The afternoon of merriment wore Ken’ishi’s mood into roughness, however, because he had not yet resolved his dilemma. His mind kept going back to the look the Kaa had given him through the Raggedy Man’s eyes. It had been angry, almost challenging him, daring him to do something foolish. Why had he chosen to appear now, in the same guise with which he had fooled Ken’ishi and seduced Kiosé? With Kaa’s otherworldly powers, should Ken’ishi bother to wonder whether the tengu knew of the note?
As the afternoon progressed, his demeanor lost all affability, and Michizane wandered off to join another group of men from Barrack Six.
The only decision Ken’ishi could accept was that he would try his utmost to reach both meetings in time.
First, he would go to the sword polisher’s shop. And then he would run as fast as he could to the Sanmon Gate, and hope that whoever sent the note would still be waiting for him.
At sunset, he went to the sword polisher’s shop. On his way, he spotted the gray hawk perched on the thatched peak of a roof against a sky so splashed with orange and purple that it filtered down onto the snow-dusted mountaintops, turning the entire landscape into exquisite stillness. The sunset gleamed on the bird’s feathers, and its eyes followed him with cool judgment.
“Sensei!” Ken’ishi called. “Please, I have questions!”
The hawk ruffled its feathers and looked away.
Ken’ishi sighed and scanned up and down the street for the sword polisher’s placard above the door. He scratched his head. This was without doubt the correct street. After walking further up the lane again, he paused and looked behind him. Had he gone too far? He walked up and down, searching for the placard.
The hawk remained upon his perch.
The shining fingernail of the sun slipped away behind the distant hills, and the shadows deepened.
A light emerged from a doorway some distance down the street. It did not match his memory of the sword polisher’s location, but perhaps whoever was there would know where to find it.
Approaching the door, he peeked inside and found the sword polisher, wiping Silver Crane’s scabbard with a soft cloth. A dim, gray eye flicked toward the door, caught sight of Ken’ishi, and a gap-toothed grin emerged. “Ah, Sir Ken’ishi. Please, do come in. I am just finishing up.”
Ken’ishi slipped off his zori and stepped up into the shop. The sword polisher shuffled over to greet him and bowed.
“It was indeed a privilege to polish so fine a blade. May I show you?”
Ken’ishi bowed. “Of course.”
The sword polisher drew the sword, and its blade caught the lantern light like liquid silver, almost as if it glowed with the light of the moon itself. He pulled a handful of long, gray hairs from his unruly fringe and laid them across the upturned edge, light as whispers, and they fell, divided, on either side. He grinned with pride at Ken’ishi.
“That is the greatest work, sir,” Ken’ishi said. “Your skill does me honor.”
“Let it never be said that Tametsugu does not know his business.” He slid the blade back into the scabbard with a swift clack. Then he bowed and offered it up to Ken’ishi.
Ken’ishi accepted it and tied the scabbard to his obi. Then he took out his coin purse, having some heft nowadays thanks to his lord’s generosity.
The sword polisher held up a hand. “Oh, no, I could not take something as vulgar as gold for polishing a sword such as this. I must ask a different kind of price.”
“Oh?” Ken’ishi’s wariness trickled over his back. He had encountered too many mystical creatures, and this sounded like a dangerous kind of price. At the same time, he itched to be away, to meet the mysterious poet at the Sanmon Gate.
The sword polisher’s face darkened. “This is a weapon as demonic as it is magnificent. Guard your soul, samurai.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is a tremendous, unseen weight upon it. It has drunk blood like the waves of the ocean. I see you know this. Good! You are not a fool. What does it say to you?”
Ken’ishi did not know how to answer.
“Oh, it has power, this one,” Tametsugu said. “Power like the rivers that can eat a mountain away. My thoughts are too small to encompass what it has told me. It is Silver Crane. And it made its way from the bottom of the sea back into the hands of a great warrior of the Taira clan, a man who thought that becoming a farmer would make men forget. But powerful men never forget. All that blood, all that weight of souls set free by its cutting edge. It is a terrible burden. You have spilled much blood for it, have you not?”
“I have, during battle—”
“Oh, but it loves battle. The only moments when it is truly free to fulfill its purpose. Sir Ken’ishi, look to your soul. The soul of the samurai lives in his blade, but this blade already has a soul of its own. Do not doubt your own soul. There may come a day when yours will be tested, when you must answer the question of who is the servant and who is the master. And remember, the more blood you spill at its behest, the greater your burden.”
“I—”
“There is already a burden upon you, I see. But alas, that is not for me to polish away. My price is this.”
The sword polisher raised his hands and placed them on Ken’ishi’s shoulders. “At the moment you most desire to use Silver Crane, when deepest peril and greatest triumph are suspended in balance, you must put the sword away. If you do not, your immortal soul will be in danger.”
“H-How?”
“Go now. My time grows short.”
Ken’ishi turned and stepped outside the shop into his sandals.
The sun had disappeared, and it was darker now than it should be. The sky should still be painted with dusk. How long had he been inside?
The old man’s silhouette wagged a finger at him from the glowing doorway. “Guard your soul, samurai.”
Ken’ishi bowed. “Thank you.” He walked a few paces away, his mind churning with all the old man had said, and then he remembered the Sanmon Gate. He broke into a run. Reaching the next intersection, he glanced back.
The glow of the shop was gone.
I waited all night.
By midnight I was on fire.
In the dawn, hoping
To find a dream of you,
I laid my weary head
On my folded arms,
But the songs of the waking
Birds tormented me.
—The Love Poems of Marichiko
Ken’ishi’s breath huffed in and out as he sped across town toward the temple. His zori slipped and slid and collected mud from the melting snow. He ran through aromas of food and sounds of revelry. His heart beat so fast that he felt lightheaded, and not because of his pace. The heavens appeared too dark, as if the sunset had been hours previous. Had he stumbled into another realm of enchantment, where the loom of time moved differently? How long would Kazuko wait for him?
At the outskirts of town, the temple hill reared above him, its summit a froth of black treetops against the stars. Up the manicured mountain path he ran. The ancient forest formed a moss-draped tunnel, limned in lantern glow, and the forest floor had been carved into steps. The only sounds were the clap of his sandals on the stone steps and his heaving breath. His sandals pounded off bits of caked mud as he climbed, and the lines of a gate at the temple entrance came into view, the single-story Somon Gate, its roof swooping upward at the tips.
Beyond, bathed in globes of lantern light, lay the two-tiered Sanmon Gate. Through its three openings, people could enter the temple proper. Each opening allowed the pilgrim to free himself from the sins of greed, hatred, and foolishness.
In the lantern light, he cast about for signs of anyone, but silence lay like a blanket. The portable shrine the monks had carried through town now resided in the center of the temple yard. If any monks were not abed, they were nowhere in sight.
His beating heart grew cold.
The earth around the gate and through the central opening had been torn up by hundreds
of fresh footprints. But around the sides... Would she have waited out of sight?
He took down one of the paper lanterns, careful not to extinguish the lone candle inside, and used it to light his path as he examined the areas around the sides of the gate.
There, in the soft, moist earth. The tracks of geta, small enough, perhaps, to belong to a woman. A bit farther on, he found those geta impressions gathered in great profusion. Someone had waited there, pacing, for some time.
His heart sank even lower.
This might have been his only chance to speak to her. If she had waited for him for a long time, what must she think of him now? If the note was indeed from Kazuko, she had put herself at great risk to meet him. And he had failed her. He wanted to apologize somehow, but how could he send a message to her? Low-ranked bushi did not simply send letters to the lady of the castle. Should he pretend he had not received the message? What had she come here to say?
Too many questions. Too many worries. Too many failures.
He sat down upon the ancient foot-smoothed planks of the porch that encircled the gate. Then he took a deep breath and quieted himself.
Silver Crane’s luminous bell rang in his mind. Many threads coming together, weaving and interweaving.
Snow still rested upon the gate’s eaves above. Water dripped before his feet. He sat there for a long time, envying Hage’s tanuki nature, and wishing he could simply scamper off into the forest.
* * *
Kazuko barely felt the cold mud around her toes from having trudged through a slush-puddle. She clutched her straw peasant’s coat tighter, more out of instinct than awareness of the chill. She had acquired a torn, threadbare set of robes from one of her servants, without offering explanation of why she wanted them. Her long hair was still raised in a haphazard bun, like that of a beleaguered servant woman, her face smudged by soot. She kept her gaze squarely downcast, lest she be recognized. As night advanced, such an event was unlikely. And on New Year’s Night, the castle gates would be open until dawn to admit revelers, so she would be able to slip back inside, unnoticed.
Her wild, forlorn attempt to contact Ken’ishi had been a failure. He had not come. Possible explanations twisted her insides like a cyclone. He had not received the note in time, or at all. He had not realized that it was from her. He suspected a trick and stayed away. He did not want to see her. He wanted to come, but was delayed....
He did not love her anymore.
The last possibility was a curdled tincture of relief and bitterness.
In her shock and grief over Hatsumi, her heart had yearned until the only way to assuage it had been to reach out to the only person who would understand. Perhaps Ken’ishi would know what to do.
Was that all she wanted? Or was it something more? A torrid, romantic liaison? Or an opening of her heart once again and for all time?
She was certainly not starved for carnal attention. Her husband bedded her more nights than not, still seeking an heir, and this modicum of fleshly pleasure had sustained her through long, dark times. Growing to love Tsunetomo for his goodness, his strength, his fairness had saved her from a lifetime of despair, but he had never set her loins aflame the way Ken’ishi had.
But those were negligible concerns in the face of the devastation that might be wreaked if she succumbed to those desires. To be a samurai lady meant steadfastness, loyalty, duty, honor. To be with Ken’ishi was the antithesis of those ideals.
Nevertheless, to simply talk to him again, to have him tell her that all was forgiven...
Perhaps that was it.
She wanted his forgiveness.
For allowing her father to cast him out of the province on threat of death. For marrying Tsunetomo. For not running away with Ken’ishi, regardless of his refusal to allow it. For being unable to even speak to him.
She had wronged him in so many ways, none of which he deserved.
And she wanted to know where he had been these three long years. Had he a wife somewhere? Children?
She walked up and down the streets, the winter night leeching all warmth from her. Tsunetomo was carousing tonight with his brothers and high-ranked retainers at a special party for the men, hosted at the estate of Hoshino no Katsumitsu, head of one of the Otomo clan’s prominent vassal families. The estate lay just to the west, and boasted a hot spring revered for its healing properties. With his shoulder still on the mend, he had been grateful to accept the invitation, taking Tsunemori, Ishitaka, and Yasutoki with him. It was these absences that had emboldened her to attempt to reach Ken’ishi.
A band of drunken village men came down the street, arms around each other’s shoulders, singing ridiculously out of tune. She stepped out of the light of the street lanterns and slipped into the shadows between two houses.
The singing grew louder, and she shrank deeper into the shadows.
Then a quiet, crunching, snapping sound behind her spun her around with a gasp.
Two yellow eyes swung toward her, hanging close to the ground, catching the lantern light from deep in darkness. The creature stopped chewing.
Their eyes met.
Its silhouette, barely discernible in the darkness, was low-slung, mound-like, and indistinct. It was not a dog. A tanuki.
The revelers passed by in the street.
The tanuki looked past her.
An unexpected, irrational fear clutched her. If the tanuki made any noise, it would give her away. If the men saw her, they might recognize her. What might a gang of drunken peasants do to a lone, unprotected woman? Even if she got away from them, what sorts of rumors might begin to fly? The uneasiness and gossip about Hatsumi had already darkened the town’s mood, with talk of curses and evil influences.
The tanuki kept silent, but its eyes never left her, sparkling with mischievous intelligence.
The singing moved off down the street, and she began to breathe again. The men stumbled on into the dark. When she turned back toward the tanuki, it was gone.
Kazuko hurried back into the street and quickened her pace toward home.
A frosty moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the street in luminescence so bright it cast her shadow at her feet. Through the streets of town she went, until the road reached up toward the castle gates.
As she passed by the orchard, a distant sound caught her ear and she stopped to listen. It had been like the forlorn howl of a dog. It could not be a wolf, as there had been no wolves on Kyushu for generations. And yet, in the ululation lurked primal emotion, a bestial cry of anguish.
“She is out there,” a small, child-like voice said, “So full of pain.”
She jumped with shock and cast about for who had spoken. She saw no one.
“She will draw strength from the mountains, become more powerful.... He’s going to have to go after her, I’m afraid,” the voice said from the moon-shadow of a stone. “Ken’ishi. She’ll come after him. He’ll have to kill her.”
The words chilled her, as if the speaker knew everything.
A hoarse whisper was all the voice she could muster. “Who are you?”
Sharp, yellow eyes turned upon her with a chuckle. A furry shadow emerged from the shadow of the stone. Another tanuki? Or the same one?
“Are...are you truly...a tanuki?”
“Glad to see you’re no fool, Lady Otomo,” said the tanuki wryly.
She flinched back with a gasp.
“And I am not ‘mound-like,’” the tanuki said with a sniff of umbrage.
She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“No, you are not dreaming. But you should return to the castle before you’re missed. ’Twould be quite a shame to stir up even more trouble.”
“Do you...do you know Sir Ken’ishi?”
“Do you?”
“I...I...yes.”
“Well, I see honesty is one of your virtues. So that makes two of us who know our former ronin. What shall we do about that?”
“I do not know. I have never spoken to a tanuki before.”
“And the richer you are for the experience.” Then another distant howl drew his attention again. “Such suffering is a blight upon the natural world.” He fixed her once again with his luminous gaze. “You must be careful, lady. Or else go the way of that creature.”
“What are you saying?”
“Love, hate. Laughter, rage. Clinging too tightly to any of them is a disease. Ah, I see something ringing true for you, lady.”
“I am not blind to my own failings.” Her voice turned bitter, and she clutched her coat tighter around her.
“Well, then, that is a fine beginning. The world moves. All living creatures, even the gods, must move with it or perish in our own self-made hells. Like her.”
Kazuko’s eyes teared. “Dear Hatsumi...”
“Evil is everywhere. We make our own. It sticks to us. It sticks to others. It sticks to the world. It all feeds upon itself, and it twists everything.” A long moment passed, and the tanuki licked a front paw. Then he said, “Perhaps it would interest you that I knew Hakamadare, back when he was a man.”
Terrifying memories shot through her of the oni’s horrific face, yellow tusks, and three horns and lantern eyes, the way it had leered at her, the way it had feasted upon the flesh of her slaughtered bodyguards, what it did to Hatsumi...and what it would have done to her, if not for Ken’ishi. She said, “How could you talk to such a beast?”
“He was not a mindless beast. Given to fits of rage, lust, greed, all of those great passions, perhaps, but so are humans. But he was never any less clever, or else he would have been caught and killed long before he met his demise. Oh, but what a black, twisted sense of humor he had! A fine drinking companion! Now, if I may continue my spellbinding tale?”
“Please, do continue.”
The tanuki said, “Hakamadare got his name from the droopy way he wore his trousers. He was clever, tenacious, bold—all excellent traits for a robber. And a robber he was. He loved it so. I encountered him and his gang on a number of occasions. He tried to rob me once, thinking I was a mendicant monk. A man must have a terribly hard life to steal from a monk. But Hakamadare’s life was given to wild swings of fortune. As rich as an emperor one week, a starving beggar the next. Humans most often have some chief downfall within them, a favorite kind of trap, different for everyone. For Hakamadare, it was greed. He could never steal enough to satisfy his appetites. And it was also fear.
Spirit of the Ronin Page 11
