Spirit of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  Kazuko scrambled up the rocks with one hand, naginata clenched in the other.

  Hatsumi’s cries of consternation were turning to rage. The crunching crackle of the bough, splintering under her efforts, echoed down the mountainside. Hampered by the naginata, Kazuko’s progress was too slow. Hatsumi would be free before they reached the height.

  Another tangle of fibers sprayed the rock face, part of it catching his foot, but a quick slash freed him.

  Hatsumi moved with a peculiar limp now from her damaged leg, like a spider with a crumpled limb. She leaped and fell short of the rock face. He seized a foot-sized stone and hurled it down into her face. It crashed into her gaping, black maw, striking another howl of pain from her. Her teeth now looked even more jagged. The moment gave Kazuko the opportunity to reach a narrow ledge just below the crest of the rock face. She reached down with the butt of her naginata haft for Ken’ishi. He seized it, and she dragged him up beside her.

  With no time to convey his plan, he threw his shoulder against a boulder perched at the edge of the ledge. With a roar of strain, he felt the huge rock shift slightly.

  Hatsumi peered up at them, grinning that horrid grin, then launched herself up the rock face, grabbing crevices with claws and legs.

  Kazuko slashed and stabbed downward. Hatsumi dodged the blows, or swatted them away with her hands, but Kazuko’s attacks were herding Hatsumi into the boulder’s expected path.

  “Come and take us!” Kazuko screamed.

  Thanks to the angle of the climb, Hatsumi could not bring her webs to bear.

  The gleaming sheen of naginata kept her at bay just long enough for Ken’ishi to muster one last sinew-rending heave against the boulder.

  With a grinding crumble, the earth underneath it gave way and tipped the great stone off the ledge.

  Too late, Hatsumi saw it coming. The boulder caught her full in the chest and drove her down the rock face. In midair, her limbs flailed against it. With her preternatural alacrity, she almost succeeded in casting herself out of its path before it struck the earth, but it crushed the bottom half of her torso against the rocks below. Black ichor squished from the joints of three crushed legs, which now thrashed and spasmed as if of their own volition. Her caterwauling scream tore a jagged hole in Ken’ishi’s soul, reverberating through the forest with such anguish that the trees of this mountainside might be forever scarred by its noise.

  Ken’ishi and Kazuko pushed more stones over the edge, or flung them down upon her. Hatsumi kept screaming in pain, scrabbling to drag herself away, but she was trapped under the boulder’s weight. The fresh stones struck others loose from the rock face, and they began to fall on her, first one at a time, then faster and faster. Each sickening thud of stone against flesh renewed her wail of anguish. Her spasming limbs grew still.

  “She is not yet dead,” Ken’ishi said, gathering his breath.

  “Not until we burn her head,” Kazuko said.

  When they had defeated Hakamadare together, the oni’s body maintained its fierce vigor until they had dismembered it and burned its frightful head. The head had cursed them silently from the flames until reduced to a blackened skull.

  As Ken’ishi gazed down upon Hatsumi’s shattered, motionless body, he sensed the kami of this place crying out in pain at the defilement, at the stain of evil upon the earth, the water, the air itself. It would be up to the kami of flame to cleanse and purify this place.

  They helped each other down the rock face.

  Standing over Hatsumi’s monstrous form, he could see she was still very much alive. Her eyelids fluttered, her mouth worked, her limbs twitched and writhed, seeking any opportunity to exact vengeance.

  In the falling darkness of the forest night, their task became grim butchery. Hatsumi’s head lay separated from her neck, but her eyes would not leave Kazuko. The expression of forlorn sadness, mouthing, “Why? Why? Why?” even twisted as it was by her monstrous features, drove Kazuko away for a while to collect herself. “I cannot look at her anymore.”

  Ken’ishi sent her into the forest to gather wood for the cleansing pyre while he continued his awful task. Kazuko returned with armful after armful, and they piled it upon the dismembered pieces of Hatsumi’s body. Black ichor flowed across the ground in shifting rivulets, like sentient tar. Hatsumi’s blood clung to Silver Crane, too sticky to sling away. He could only wipe it away with handfuls of grass.

  Finally, when they had built the pyre, they set fire to it and stepped away to watch it burn, covering their noses and mouths against the noxious stench that poured forth.

  It all brought back for him that day he had saved her life, how beautiful she had been, but how young and fierce with her naginata, how soft and kind in her care for Hatsumi. And how the scent of her had driven his heart into a wild gallop. He wanted to reach for her now, to comfort her, to tell her the ordeal was over, that she had done well. But he did not dare.

  He said, “You saved my life. I am in your debt.”

  “I think we are beyond keeping account by now, don’t you?” she said.

  And so they stood in tense silence.

  When the moon had risen high and the flames had settled low, Kazuko sat on the ground away from him, gazing out into the forest blackness, rocking gently on her haunches.

  He watched the fire until Hatsumi’s skull lay blackened and empty. Stubby horns had sprouted from the bone. Then he stabbed it through with the naginata, and planted the butt of the haft into the earth. This would be their trophy, their proof to the countryside, the villages, and Lord Tsunetomo that their hunt had been successful.

  The fire would help to cleanse the area of Hatsumi’s taint, but only time would heal it fully. Sadness washed over him at the knowledge that he had helped to despoil such a beautiful, pristine place. The presence of evil still lay thick in the air itself.

  He said, “We cannot sleep here. Come.”

  She nodded but would not meet his eyes. The bloodstained bandage on her cheek glowed orange in the ember-light.

  Ken’ishi took up the naginata, and they hiked back down the mountain in the dark.

  Once again I hear

  The first frogs sing in the pond.

  I am overwhelmed by the past.

  —The Love Poems of Marichiko

  They reached Takeshita village at dawn, bone-weary and reeking of Hatsumi’s stench. Try as they might to cleanse themselves in the stream, they could not shed themselves of it.

  Blisters risen and burst turned Kazuko’s every step into a low-grade rhythm of pain. Deep, aching bruises had bloomed across her torso. Only Ken’ishi’s steadfast, taciturn limp kept her going when all she wanted to do was collapse by the roadside. Even making their painstaking way down the mountain in the darkness, amidst the skitterings of unseen night creatures or unfriendly spirits, was as nothing compared to the horrors of what they had just faced—and defeated.

  Villagers, preparing for their day’s toils, cried out at the sight of Hatsumi’s skull, pierced, aloft on the point of the naginata. The headman came out to meet them and practically pulled out his hair in frantic orders to see them given food and rest. There was no shrine or temple here to cleanse them of contact with the oni, so the villagers brought them the finest clothes they could muster and sent the ichor-stained garments to be cleaned.

  Kazuko sent a messenger on foot to the castle—Takeshita village had no horses—informing Tsunetomo that their hunt had been successful, but at the cost of two of the hunters. She did not mention the wound on her face. How badly would she be disfigured? Would she still be beautiful enough for him? Was she forever marred?

  The sense that there was now a dark weight upon her did not diminish when she shed her soiled clothes. It was as if she could feel the malevolent gaze of Hatsumi’s skull upon her, even through the walls.

  Meanwhile, Ken’ishi ordered the headman to send gravediggers with him back into the forest to retrieve the bodies of the hunters. They would be buried here, with prominent markers
to honor their sacrifice in ending the Wild Woman’s rampage. Their swords would be returned with honor to Lord Otomo.

  When Kazuko heard Ken’ishi was going back into the forest, she wanted to go with him, but he simply pointed at her bloody feet and shook his head.

  “Stay here and rest, my lady,” he said. “I’ll return by nightfall.”

  But she would not rest until she had made things right here. So she held audience with the villagers to hear their tales of the Wild Woman’s evils—from behind a screen where none could see her. She offered reparations of food, tools, and livestock.

  In the afternoon, a healer came, brought from a nearby village to look at her cheek. The healer, a stolid, middle-aged peasant woman, peeled away her bandage and failed to conceal her alarm. A sick, twisted whorl in Kazuko’s gut wanted to see, but she had no mirror. The healer daubed her cheek with a smelly poultice, covered it with a fresh bandage, and then saw to her blistered feet.

  The villagers offered her food, but it all tasted like blood. They even brought her tea, and it too tasted like blood. But that could not be real. It had to be some lingering taint of evil. A tremor of cold fear whispered through her.

  Ken’ishi and the village gravediggers returned that evening bearing the bodies of Yahei and Naohiro wrapped in blankets. Kazuko’s heart went out to him at how much more pronounced his limp had become from where Hatsumi’s spiny appendage had seized his ankle. Ken’ishi had recovered his horse, with all his accouterments still in place. The gray stallion’s proud demeanor looked unfazed by having spent the night in the forest.

  The bodies were placed in funeral urns and buried at dusk. A Buddhist priest who served several villages in the area came to read sutras over the dead. The village stonecutter extolled how grand would be the markers he made for the two samurai. The villagers would give offerings to their spirits for years to come in thanks for their great deeds.

  The reverence and amazement on the faces of the villagers as they looked at Kazuko and Ken’ishi made her even more uncomfortable, because she, for her part, did not deserve them. It was because of Kazuko that Hatsumi had gone mad. That Kazuko and Ken’ishi had survived seemed more a matter of fortune than prowess.

  When the headman’s wife closed the door on Kazuko’s private chamber, she passed into fitful sleep, a sleep of night-sweats and foul dreams, dreams of blood and fire and terror, dreams of cruelty and spite. By turns, her cheek felt numb and hot, burning and dead.

  Before dawn, she went outside and found Ken’ishi kneeling on the veranda, keeping watch over her. Neither of them spoke.

  The first villagers of the morning found them both sitting on the veranda of the headman’s house, awaiting the dawn. She wondered if she would ever sleep again.

  * * *

  An entire retinue from the castle arrived the following afternoon, with an elaborate palanquin, and, to Kazuko’s shock, Lord Tsunetomo himself on horseback.

  As word of his presence burned like wildfire through the village, the people came out to greet him with prostrations and exhortations of praise for the bravery of his wife and the warriors who had accompanied her.

  Kazuko came out of the headman’s house to greet her husband, trembling with nervousness, like a child awaiting a parent’s decision. She knelt and bowed low.

  At the sight of her, he reined up his horse, threw a leg over, and jumped to the ground. A squire leaped from the entourage to take the reins. Tsunetomo came to her, his gaze boring into her.

  Where was Ken’ishi?

  “Stand and let me look at you,” Tsunetomo said, lifting her to her feet. He lifted her chin to look at her cheek, but she could not meet his gaze.

  He guided her into the house. Her legs were wobbly. He shut the door behind them.

  And then he hugged her, fiercely, ferociously. She collapsed into him and wept for the comfort of it, and for how she had yearned to fall into Ken’ishi’s arms for two days and could not allow it.

  He laid gentle fingers along her chin. “What of this?”

  “Hatsumi was...” Fresh tears burst from her eyes. “She clawed me with her talons. Ken’ishi saved me at the last moment. She nearly killed all of us!”

  He appraised her cheek again, his face brimming with regret. “Let us sit. Tell me the tale.” He eased her to the floor, and she told him the story.

  When she was finished, he said, “You were fortunate to have him with you.”

  She nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “He has been standing guard over me, but then he was gone when you arrived....”

  Tsunetomo scowled a bit. A warrior did not abandon his post. He stood and opened the door, revealing Ken’ishi kneeling upon the veranda.

  Ken’ishi pressed his forehead to the planks. “Please forgive my absence at your arrival, Lord. I was visiting the village carpenter for a new oaken haft on Lady Otomo’s naginata.”

  The naginata lay sheathed beside him on his right, with a stout, smooth, oaken haft.

  Kazuko bowed to him. “That is very thoughtful, Sir Ken’ishi. Thank you.”

  Ken’ishi bowed to her in return. “My lord, Lady Otomo saved my life. Without her assistance, I would be food in the Wild Woman’s belly. She is truly a formidable warrior, and brave beyond compare. My deep regret, however, is that she did not go unscathed. If my lord wishes it, I will gladly pay the ultimate price for my failure....”

  “That will not be necessary,” Tsunetomo said. “The lives of a thousand might be worth Kazuko’s beauty, but you, Captain Ken’ishi, are worth a thousand and one. The gods have smiled upon me to place you in my service.”

  “Captain, Lord?”

  Tsunetomo smiled. “Command of a few spearmen hardly befits a warrior of your prowess and valor. When we return to the castle, you will be promoted to captain, and begin your study of military tactics and strategy under Yamazaki no Hidetaka-sensei, retired general of the Minamoto clan.”

  Ken’ishi pressed his forehead to the floor again. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you.”

  Kazuko could hardly contain her pride in him. The profound surprise and humility on his face made her love him even more.

  Stubborn woodpecker

  Still hammering at twilight

  At that single spot

  —Issa

  Ken’ishi moved into his new house at the base of the castle wall with a strange sense of wonder. The house was a spacious affair, meticulously kept, appointed with fresh tatami mats. A wooden wall surrounded a modest contemplative garden, similar to the one enjoyed by Norikage, Ken’ishi’s former employer, the administrator of Aoka village. The garden reminded him of his talks with Norikage, and the chafed patch of memory at how they had parted during the invasion. In retrospect, he regretted the intensity of his anger at their last meeting.

  While Ken’ishi was called ‘captain,’ his rank was still significantly below Yoshimura and Tsunemori, whose ranks technically equaled captain of the third and fourth levels, respectively.

  Being promoted to captain meant that he not only was given a residence of his own, but that he now had servants, the very concept of which was alien to him. His servants were a married couple, Jinbei and his wife Suzu, with several children. Without being told—Ken’ishi had little idea how to direct them in any case—they appointed his house with food and comforts befitting a retainer of Ken’ishi’s rank.

  He had little time to acquaint himself with his servants, however, as he now spent several hours a day studying military history and tactics under the man once known as Yamazaki no Hidetaka. He had retired to shave his head and become a Buddhist monk, taking the name of Jokei, but he was still called Yamazaki-sensei. The old general was one of the most venerable men Ken’ishi had ever encountered, well into his seventies but still sharp of mind, and possessed of more wisdom than Ken’ishi could fathom. Decades of service and battle had formed an old warrior’s pragmatism and powerful insight into what made men fight—and what made men flee. These connections, previously glimps
ed only in disparate bits, but drawn together by Yamazaki-sensei’s instruction, fascinated Ken’ishi. He applied himself with rigor to the texts of Chinese generals more than a thousand years dead.

  This study was in addition to his practice of spear and yabusame. Every day was crammed, sunrise to sunset, with study and practice to such a degree that Kazuko found her way into his stream of thoughts only in the moments between tasks.

  Word spread like wildfire across the countryside that Lady Kazuko and a brave champion had destroyed the Wild Woman, thus ending the reign of terror. Since then, Kazuko had secluded herself from the public eye. Scant word of her came out of the castle, only that she was still recovering from the encounter. One night in the Roasted Acorn, Ken’ishi heard a minstrel sing a tune of praise for her courage and prowess. Ken’ishi nodded and clapped his hands with greater enthusiasm than anyone.

  His life had moved, overnight it seemed, into a new, unfamiliar realm—one he had only viewed before from the outside, and with distant yearning.

  Before he could grow accustomed to his sudden success, however, the arrival of northern warriors, first coming in ones and twos, with their entourages, then in larger and larger groups, assigned by the shogunate to aid in the defense of Kyushu against future attack, set the town into an uproar.

  They arrived with letters of assignment from the bakufu. According to the letters, they were to be given lodging and stipends according to their rank. The inns in Hita and the surrounding towns filled up quickly until a number of townsfolk were displaced to live with relatives or in the hastily-constructed tent village on the outskirts of town. The province’s carpenters and laborers were marshaled into an immediate expansion of the town’s living quarters.

  Grumbling filled the saké houses, from the townspeople at being forced out of their homes and from the visiting warriors at so little preparation being made in advance of their arrival, at being forced to live so close-packed in every available patch of spare tatami. Brawls broke out, and men from the castle were assigned to serve as peacekeepers between the locals and the foreign warriors. Tension festered between Lord Tsunetomo’s retainers and the newcomers. “They’re not Kyushu men!” was an often-heard utterance among the men under Ken’ishi’s command. Nevertheless, the order never to brawl with other warriors was still fresh in the minds of most, after the beating Ken’ishi and Ushihara had received over the winter. Lord Tsunetomo made the same edict clear to every visiting samurai, but the memories of some were apparently clouded by arrogance. The deaths of two belligerent locals, slain by samurai “whose honor had been slighted,” led to more grumbling, but fewer confrontations.