t believe it, Ken’ishi! She told me to meet her beside the north bridge tomorrow night! Oh, by the gods and buddhas, I have never felt this before! After you left, she spoke such kind words to me. She said I was handsome! And gentlemanly! And brave! Her name is Yuri, the lily, the lily...”
“She is a fine judge of character.” Ken’ishi flung one of Ishitaka’s arms around his shoulders and lifted him upright. “Now, it is time to get you home.”
“To the tower, good sir!” Ishitaka cried, pointing to the shorter tower. “And we mustn’t wake father. Shhh!”
In spite of Ishitaka’s drunken gaiety, a chill had seeped into Ken’ishi’s bones. Had he landed himself squarely in Green Tiger’s very den? Had Green Tiger instigated Ushihara’s attempt to have Ken’ishi disgraced? And he had just given up his sword. He stopped for a moment, thinking to go back for it. But Ishitaka stumbled, dragging Ken’ishi forward, and he had a feeling that the polisher would not be found again tonight.
Regardless, he was finished being Green Tiger’s pawn.
“The appearance of pain in grasses and trees is no different than the countenance of suffering among human beings. When they are watered and the like, they grow and appear happy. When they are cut and fall, the withering of their leaves is no different from the death of a human being.
“Their pain and sadness are not known to human beings. And when grasses and trees look at the sadness of human beings, it is just like human beings looking at them, and they probably think we have no pain or sadness either. Simply, it seems that we do not know the affairs of grasses and trees, nor do they know ours.”
—Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”
Kazuko pushed away the tray bearing her breakfast of honey-sweetened rice and tea. Another sleepless night, another dreary, gray morning, and another day of pain in her heart that could only be assuaged by working herself to near exhaustion in the practice yard. Her grip on the haft of her naginata had roughed her palms like a man’s.
Tsunetomo sipped his tea, raising an eyebrow. “Has something happened, my dear? You have not been eating. And I have not seen you this way since...well, for some time.”
He was talking about how she had withered away in the months after their marriage, secretly crushed by her forlorn longing for another.
“I am worried. About Hatsumi.” Not exactly a lie, but the secondary cause of her distress.
His voice hardened. “Has she done something else?”
“No, but...I fear for her. I fear her malady will return.”
“I have sent word to some of my kinsmen, asking about new handmaidens for you. Without question, there are young ladies of rank all over Kyushu who would be delighted to serve you. Besides, having only one handmaid is insufficient for a lady of your position.”
“Thank you, husband. You are very kind.” The thought of Hatsumi’s reaction to such news filled Kazuko with fear. Hatsumi had cowed the entire household of servants until she was the only one allowed to see to Kazuko’s daily needs. It was not a pleasant situation. She relished the idea of surrounding herself with good-natured young women, yet at the same time she was sickened with guilt at the thought of putting Hatsumi out. They had been together for almost as long as Kazuko could remember. Was Hatsumi eavesdropping even now from behind the thin rice-paper wall? Kazuko no longer trusted her to maintain the most rudimentary courtesies.
She waited for her husband to finish his rice so that she could call the servants. He sucked the last kernel from his chopsticks, drained his teacup, and prepared to leave. His valet offered him a cap and a jacket against the chill, and then tied his sword onto his obi. “Where are you off to today, husband?”
“The new horses are arriving today, all the way from the slopes of Mount Aso. A hundred stallions and a hundred bred mares, gifts from the Shogun. Tsunemori and I must appraise them.”
“Oh, that is good news!”
“I will pick out a good one for you.”
She clapped her hands in surprise. “Me? Learn to ride?”
He smiled indulgently. “Tomoe Gozen was a great rider. Why not you?”
“I am not Tomoe Gozen.” Her cheeks flushed at the mention of the legendary samurai woman, dead now some thirty years. With ivory skin and beautiful features, Tomoe was not only beautiful, but a remarkable archer and swordswoman. Her deeds of valor during the war between the Minamoto and Taira clans had become the stuff of songs, calling her a warrior worth a thousand men. She would challenge demon or god, mounted or afoot, handling even unbroken horses with consummate skill.
“She was a legend,” Tsunetomo said, “and so shall you be. We may not have children, but our names will echo through the ages.” He stood and gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead.
The flush deepened at the resignation in his voice. He had meant those words as a comfort to her, to show that he did not resent her for not producing an heir, but in them she felt her failure like the stab of a dagger. She clutched his hand and gazed up into his eyes. “I will give you an heir, husband. I swear it.”
He tried to smile for her, but it did
not travel far on his lips. He left her there to descend into her well of despair once again.
How long before he divorced her and took a new wife? How long before he chose a concubine and planted a son in her womb? Even a bastard son was better than no son at all.
Moments after he departed, the sound of movement from behind a nearby door caught her ear.
“Hatsumi, is that you?” she called.
No response.
“Hatsumi?”
Silence.
Kazuko stood and crossed toward the door where she was certain she had heard the movement. The sudden sound of cloth whispering against flesh and floor quickened her pace until she reached the door and flung it open.
Hatsumi hurriedly gathered her robes about her, gaze downcast.
“What is the meaning of this?” Kazuko said. “You are to come when I call!”
Hatsumi’s eyes blazed with hot rage, driving Kazuko back a step. “You’re going to send me away!”
The feeling of ice-water dashed over Kazuko’s shoulders, and she raised a hand as if to fend off an attack. “No...no, Hatsumi, I—”
“I heard you plotting against me!” Hatsumi’s voice was a grating sneer, her hair a disheveled mane of tangles. A haphazard effort at powdering her face failed to cover strange reddish blotches on her cheeks and throat. “After all I’ve done for you!” She stalked forward, and Kazuko retreated.
The chill became a spike of fear in Kazuko’s belly.
Hatsumi’s fingers curled into ragged claws. “You can’t send me away! I won’t let you! You’ll never find anyone as loyal to you as me! No one will ever love you as much as I do!”
“Stay away from me!” Kazuko cried. She snatched up her breakfast tray, the only thing close at hand.
“But you are my little sister! Why are you afraid of me?” Hatsumi’s blackened teeth looked wrong somehow, as if they had grown sharper. She crept closer on bare feet. Her toenails were strangely discolored.
A door slid open behind Kazuko, and the voice of Lord Tsunetomo’s valet came forth, “My lady, is everything—”
Hatsumi shrieked and flung herself at him, seized him around the throat with both hands, and squeezed off his cry of alarm. Blood-red lines shooting through her bulging eyes, Hatsumi swung him like a doll. Something meaty popped in the man’s neck, and he sagged in her grip like a rag.
Spirit of the Ronin Page 9
