“The beginning of his downfall was his encounter with a nobleman named Yasumasa, I forget the family name. Yasumasa was walking down the street one night, playing his flute, carefree as can be, and Hakamadare decided he wanted the nobleman’s fine clothes. He ran up to the nobleman, thinking to jump him. But the man simply turned around and looked at him, unperturbed. The robber found that he could not attack, so he ran away, confounded.
“Twice more he tried to ambush the nobleman, but each time the man just stopped playing his flute and said, ‘What in the world are you doing?’ Hakamadare lost all his courage when faced with Yasumasa’s gaze.
“The nobleman asked him again what he was doing. He replied, ‘I’m trying to steal your clothes.’
“The nobleman said, ‘Come along.’ Then he went on his way, playing the flute.
“Hakamadare followed him all the way to the rear gate of a wealthy estate. The nobleman said, ‘Wait here.’ For some reason—and Hakamadare told me this himself—”
She gasped. “He told you himself!”
“I already said we tipped a jar now and then.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Anyway, while he waited at the gate, Hakamadare realized he was dealing with an extraordinary man.
“The nobleman returned carrying an armload of clothes of the richest kind and said, ‘If ever you need clothes again, come here and tell me. If you keep going around jumping people, you might get hurt.’
“And in meeting that nobleman, all of Hakamadare’s failures, every misdeed, every weakness came home to him, and he wept at the nobleman’s gate until the night watch found him and arrested him. This knowledge, that he could never become such a man as Yasumasa, no matter how much he stole, no matter how fine the robes he acquired, ate at him like rats in the belly of a carcass. And that is how he became an oni.”
Kazuko said, “You are very wise, Mr. Tanuki.”
“Sometimes. But mostly I talk too much. And now, the hour grows late. Proper ladies should be abed, and proper tanuki should be seeking victuals and amusement.”
“But what about Ken’ishi?”
“What about him?”
“What shall I do?”
“Wake up to the sunrise. Go to bed at night. Breathe. Eat food you like. Anything else is a boon.” With that, the tanuki scampered off into the darkness.
As she headed back into the castle, she was thankful at least that the howling had ceased.
How many lives ago
I first entered the torrent of love,
At last to discover
There is no further shore.
Yet I know I will enter again and again.
—The Love Poems of Marichiko
The day after New Year’s Day was the first of many days of celebration. Lord Tsunetomo returned and led a great procession of his retainers, including Ken’ishi, to the temple. Joined by the abbot and all the monks, Tsunetomo knelt with hundreds of his men in the temple courtyard, gave thanks to the Buddha and bodhisattvas for the defeat of the barbarian invaders, and entreated them for aid in the trials certain to come.
The abbot blessed them, and many sutras were sung to a profusion of bowed heads. Incense filled the air in melodious, fragrant clouds.
The abbot gave a sermon in which he extolled the bravery of the fighting men gathered there, talked of virtues and evils, of the Three Treasures, kharma and dharma and sangha. Ken’ishi found his thoughts wandering back to the events of the night before.
Was he a member of the Taira clan by birth? The sword claimed to follow the Taira bloodline, but until now such an idea had been ephemeral, uncertain. Should he claim his birthright and seek out others of his blood?
But the Taira had been all but destroyed by the Minamoto-founded shogunate for supporting the Emperor. They were all but an outlaw clan.
Would he put himself in danger by trumpeting his lineage to the world? Should he care about any possible danger to himself? Was he any different as a man today, now that he knew more of the truth, than he had been a month ago? Would the remnants of the Taira clan embrace him? Would they even believe him?
He still did not know who had killed his parents. Had the Taira clan turned on them? Or had they been purged by the Minamoto?
Then something the abbot said broke his reverie.
“—Warriors are unique in the halls of the universe. Your purpose is to fight for those who command you. But to cause the death of living things brings a heavy kharmic burden. Our actions in this life ripple throughout all our lives into eternity, until we finally embrace the Way and join the Buddha in Nirvana. But if the warrior kills for his lord, for duty and honor, for right, for justice, is he then to be punished in subsequent incarnations?”
A sudden realization crashed over Ken’ishi like a storm surge. How many deaths were on his hands?
The dozens of Mongols he had killed? They had obeyed the orders of their lord. Was their adherence to duty and honor any less than his? The fact that they drank blood sickened him, but Kaa’s admonishment to consider their origins had clung to his thoughts. Underestimating them, making them any less brave or fierce or earnest than him, was to invite defeat.
And what about the tens of thousands of Mongols and the Koryo sailors drowned and smashed by the typhoon? Was he responsible for their deaths?
A typhoon brought to life by Silver Crane’s power to weave the threads of fate. Power granted by the slaughter Ken’ishi had wreaked upon the Mongols in that desperate Hakozaki street.
Were all those tens of thousands of deaths now an enormous kharmic weight upon his soul? If that were true, his next hundred lives would be spent as an earthworm.
Queasiness settled in his gut.
The end of the abbot’s sermon brought him back to the moment again. More sutras were chanted. Lord Tsunetomo offered a gift of many bags of rice, casks of saké, and pieces of gold to the temple, which the abbot accepted with dignified thanks. After this, the ceremonies were concluded.
As the chill descended that evening, Tsunetomo hosted a great feast for all of his retainers in the main courtyard of the castle. Hundreds of lanterns festooned the walls and hung from strings crisscrossing the sky, bathing the entire courtyard as if in daylight. Several bonfires provided warmth. It was a sumptuous feast such as Ken’ishi had never experienced, even grander than the fealty ceremony. Servants carried woven bamboo platters bearing great mounds of steaming rice. Cauldrons of soup warmed their bones against the winter chill that the bonfires could not defeat. Trays of sweet rice cakes were emptied with astonishing gusto. The kami of the wind and sky smiled upon them and opened up the heavens, allowing the stars to sparkle above like the inside of a cosmic bowl.
It was a beautiful evening for a feast.
Lady Kazuko sat upon the dais with her husband, resplendent in quilted robes of golden brocade, quite the contrary vision to the warrior woman Ken’ishi had seen in the courtyard, and thankfully far enough away that he could pretend to pay little attention to her. With this being his first real chance to look at her since they parted ways three years before, however, he could not help but notice how she had changed. Her face now was thinner, more angular, with more maturity in it, but it had lost not a momme of its beauty. He admonished his heart for beating faster whenever he looked at her.
Ken’ishi sat among the men of Barrack Six and tried not to let his troubles dim the merriment of those around him.
The performers from the village the night before—without the Raggedy Man, however—made another appearance here, and created the same sort of gaiety with their antics and songs. The audience was more gruff in its appreciation, but, as the saké flowed, their applause increased.
Captain Tsunemori, seated with his wife and Ishitaka on a lower dais to Tsunetomo’s right, caught Ken’ishi’s eye at one point and raised his saké cup.
Ken’ishi blushed and raised his, too.
Eventually the eating flagged, servants gathered up the bowls and plates, and the performers dispersed.
T
he lord’s chamberlain, Yasutoki, stood up from his place on Tsunetomo’s right, held aloft a gong, and struck it three times.
Conversation ceased by the third percussion.
Lord Tsunetomo raised his voice. “There has been much talk of the barbarian invaders and the stroke of fortune that destroyed their fleet. It is true that the gods smiled on us that day, or it would have gone much worse for us. The men of Kyushu suffered many defeats that day. The Mongol ways of battle were unfamiliar, dishonorable. They put us back on our heels. But here is something that needs to be said again and again: They blackened our eyes, but we held. They cut us, and we held. They pierced us with storms of arrows, but we held! And then we struck back, and contained them until the power of the gods could do its work. This could not have happened without deeds of bravery and prowess that will soon become legendary. Songs will be sung about how the Wolves of Kyushu caught the invaders in their teeth and crushed them.”
Several of the men raised fists and howled, to great rounds of laughter and applause.
“I am fortunate indeed to have so many of the fiercest wolves here before me on this night of celebration, where we look to the coming year. The Mongols might not come again this year, or the next, but there is one thing certain—they will come. Next time, we will be ready, and the gods will smile and know there is nothing left for them to do but sit back and watch us destroy the barbarians.”
This brought another round of howls and applause.
“The Shogun knows there are heroes among us, and he wants us to reward them. It is only meet and right to thank them. I have here a list of those who distinguished themselves during the fighting. If your name is called, come forward and receive your reward. If your name is not called, recognize that it may be your turn next time, if you can rise to the deeds of your valiant brothers.”
Tsunetomo unfurled a scroll and began to read the list of names, along with the deeds that distinguished them. First upon it were Captain Tsunemori and Captain Yoshimura, who had organized the remnants of fleeing troops and marshaled counterattacks. Each left his respective seat and went to kneel before Lord Tsunetomo. He gave them each a carefully wrapped packet of rice paper, which they accepted with great humility.
The entire crowd waited in silence and solemnity as the names were read. Ishitaka was among them, and tears of joy were in his eyes as he accepted the packet from his uncle, who extolled his bravery in the scout force where he had been gravely wounded, the scout force in which Ken’ishi had found himself the leader. A dozen more names were read, including Sergeant Hiromasa for holding a strategic bridge through Hakata in the face of waves of enemy attack. Hiromasa approached the dais like a swaggering block of granite and accepted his reward with taciturn gravity.
“Ken’ishi,” Tsunetomo called. “For slaying five Mongol scouts, for saving the life of Otomo no Ishitaka and the others of his unit, and for killing more than a score of the barbarians singlehandedly in the streets of Hakozaki.”
Ken’ishi’s heart leaped. He had not dared hope to be recognized here. He stood, and felt his legs turn to wood at the thought of approaching the dais where Kazuko sat, demure and quiet, without a trace of emotion on her face. Weaving through the crowd, he feared his thrashing heart might break free of his ribs. Scores of eyes followed him, wide with amazement at his exploits. Sweat formed on his face. Voices whispered around him.
Ken’ishi kept his gaze downcast. He did not glance at Kazuko, but she remained in his peripheral vision. If she glanced at him, he did not see it. Tsunetomo offered the packet and he accepted it, feeling a lump in his throat choking off his breath. He pressed his forehead to the ground, spun, and retreated, his insides churning. With every step, anger grew in him at her utter indifference. She had treated him like a common stranger. But if the note had been from her, how must she be feeling that he had not come? How could he be angry with her, when the cost for her would just as high as for him? His emotions whipped into a storm of confusion.
He returned to his seat among the men of Barrack Six, where Michizane and others clapped him on the back and raised their cups in honor. Even Ushihara, sullen as he was, raised a cup to Ken’ishi.
Ken’ishi and Ushihara had not spoken since their flogging, except to give and receive orders during drill. Ushihara’s furtive glances caused whispers from the kami, but Ken’ishi did not know what to do with him, other than to treat it all as a past unworthy of worry. Ushihara had never thanked Ken’ishi for taking half the strokes, but he seemed embarrassed about it. As long as Ushihara caused no more trouble, Ken’ishi saw no reason to think poorly of him. Ushihara earnestly applied himself to weapons and marching drills, even though he lacked agility.
Finally Lord Tsunetomo folded up his list and said, “I am honored by your service. I will strive to be worthy of it. And now, good night to all. May your revels please the kami and bring us good fortune in the coming year.”
Servants returned bearing baskets of fresh onigiri, rice balls stuffed with pickled plums and wrapped in sheets of nori. They distributed several of these to each of the men.
With heads swimming from saké, Lord Tsunetomo’s retainers dispersed. Some of the men of Barrack Six returned there, while others headed down into the town to join the villagers’ celebration.
Ken’ishi knew not what to expect when he opened the packet. Inside he found a series of documents.
First was a certificate of ownership for a trained stallion, bred on the slopes of Mount Aso. He thought back to Thunder, the stallion he had befriended during the invasion. They had fought together against the invaders, and nearly died together upon the tusks of a wild boar in the forest. Having to put down the brave stallion, mortally wounded as he was, had been a terrible thing.
Second was a certificate to an account in Ken’ishi’s name in Lord Tsunetomo’s treasury. The account held one hundred pieces of gold, available for him to use however he saw fit. He had never conceived he would possess such a sum. In truth, he had no idea what to do with so much money.
And lastly, there was a letter of personal thanks from Captain Tsunemori for saving Ishitaka’s life. Ken’ishi’s face warmed with a mix of pride and embarrassment at the praise heaped upon him.
Until he began to fold it all back up together.
It was then he spotted the innocuous slip of paper tucked between Tsunemori’s letter and the wrapping. On the paper, another poem brushed in the same graceful hand as before.
At the Sanmon Gate, pricked by greed,
At the Sanmon Gate, haunted by hate,
At the Sanmon Gate, drowning in foolishness,
The nightingale awaits the moon
But it does not come.
When it deigns to appear
Its glow does not touch her
At the Sanmon Gate
Ken’ishi crumpled up the note, approached the brazier, but stopped himself from throwing the note in. It hung there in his fist, fingers locked around it. The men of Barrack Six bustled around him, sang songs.
He did not need to read the note again. The words still blazed in his memory, brighter than the coals before him. For a long time, he stood there and chewed on the words. Pricked by greed, haunted by hate, drowning in foolishness. Greed, hate, and foolishness, the three sins absolved by passing through the gate.
When the heat from the coals stung his fist, he pulled it back and thrust the paper into his robes. He sucked the reddened skin of his knuckles.
With a bellyful of too much revelry, he unfolded his futon atop his bunk. As mechanically as a mill wheel, he climbed into the bunk above Michizane and lay atop his blanket, staring at the ceiling.
The coals dimmed to a dull orange, deepening the shadows. A chorus of snores rose. His eyes would not close. His stomach, so full from the lavish feast, roiled and clenched. Too many thoughts. Too many uncertainties. Too many injustices. Did she hate him? Did she think him cruel?
He sat up in his bunk. There was something he must do if he wanted to sleep ever again
.
If I thought I could get away
And come to you,
Ten thousand miles would be like one mile.
But we are both in the same city
And I dare not see you,
And a mile is longer than a million miles.
—The Love Poems of Marichiko
Ken’ishi sat on the stone in the orchard and placed two warmed onigiri beside him. Then he poured a cup of warm saké and placed that beside the rice balls. Faint wisps of steam rose from the saké and onigiri, lifting into the night breeze.
And thus, he waited. Occasionally he fanned the food and drink into the breeze.
In the distance, a strange howl echoed and moved away, like the cry of a lost soul. Its bereft keening sent a chill up his spine, until the sound disappeared among the black slopes of the mountains.
“You know me too well, old sot,” said the tanuki.
Ken’ishi jumped.
“A warrior should hone his alertness, else he lose his head.” Hage sat back on his haunches, onigiri clutched between his front paws. He took a luxuriant sniff and then an enormous bite.
“I need your help.”
“What is it?” said Hage, cheeks bulging with rice. “Do you require another woman bewitched?”
“No—”
“I met her last night, you know. She was here. Probably pining for you. Foolish girl.”
“I may well be the greater fool. You must help me get inside the keep. I must give her a message.”
Hage sighed and finished chewing his mouthful. He put down the rice ball, took up the cup of saké in both paws, and drained it in one gulp. He burped and held the cup aloft. Ken’ishi refilled it for him.
“Old sot, normally I would give you a shove toward such a woman, loins foremost, but even a randy old badger such as I can see great danger here. What are you going to do?”
Spirit of the Ronin Page 12
