Spirit of the Ronin

by Travis Heermann

  Yasutoki had made subtle inquiries into the possibility of meeting with the emissaries, but the shogunate made it clear no one would be allowed access to or communication with the emissaries without the express permission of the bakufu. He had made two passes near the compound in his palanquin, assessing the difficulty of stealing past the guards to speak directly with the emissaries. The sheer number of guards, posted two spear-lengths apart, made the task a daunting one. He did not know the guard organization within the compound, so he could not predict what might happen if he tried some sort of diversion such as a small fire or a murdered guard. And even if he managed to get inside, he had to get back out again. Regrettably, he had let some of his skills stagnate, and he was not so young anymore.

  Nevertheless, he must consider the possibilities. Perhaps allies might be found in other members of the hidden Taira, if he looked in the designated haunts.

  When he reached the residence the bakufu had loaned him just west of Young Prince Avenue, he found a constable from the city magistrate awaiting him. Yasutoki entered the residence from the rear gate and was thus settled before the constable was brought to him. The unexpected guest felt like an intrusion, as he had been looking forward to availing himself of Tiger Lily’s pleasures when he returned. However, she did not show herself, as he had ordered her to remain out of sight of guests.

  The constable was a young man wearing perfectly pressed robes and a high black cap. Any brush with the law set Yasutoki on edge, but he concealed this. None of his criminal contacts in Kamakura had knowledge of Green Tiger’s true identity.

  After they exchanged cordial greetings, the constable said, “We must come to my purpose here. Earlier today, a trading ship came into port. Several of the crew had been wounded and claimed they were attacked by pirates. They only managed to escape because a samurai had taken passage aboard their ship. The samurai had not given his name, but his armor and weapons indicate he is of the Otomo clan. He managed to fight off the pirates. He killed eight of them before they fled.”

  “I am not aware of any Otomo warriors dispatched to Kamakura,” Yasutoki said. “Where is this heroic warrior now?”

  “Unfortunately, he died of his wounds. The body awaits at the magistrate’s offices, and we hoped you would be so kind as to see if you recognize him. Even if he is unknown to you, it is only right that his weapons and armor be returned to the Otomo clan.”

  Yasutoki’s first reaction was annoyance that such a task must fall to him as the ranking member of the Otomo clan. He had more important things to do than identify a dead man. But he was also curious. Otomo clan retainers would not be allowed travel to Kamakura except on official business.

  Movement behind a nearby rice-paper door caught his attention. Too stealthy to be a servant. It could only be Tiger Lily, listening. He would have to chastise her for her nosiness when he returned.

  Yasutoki thanked the constable and agreed to view the corpse.

  * * *

  “By the gods and buddhas,” Yasutoki said, “I do know him!”

  The constable bowed his head, covering his nose and mouth with his voluminous sleeve. “Who is it, my lord?”

  Within the compound of the Kamakura city magistrate’s offices, on the veranda above the justice ground of raked white sand where the magistrate adjudicated criminal cases, the body had been laid out on a table and covered with a white sheet. Flies buzzed around the corpse. The summer heat had not been kind to a body slashed and pierced in several places.

  “He is indeed Otomo clan. His name is Ishitaka, the nephew of my master Lord Tsunetomo.”

  The constable made a sound of recognition. “Forgive the circumstances, my lord. It is a terrible pity. Will you be seeing to the funeral arrangements?”

  Yasutoki nodded. As ranking representative of the Otomo clan, it was his duty. “Your assistance would be much appreciated, however, as I have been in Kamakura only a few days.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Ishitaka’s single glazed eye stared at the sky. A blue-black fly lit upon his cracked, pale lips.

  The constable said, “All of his personal effects are here as well.”

  A samurai of Ishitaka’s rank would not have been traveling alone. “Was anyone traveling with him?”

  “A squire, the ship captain said. The squire, however, was wounded and lost overboard.”

  Ishitaka should have been traveling with an entire retinue. Why only one squire? “Where is this ship captain? I would like to speak with him.”

  “We would be happy to bring him here. His ship is still in port.”

  “I would be most grateful.”

  * * *

  Under Yasutoki’s penetrating gaze, the ship captain fiddled nervously with his hands. They sat together with the constable in a private office while the captain related the story of Ishitaka’s defiance of the pirates, his heroic fight against them, and his submission to the grievous wounds he had suffered.

  A tall, weathered, broad-shouldered man on the verge of sliding into old age, the ship captain bowed low. “He was truly a brave man. Exceptionally good hearted. He saved my life and the lives of my crew.” He smelled of the sea as if saltwater flowed in his veins.

  “But he traveled with only the squire?” Yasutoki said.

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Did you hear them discuss the purpose of their journey to Kamakura?”

  “No, Lord. Nothing. But you don’t often see a man so determined.”

  But determined why?

  Yasutoki said, “And this is all of his personal effects?” He gestured to the items laid out beside them. Besides armor and weapons, a lacquered case containing toiletry items—a razor, a comb, wax for his topknot—a paper-wrapped packet of coins, a worn, ragged slip of paper.

  The ship captain bowed, “It is, Lord. That’s all of it. If I could pay him for the lives of my crew, I would. Not only did he save our lives, but he put a sword through the guts of one of the most notorious pirate captains ever to ride the waves, the Sea Wolf of Iyo. That’s what broke them to run.”

  Yasutoki rubbed his chin. Perhaps some clue hid in Ishitaka’s personal effects. The captain appeared to be the most earnest of fools, and bereft of any further useful information.

  “You have the gratitude of the Otomo clan, Captain, for bringing this to our attention. Otomo no Ishitaka will take his place among the clan’s greatest heroes. You may return to your ship.”

  The ship captain pressed his forehead to the floor and departed.

  The constable said, “Shall I have the warrior’s possessions sent to your residence, Lord Yasutoki?”

  “I will examine them first, Constable. Many thanks for all your assistance.”

  The constable bowed and departed.

  The array of items looked mundane. Except for the slip of paper. The ink had run from water stains, the paper heavily crumpled as if much handled. He unfolded it and read.

  Within moments, he recognized the hand at the brush.

  * * *

  Yasutoki was not surprised when he returned to his residence to find that Tiger Lily had disappeared without a word. The rage simmered in him like the slow creep of a fire across a moist field. She had overheard every word with the constable and known its significance long before Yasutoki had. His absence had given her the opportunity to escape.

  His mistakes with her paraded across his mind like some grotesque mummer’s dance. Chief among those mistakes was growing complacent in trusting her. He had let her fear subside. She should still be living every day in terror of him, but she had found courage somewhere.

  With servants present, he could not release the rage quivering in every limb. Killing them in his fury would be perfectly legal—indeed, it was his right—but it would be frowned upon. It would draw unwanted inquiries. Tsunetomo would be displeased at any indiscriminate killing of his subjects. Back at home, the ramifications of Ishitaka’s death would be profound, but he could not think calmly about them just yet. Perhaps
tomorrow, he would be composed enough to send a missive home relating the news.

  He contacted the local constabulary and informed them that a slave had taken the opportunity to escape. The constable was surprised to hear from Yasutoki again so soon, but he agreed to dispatch deputies to the Seven Entrances to watch for her.

  Night fell, and Yasutoki prowled the rooms of his residence. He ordered the servants to bed early. He ordered two of his bodyguards to forget that he left the house at the Hour of the Rat, wearing a basket hat.

  Tonight he was not Otomo no Yasutoki. Tonight Green Tiger haunted the streets of Kamakura. Someone was going to die, perhaps many, and the killing would stop only when his rage had spent itself.

  Two flowers in a letter

  The moon sinks into the far off hills.

  Dew drenches the bamboo grass.

  I wait.

  Crickets sing all night in the pine tree

  At midnight the temple bells ring.

  Wild geese cry overheard.

  Nothing else.

  —The Love Poems of Marichiko

  The tension in Kazuko’s husband radiated from him. Rather than greeting her in the castle, he closeted himself in more meetings with Tsunemori and his other retainers. This was unlike him. Never before had he returned from traveling and not greeted her with gifts and affection.

  She remained in the castle, feeling hurt and alone, anxiously waiting. When he did not take his evening meal with her, she began to think something was truly amiss, but she did not dare seek him out when he was in the company of his highest officers. It would feel like stepping out of place.

  He did not return to their chambers until very late. She was still waiting for him in the feeble light of a single lamp. Moonlight spilled across her through the open shutters. A cricket chirped in some dark corner.

  He slid the door open and stepped inside, then started at seeing her awake.

  “Welcome home, Husband.” She bowed to him. “Why have you waited so long to come to me?”

  His lips seemed to have something poised to say.

  She touched the bandage on her cheek. “Is it this? Do I disgust you now?”

  His gaze brushed over her, then returned to the floor. “The last few days have been...trying.” He did not move to embrace her, or even approach her. Instead a rare scowl appeared. He seldom let himself appear so displeased. “Why did you never tell me that Ken’ishi was the ronin who killed Hakamadare?”

  A cold slash went through her heart. Secrets must come out. She cast about the room for an answer, then said, “Because my father branded him a criminal. Quite unfairly. Ken’ishi killed one of my father’s retainers in a duel, but by Ken’ishi’s account, the man insulted and mistreated him.”

  “I spoke to your father in Dazaifu. The village headman describes Ken’ishi as a scurrilous ruffian who demanded food at the threat of violence. The constable was doing his duty to protect the village. I might add that your father was most displeased to discover that Ken’ishi was in my service.”

  “When I met Ken’ishi, he was starving, unwashed. He had been traveling a long time with no money or food. But he saved my life and rid the land of a terrible scourge. Is my life worth less than the constable’s?”

  “That Ken’ishi still lives proves the answer. It seems, though, that your father’s reaction in the balance of crimes versus valiant deeds is somewhat unjustified.”

  “He was very angry about the constable’s death.”

  “That was not my impression from speaking with him. There was something else.” He stood across the room, arms crossed. His gaze fixed upon her. Its pressure bored into her heart, into her mind, mining for long-buried secrets.

  Cold dread settled into her belly. Was this to be the moment she had feared from the day of her betrothal? Would a half-truth satisfy him? Did she dare reveal anything at all?

  He said, “Why did you never mention that such a great warrior as the Oni-Slayer was in my service?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him why he never revealed it.”

  “His answer was the same as yours.”

  “Then perhaps it is the truth.” Her heart pounded harder and harder, like a boulder bouncing down a cliff.

  His lips pursed tight, and his gaze still bored into her. “Why did you ask him to accompany you in the hunt for Hatsumi?”

  “He volunteered,” her voice tightened. The accusation was building in his voice. Should she play the wrongly accused? Protest her innocence?

  “But you arranged it.”

  “In your entire domain, is there anyone more suited to hunt an oni? He has killed three now.”

  “Three?”

  “The village constable’s yoriki took it upon himself to avenge his master’s death. He pursued Ken’ishi with such fervor and hatred that he became an oni himself.”

  “How do you know of this?”

  “Ken’ishi and I recently spent several days traveling together.”

  “Several days alone together. Again.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Enough of this! I have been true to you since the day of our marriage! Jealousy is an evil beast. It peers out through my husband’s eyes, and I do not know him.” Would he notice her tiny bit of dissembling?

  He took two steps toward her, fists clenched at his sides. Then he stopped, trembling. He took a deep breath.

  “What do you have to fear from him?” she said. “You are the strongest lord on Kyushu. He lives and dies at your command. When Ken’ishi and I met, he was nothing but a penniless vagabond. Do you think I would dishonor the Nishimuta clan for such a man? Do you think I would dishonor you?”

  For a long time, he gazed into her. “Those are separate questions. Are they not.” At those words, something cracked in his voice, like a stone pillar suddenly giving way, but not collapsing, no, never collapsing. The hardness of his face melted into the hint of sadness, but before it could take hold, he spun away from her.

  She reached out to him. “Husband, I—”

  His gaze fixed upon a square of rice paper in the door. “He has saved your life, twice now. I have never met a warrior with his strength and humility. If I had a thousand of him, I would be shogun. He has become...important to me.”

  “I am glad of it, Husband. He is a worthy retainer.”

  His voice resumed its customary matter-of-fact tone. “I’m assigning Ken’ishi new duties. He will oversee construction of the new fortifications near Hakozaki.” He glanced over his shoulder for her reaction.

  She remained stolid, unmoved, even though the words sliced a hole in the bottom of her heart that began to bleed. “He will do you honor there.”

  He nodded, then slid open the door and departed.

  For the first time, he did not come to her bed that night. The wound on her face ached until morning.

  * * *

  Tsunetomo returned the next morning while she was picking at her breakfast. He wore the same clothes, and his eyes were red-rimmed and haunted, his back so rod-straight he looked like a wooden doll. He clutched a scroll.

  Kazuko put down her chopsticks in growing alarm. The weight of exhaustion and grief had left her feeling fragile this morning, like an empty eggshell. “What is it, Husband?”

  “Word from Yasutoki...” He held out the scroll. “Ishitaka is dead.”

  The last of Kazuko’s strength drained from her like water, but she stood and approached him, reaching out. He let her embrace him, and told her a story of Ishitaka’s valiant death, saving his ship from a pirate attack on the way to Kamakura. But when it was over, all he seemed able to say was, “He is gone, he is gone.”

  And with him went the Otomo line’s last hope for an heir. She wept against him, for him, for them both.

  When they informed Ishitaka’s parents, Tsunemori stiffened as if he had just taken a dagger in the side. Lady Yukino clutched her sleeves to her face to muffle her keening wail. Kazuko had never seen her lose control before. Yukino crawled to her husband’s shoulder, clu
tched him, buried her face in his back, and wept against him. He clutched his knees, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

  Kazuko reached out to squeeze Tsunetomo’s hand, and he allowed it. She felt deep grief for Ishitaka—he was such a good-hearted man—but she marveled at the ragged sharpness of Yukino’s anguish, the anguish of a mother bereft of her last living child. Yukino’s body became a limp cloth, boneless, leaking great, crystalline tears. It was said that the love of a mother for her child was like nothing in this world. Seeing Yukino’s raw, tortured agony, Kazuko felt fortunate to have been spared it—but only for a moment, because that sentiment quickly drowned in fear for the family line. There was no one now who would carry on the blood. Lady Yukino was too old to bear another child.

  She and Tsunetomo offered the best words of comfort they could, but in the end, the grieving parents could only shuffle back to their tower alone, where they would confront their heartbreak both together and, ultimately, alone.

  As sad as Kazuko was about Ishitaka’s death, she could not help thinking about the increasing tenuousness of her own fate.

  SO ENDS THE SEVENTH SCROLL

  PART III: THE EIGHTH SCROLL

  I cannot forget

  The perfumed dusk inside the

  Tent of my black hair

  As we awoke to make love

  After a long night of love.

  —The Love Poems of Marichiko

  “Captain!” Ushihara said. “It happened again!” He bowed low, soaked with sweat in the late summer heat. Dried mud caked his bare feet and legs.

  Ken’ishi stabbed his shovel into the earth and brushed the dirt from his hands. “Another death?” He stretched his aching shoulders. Several months of hard labor had brought back the lean hardness of his ronin youth. His bare chest and belly rippled with strength and glistened with sweat.

  Just down the slope of the embankment, Hakata Bay lapped at the beach. For as far as the eye could see toward the west, toward Hakozaki and Hakata, stood a stone wall in various stages of construction. Traces of cloud streaked the azure sky. A welcome freshet of sea breeze brushed over him.