“Of course not, Husband,” Kazuko said.
“Nevertheless,” Yukino said, “adopting Ishitaka as your son, Brother, would go far toward easing many worries.”
Kazuko’s guts twisted. If Tsunetomo adopted Ishitaka, that would mean any son Kazuko might bear, even born of the true blood of Tsunetomo, would become the younger sibling. Such confusion had sometimes resulted in war, down through history. The elder son was the designated heir, through law and custom, set to inherit everything. The younger siblings existed at the sufferance of the elder. Tsunetomo had taken Tsunemori into his service, but such arrangements were not always the case among the powerful, and when they were, the arrangements were not always fraternal.
Removing the pressure of having to produce an heir might be a welcome respite for Kazuko, but marriages between powerful families—hers, the Nishimuta clan, and Tsunetomo’s, the Otomo clan—were about producing heirs and cementing alliances. Tsunetomo adopting Ishitaka as a son would be tacit, public acknowledgment that his wife was barren and thus of minimal importance to his line. He could not divorce her out of hand, or else risk gravely offending her father, Nishimuta no Jiro, leader of the Nishimuta clan. She did not believe Tsunetomo would be so cruel to her, but the alliances and advantage of shifting politics made a bloody game of Go. She did not wish to believe it could happen, but she did believe it.
And now, abruptly, she realized that everyone in the room had given up on her. And for that betrayal, that admission to herself, she let the tears come. She was to become an afterthought, a hindrance. And now that she was irrevocably marred, she was no longer beautiful. How much of her usefulness would fall away before Tsunetomo set her adrift?
Lady Yukino said, “Perhaps such an act as adoption would entice him to return home.”
Even through the screen, Kazuko could feel the pressure of her husband’s eyes on her.
Another long, thundering silence. Finally Tsunetomo said, “If we order him to return home, he will refuse. I have no doubt that whatever course he has set himself upon, he must see it through. Perhaps soon he will see the folly of it. The heart is such a fickle thing when you’re young.”
A flash of anger shot through Kazuko. She was only three years older than Ishitaka. Her heart was as steady and true as could be.
“Here is my position,” Tsunetomo said. “We will not speak publicly of his actions, except to say that we sent him to Kamakura. When he returns, if he returns, he may raise the child as his own, but he will not marry the girl. He may keep her as a concubine, but not as a wife. But when he returns, he will be married. He is a man of the Otomo clan. It is time. Lady Yukino, you will find a good match for him. Perhaps with the Shimazu clan. You have a good eye for advantageous matches. And as for the upcoming council, we will not speak of Ishitaka. If anyone inquires after him, we will say he is indisposed.” His voice carried the force of a decision already made.
Tsunemori and Yukino pressed their foreheads to the floor. “Thank you, Brother. Again, please accept our apologies.”
Kazuko breathed a little easier that he had not mentioned adoption, which meant that for now at least he had not made up his mind on that issue. But for how long would that last?
“Then what is the Greatest Happiness? To be without desire and to know what is enough, to be perfectly fair and selfless, not to fight about what is right and wrong with things, to understand the very foundation of one’s mind, not to be confused by life and death or good fortune and calamity, to entrust life to life and to exert all of your powers in following that Way, and to entrust death to death and to be content in that return. Not to envy wealth and honor, not to loathe poverty and low birth, not to be obsessed by thoughts of the differences between happiness and anger or likes and dislikes, but rather following good and bad fortune, or prosperity and decline as one meets them, and calmly enjoying oneself in the midst of creation and change: This is the Greatest Happiness under heaven.”
—Issai Chozanshi, The Demon’s Sermon on the Martial Arts
The letter from Ishitaka arrived in the morning, while Ken’ishi was preparing for the day’s military strategy lecture. He had sat quietly while Shunsuke, his squire, shaved his pate and cheeks and styled his topknot, then dressed himself in a crisp, new robe. Nowadays, he looked the proper warrior gentleman.
Jinbei brought him the letter, and Ken’ishi read it with growing alarm and then sadness. Ishitaka had set sail for Kamakura from Moji. He was going to bring Yuri and his child home. He described a terrible argument with his father, after which Ishitaka’s status in the clan was uncertain. He had taken no bodyguards or entourage, only his squire.
Ken’ishi could understand following one’s heart. Nevertheless, the pangs of love were too often a distraction from the Warrior’s Path. A warrior could not devote himself to the discipline and training with the demands and distractions of lovers and wives pulling him down other paths. Ken’ishi had often told himself that this was his reason for withholding his full affection from Kiosé. Whether it was the truth, he did not like to consider.
This had thrown Captain Tsunemori’s and Lord Tsunetomo’s houses into turmoil, especially now as they prepared to depart for Dazaifu to attend the Council of Lords. The lords of Kyushu were gathering to discuss preparations for the defense against the barbarian invaders. The engineers from Kyoto and Kamakura had arrived in Dazaifu. A stone wall was to be built around the entirety of Hakata Bay, more than five ri long. Doubtless there would be much wrangling over the division of costs and labor among the lords and gentry. The Imperial Court and the bakufu would foot much of the expense, but the lords were already grousing over the state of their coffers. Taxes would increase, which would further sour the peasants, who would already be forced into a greater share of labor in the construction of the defenses. Life on the island of Kyushu would grow more difficult for everyone.
Concerns of Ishitaka’s welfare found their way into Ken’ishi’s thoughts many times throughout the day, distracting him from lessons and training. It was on his mind even when he reached home that evening, when Jinbei met him at the door.
“A samurai came by today and demanded to speak with you,” Jinbei said. “He would not offer his name, which I thought very strange.”
“Strange indeed. What did he look like?”
“He looked...foreign. A kind of features I have not seen before. All these strangers pouring into the province... But he had two swords and a warrior’s demeanor. Plain garments, but not poor. Very tall. He asked for you by name.”
“If he comes back, I will see him.” Ken’ishi received so few visitors, and Jinbei’s description stoked his curiosity.
“Very well, Master. Suzu has prepared your dinner.”
Having someone to prepare his dinner for him, to welcome him home, to care for the place while he was gone, all seemed so alien to him. How long before he became accustomed to it? Given how long he had spent on his own, was this lifestyle something to which he wanted to become accustomed?
That night, when the songs of the night frogs and crickets were at their height, when the moon shone through the open veranda door, turning his mosquito net into a gossamer tent, he heard the pull-string bell at the front door, signifying a visitor. He waited a moment to be sure he heard the bell, but it did not come again. Silver Crane rested in a rack within easy arm’s reach of his futon. He took up the sword and slipped out of bed. The kami were not just whispering, nor were they shouting in cacophony. They were singing. The chorus of a multitude. Singing a welcome.
Jinbei and Suzu were doubtless fast asleep at this tender hour, having not heard the bell in their tiny chamber adjoining the garden.
Then again, Ken’ishi could not be certain he had heard the bell.
He stole through the house. He had never encountered such joy from the kami before, and it raised the hairs on his neck, as if something extraordinary hovered just out of sight, awaiting his ability to see it.
Inside the front door, Ken’ishi called
, “Is someone there?”
“There is.” The voice seemed to waver and shift, as if through a heavy rain, impossible to tell if it was man or woman.
“Name yourself.”
“Fear not, you will know me.”
His thoughts flashed to the fox he had encountered in the woods on his way to Lord Tsunetomo’s castle. The fox had worn the guise of both a beautiful woman and an enormous warrior, both dressed in emerald green. The warrior had left a deep cut over Ken’ishi’s heart, and the woman a deep cut inside. Why the mysterious fox had been testing him, he could not fathom, but he felt he had failed both tests.
He gripped Silver Crane’s scabbard a little tighter and opened the door.
Standing outside was the warrior that Jinbei had described, but Ken’ishi did not recognize him. The man wore a basket hat. He was tall, gangly, and wore long and short swords thrust through his obi.
The night lay silent as a tomb. A low mist clung to the earth. Far down the street, the lantern of the firewatch bobbed like a distant firefly, the only visible light. The castle loomed behind him, the twin towers milky white in the moonshine. A long streak of white zipped across the sky in a brilliant flash that shifted to green before it dissolved into a puff of sparks, as if Hachiman, the guardian of warriors, had just struck with his blade against the fabric of night.
“Who are you?” Ken’ishi brought Silver Crane into view. “I’ve no patience for strangers in basket hats. Show yourself.”
The stranger removed his hat. Without it, he looked even sparer, with gaunt cheeks, a shockingly long nose, and a scrawny neck. His beady eyes were as quick and sharp as the thrust of a dagger. Ken’ishi had never seen him before, but still there was something familiar about him.
“You have made a name for yourself, Sir Ken’ishi. ‘Sword’ and ‘stone.’ An interesting combination of characters. Your renown spreads.”
“Is not the hour too late for flattery? I would rather listen to the sound of the frogs. State your business.”
“My business is simple. It is said that you are the greatest swordsman in this province. I intend to test that.”
“I have never said so. And if I were, would I waste time and effort on a man who won’t even offer his name?”
The man took two steps backward, cast his hat to the ground, and put his right hand on his hilt. “Refusing is not an option.”
Ken’ishi stepped into his sandals, then down onto the earth, keeping his eyes fixed upon this stranger. “Why me?”
“You are Ken’ishi the Oni-Slayer, Destroyer of the Wild Woman, Captain Ken’ishi of the Otomo clan, all worthy names.”
“My old teacher once told me that I had to make my own name. You’ll not be able to steal mine for yourself.”
The man smirked.
Ken’ishi said, “Would a test with bokken satisfy you?”
“Are you afraid to die?”
“I’ve no wish to kill you. And I haven’t been given leave by my lord to die. In fact, fighting is forbidden by Lord Otomo himself. If you defeat me, you will likely be punished.”
“That is why I have come to you at this hour. No one need know what occurs between us.”
“Then how can you expect to build your name by defeating me?”
“No one else will know, but I will. Are you going to draw, or shall I cut you down with your sword still in its scabbard?”
Ken’ishi took a deep breath. The tumultuous chorus of the kami rose around him with fury that he felt across his back, neck, and shoulders. The air seemed filled with fireflies darting in and out of existence. He rubbed his eyes once to dispel the dancing, luminous motes. Mist swirled around the feet of his opponent.
The man’s patience turned him into a serene, motionless pillar.
Ken’ishi drew Silver Crane. The dancing motes seemed to coalesce around its moonlit sheen.
The man drew his sword.
Even from this shadowed distance, Ken’ishi recognized an exquisite weapon. It was not richly appointed, but its steel glimmered like quicksilver, a weapon to rival Silver Crane in the perfection of its edge.
In the empty street they circled one another, spiraling closer into striking range.
Ken’ishi took another deep breath and allowed himself to descend into the Void.
The man’s blade settled into the middle guard stance as they circled one another. The serenity and surety of his stance and movements bespoke incredible skill.
This man was indeed a rival, if not superior, to Ken’ishi in ability. The man’s skill far exceeded that of Masoku, Green Tiger’s ronin henchman. It far exceeded that of Nishimuta no Takenaga, the arrogant constable who had provoked Ken’ishi into a duel. It far exceeded that of Teng Zhou, the Chinese leader of the White Lotus gang in Hakata. Ken’ishi had never encountered such a swordsman before, so calm and collected, so precise in every movement.
But no matter. If Ken’ishi lost, he lost. If this night, this wondrous night, was to be his last, the fireflies were beautiful, and the heavens were aflame with wonders.
Another slash of light in the sky, in the far corner of his vision.
It was then his opponent struck.
The falling star seemed to hang there, waiting for the outcome of the strike before it allowed itself to disappear.
His opponent moved with preternatural speed, the kind of speed found only in the Void between moments of time. Had Ken’ishi not been rooted in the Void himself, his head would have been split like a melon. But he caught the blow, deflected it, stepped aside, and counter-struck. The man’s blade caught Ken’ishi’s as if expecting the precise counterstrike.
They slid apart, blades interposed.
Ken’ishi slid into the stance Kaa had taught him, blade raised to face-level, edge upturned, point toward the throat of the attacker, like a crane’s beak.
The man smirked, stepped in closer, and assumed the same stance.
Ken’ishi never seen another human being use this stance before, and the sight of it startled him out of the Void.
And in that moment, the man struck.
His blade darted toward Ken’ishi’s throat. Ken’ishi’s desperate parry deflected the sword point into the meat of his left shoulder. Blinding pain exploded in the joint. Ken’ishi’s wild riposte slashed across his opponent’s right wrist. They staggered away from each other.
The stranger’s right hand released his hilt and hung at his side, two fingers dangling from a chunk of palm, blood pouring onto the ground. His left hand still clutched the pommel of his katana hilt. He swung one-handed at Ken’ishi leg.
Ken’ishi swung his thigh out of the blade’s path and seized the opportunity. He struck hard with the flat of his blade against the top of his opponent’s hilt, just above the hand, driving the weapon onto the ground. Then he jumped forward and kicked his opponent in the belly, away from the fallen weapon. Breath burst from the man’s lips, and he toppled hard onto his back.
Ken’ishi laid the edge of his blade against the man’s throat.
Like a thunderous gong, Silver Crane’s voice rang in his mind. Blood! Blood! Blood!
Just a flick of the wrist would spill the man’s life irrevocably onto the earth.
The man’s sharp eyes narrowed as they gazed up into Ken’ishi’s. There was no fear in them. He was as prepared to die as to take his next breath.
Blood! Blood! Blood!
“No,” Ken’ishi said. He took half a step back, blinking away the powerful suggestion to open the man’s throat to the night.
“Why not kill me? I am a cripple now. A crippled warrior does not deserve to live.”
“I have seen whole and healthy warriors who do not deserve to live. You are not only a worthy opponent, you are the superior swordsman. Fortune was on my side today, not skill.”
“I am glad to see you are not a fool...Monkey Boy.”
Ken’ishi gasped and took another step back. Only one being had ever called him that. “Sensei!”
The man levered himself
up to an elbow. His nose grew even longer. His skin took on a gray, mottled appearance. And then, in a burst of speed, he leaped to his feet.
Ken’ishi lowered his weapon and bowed.
The man’s voice grew harsh, crow-like. “First you challenge me, and now you are so deferential! I’ll never understand you upright monkeys.” His skin disappeared under a coat of fine, silvery-gray feathers, and his nose and mouth merged into a hard, blood-red beak. His dark, flinty eyes speared Ken’ishi with derision.
Anger flared in Ken’ishi. “For months I have entreated to speak with you. For months you have been taunting me. I need answers to my questions, and if you’re not prepared to give them, I would prefer you leave me alone. I’ve had enough of distractions. I challenged you because I knew you would be honor-bound to respond. I know you, Sensei.” Blood soaked his left arm from the deep puncture in his shoulder, dripping from his fingers. “And now I have defeated you, rightfully or no. Your life is mine.”
The tengu threw back his bird-like head and laughed uproariously, like a murder of crows startled into flight. “My life will remain long after you are food for grubs! You do not know me as well as you think.”
“And you will still owe it to me, unless you answer my questions, once and for all. You told me I must make my own name. I’ve done it! And I’ve learned a few things about my past—”
“At my allowance! Just like that starving woman I put in your path at the shrine of Jizo. Who do you think brought Tametsugu the sword-polisher back from the Realm of Dreams?”
Ken’ishi stared.
“Always you underestimate my power.” He flexed his injured hand. The cleft had healed. “And what did Tametsugu tell you?”
“That Silver Crane is a relic of the Taira clan, a treasure beyond worth. Silver Crane itself tells me that it follows the Taira bloodline. That must mean I am of the Taira clan. But that does not tell me who my father was, or why he left the clan to live as a farmer with my mother on the edge of the wilderness, or who killed them. Or why Silver Crane chose him. It was lost in the straits at Dan-no-Ura, at the bottom of the sea a hundred years ago, and now...”
Spirit of the Ronin Page 22
