“Looked dead to me.”
Kazuko bid her Dragons to remain on the beach and take whatever rest they could, then spurred her horse toward the column of wounded being withdrawn to the deserted village. She forgot her own weariness in concern over Ken’ishi’s welfare.
She followed at a distance until they carried him into an old inn, where she dismounted and followed him inside.
The stench of blood and waste filled the inn like the dregs of a battlefield and a privy.
His bearers settled him onto a bloodstained futon. His blood-caked eyelids were closed.
His right hand still clutched his sword.
She shed no tears for him, not yet, not until she knew. In truth, she hardly recognized him. Something in his face had changed. It looked thicker now, more brutish. Or perhaps it was just the blood.
She wanted to wash him clean, to bind his wounds, or if necessary, to wash him for burial, but she did not dare.
Finally the men removed his breastplate—she saw the rent in the side, just below the ribs—and then she saw the wound. Ragged lips drooled crimson. A spear thrust. Where it was not painted with the blood of the slain, his skin was pale, almost gray.
His sword fell from his fingers and bobbled on the guard away from him.
A moment later, the fingers twitched as if reaching for it, then subsided again.
The healer, across what had been the inn’s common room, marked by his drawn face, bloodstained robes, and rolled-up sleeves, was tending another wounded man.
Kazuko called to him. “Save this man.”
The healer looked up. “Eh? I have many men to save, my lady.”
“This man is the hero of the day. Save him, and it will go well with you. Let him die at your peril.” Then she spun and departed. It was a cruel thing to say to a healer, but she did not care.
* * *
Ken’ishi thought he remembered Kazuko’s voice, like the sound of music, but when he awoke, all that surrounded him was suffering and death. His side throbbed with a deep ache that made the multitude of other pains as candles to the sun. Bloodstained bandages wrapped his torso.
Silver Crane lay beside him, sheathed. Fresh chips in the lacquer and bloodstains on the mother-of-pearl cranes made the scabbard looked rougher than ever. He managed to grasp the scabbard, pull it close, and clutch it to his chest.
* * *
He dreamed of silver elixir pulsing through his veins, knitting a rib, suffusing his flesh with vitality.
His eyes drifted open and closed.
He dreamed of thirst that could not be slaked, hunger that could not be sated.
Food came, and went uneaten. He had all the sustenance he needed.
He dreamed of storm clouds crackling with silver lightning, of silver threads fluttering like spider silk on a nascent wind, of ripples in the sea coalescing and building upon each other until waves the size of mountains brushed the sky with silver foam.
Summer rains pattered on the inn’s veranda. The veranda used to overlook the bay; now it looked at the earthen embankment behind the wall. The rain trickled over the thatched roof that used to be redolent with the scents of saké and cooking, but now trapped the stench of death within, hot and thick.
He dreamed of a great whirlpool, larger than Shiga Island, and in the bottom of it lay an open cave mouth, and he gripped the rudder of a defense boat, alone. The sight of the cave mouth, waiting as if to devour him, filled him with terror. The mouth was dark, sucking, suppurating.
Hands held him down.
Liquid that was salty but not seawater—coppery—splashed into his mouth.
The mouth below him. Swallowing the sea. Thousands of men swirling with him in the maelstrom, bobbing on the spinning surface, reaching, helpless, spinning, spinning, spinning toward oblivion.
* * *
Ken’ishi’s periods of wakefulness grew longer. He did not know how many days he had lain here, but the defenders still held the coastline. They had not been forced to retreat south.
He awoke to find a bowl of rice and a cup of water beside his futon. His mouth desert-dry, he reached for the water, but the kami wailed in his mind at such stridency that he dropped it as if it were scalding. The warning of the kami subsided. He tried to work his mouth enough to moisten his parched tongue, but found nothing there. He would eat the rice after he had found a drink.
Then he noticed the white paper ofuda pinned to the front of his robe, a spell that bore Lord Abe’s stamp.
For the first time since he came here, he thought he might walk. He rolled onto his side, lifted onto his hands and knees, levered himself upright, stood up, each movement painstakingly slow. The thudding ache in his side grew warm.
The healer rushed toward him. “Let me help you, Captain.” The healer was a small man, wizened and leathery, but he possessed the strength to lift Ken’ishi upright. “Be careful now. You mustn’t re-open your wound. It has been a difficult week for you.”
“A week?”
“Eight days have you lain here. Fever, delirium, strange ravings, like evil nightmares. An onmyouji came!” The healer spoke of the onmyouji with fear and reverence.
“Lord Abe,” Ken’ishi said.
“He looked very worried about you. Do you know him?”
“He has been my teacher for a long time. All of this is no doubt...very disappointing to him.”
“Of course. War is a terrible thing.”
Ken’ishi let the healer think that was his meaning as they tottered toward a bucket of fresh water near the kitchen. Ken’ishi took up the dipper, and the kami did not rebel this time. What about his water cup had set them off?
The water was so cool and sweet he almost laughed with the pleasure of it.
Back at his futon, he picked up the cup again. Its contents had long since soaked into the deteriorating tatami. He sniffed the cup. The kami cried out again. It smelled wrong somehow, at once flowery and acrid.
“Has anyone been near me today?” Ken’ishi said.
“No, Captain.”
“Who brought me this food and water?”
“I did, Captain.” Puzzlement grew in the healer’s tone.
“Who hired you to poison me?”
The healer’s eyes bulged, and he stepped backward, waving his palms in protest. “What? No!”
The other wounded men watched this exchange with growing interest.
The healer said, “I’ve been taking care of you, Captain!”
Ken’ishi handed him the poisoned cup.
The healer sniffed the cup, and his naked eyebrows rose in alarm. “Someone tried to poison you!”
With a groan of pain, Ken’ishi scooped up the bowl of cold rice and sniffed it, too. It carried the same strange scent. “Shall I kill you now, or wait until you tell me who hired you?” He expected only one name.
Suddenly Silver Crane was in his hand. How had it gotten there? His hand clutched the hilt to draw.
The healer nearly collapsed with fear. “Please, Captain! I don’t know!”
“Tell me about this cup and bowl.” His voice did not sound right. Deeper.
“I brought it to you, uh, just after noon, when you looked like you might awaken.”
“And no one else has been here.”
A man across the room spoke up. “There was someone here, Lord. A woman.” The speaker wore a rough, homespun robe. “She went over to your blankets and fussed with them a bit while you were sleeping.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, Lord. I never saw her before. Short and ugly. Looked like a servant.”
Green Tiger was wont to have others do his dark deeds for him. Had he hired or forced a peasant woman to poison Ken’ishi? Did anyone else want Ken’ishi dead? Tsunetomo could certainly rest easier if Ken’ishi were killed in battle.
No. Such thoughts were the pinnacle of disloyalty and dishonor.
Tsunetomo had no officers to spare.
The images of Tsunemori’s last moments flooded his mind,
and all he could do was sigh. The lords of Otomo falling, one by one, to the arrows of fortune.
This poisonous mystery pushed him to the limit of his strength. Grief stole the rest of it.
The healer rushed forward. “Lord, are you—?” He hesitated before getting too close.
Ken’ishi still held Silver Crane. “Weary and sick with grief. Tell me of the battle.”
The healer cleared his throat. “Our forces drove the barbarians all the way back to Shiga Island. And then, a few days ago, the enemy withdrew from Shiga and Genkai. All of their troops and ships have retreated to Ikishima.”
Ken’ishi sighed again at the good news, easing himself back down. A certainty niggled at his mind. “They will come back.”
“I don’t know what the lords and generals say, but I think the barbarians are waiting for something. So many rumors...”
“Tell me of the rumors.”
The healer rubbed his neck. “I hardly know where to begin. Rumors of barbarians coming ashore from here to Satsuma. Their forces still outnumber ours, but Hakata has proven a tough nut to crack. Why wouldn’t they look for other landing sites?”
Horses needed a beach to land. Hakata was the best location, but it was hardly the only one on Kyushu.
The healer continued, “Anyway, there are reports of enemy ships all up and down the western coastline.”
“Scouts,” Ken’ishi said.
The healer shrugged. “No doubt you’re right about this not being over.”
“Not until we’ve destroyed them all.” When the words came out, Ken’ishi experienced a peculiar mix of anticipation and dread.
“It will take until the end of time to kill them all,” the healer said. “I will bring you fresh rice and water.”
Ken’ishi leaned against the wall behind his futon. Feeling warm wetness at his side, he looked down.
Fresh blood leaked through his bandage.
Deep, still silence
Seeping into the rocks
Cicada voices
—Basho
The thrumming buzz of the cicadas lulled Kazuko into the land between waking and dreams, rising and falling like the breath of the forest in the hot afternoon. Thousands of cicadas, entire cities of them, hid in the trees around Aoka village. That they sang now in the midst of this enormous strife made her think about how wide the gulf was between the natural world and humanity’s desires and efforts.
The defense forces had withdrawn from the open beaches when the enemy fleet withdrew.
Somewhere, out on the sea, a deadly dance continued between the defenders’ scout ships and the enemy ships sent to drive them away. The scout ships usually returned, and when they did, they reported hundreds of enemy ships—it was impossible to determine exactly how many—were gathered around Ikishima. No doubt the island had been pillaged by now, all the men slaughtered, the women enslaved and mutilated. From there, the barbarians had been plotting their next assault for over a month.
In the meantime, Kazuko was grateful for the respite. It gave her Scarlet Dragons the opportunity to recuperate. The next time they fought, they would be at full strength.
The pause granted time for Ken’ishi to recover as well. She had seen him the day before, teaching sword techniques to a group of young men. He still moved with some stiffness, but his wound had apparently healed.
Enemy ships roved the western coastline, searching no doubt for possible landing sites and causing a local panic at every appearance, but none had yet tried to land. The defense forces were too few to protect every sliver of beach on Kyushu. As long as the enemy fleet remained at Ikishima, the defense forces would protect the north.
In spite of the weeks of rest, tension among the defense forces remained high. She saw it on faces all around her. The inescapable summer heat and humidity of the eighth month drove her into the breezy shade, where she had erected her own maku, a cloth enclosure where her women could withdraw from the eyes of men on the fringe of what had been Aoka village.
The army’s idleness was not always a boon. One night two Shimazu warriors had tried to sneak into one of the women’s tents. The warrior women promptly subdued them. The following day, the men had been allowed to cut open their bellies.
The sound of an approaching horse emerged from the cicadas’ drone.
Tsunetomo’s voice rose above the tents and enclosure walls. “My lady wife!” The urgency in his voice roused her instantly.
She hurried outside to meet him. “What news, Husband?”
Astride his horse, he was fully armored, his face dark and grim. “A second barbarian fleet! They attack Takashima!”
The island of Takashima lay in Imari Bay, some fifteen ri west of Hakata Bay. Imari Bay’s shoreline was less hospitable to a mass landing than Hakata, but Takashima would be an even closer toehold than Ikishima from which to strike. Helplessness splashed through her. How could they hope to drive off an enemy of such magnitude?
She moved to Tsunetomo’s stirrup and clutched his thigh, gazing up into his handsome face. Tsunemori’s death had carved the lines in his face even deeper. She hardly saw her husband nowadays. The imminence of battle and death filled their thoughts and pulled them away toward their respective duties. They had not lain together as husband and wife since leaving home.
He reached down and stroked her cheek with his callused fingers. His eyes softened for just a moment. Then he said, “It is two days’ ride to Imari Bay, four days on foot. The cavalry will march ahead. We leave within the hour.”
* * *
Yasutoki watched the Otomo cavalry ride west, joining columns of other clans hurrying to reinforce the defense forces at Takashima. The ashigaru spearmen of several lords would choke the roads behind the cavalry, minus several thousand men left to defend Hakata Bay and Shiga.
He had no intention of obeying Tsunetomo’s orders to remain here and continue to organize the defense supplies. This battle might decide the war, and Yasutoki intended to help decide it. He did not dare reveal himself to Tsunetomo, however. Such insubordination at a time like this would likely warrant execution, or banishment at the very least.
Would he have to kill Tsunetomo at an opportune moment? Would such a move sufficiently disarray the Otomo forces?
A second invasion fleet was a stroke of genius on the part of the Great Khan and his generals. However, why it had not struck simultaneously with the first fleet, Yasutoki could not imagine. The defense forces could not have withstood two concurrent attacks.
He would leave his servants behind, don peasant’s clothes, and travel with the cavalry baggage train. The servants of the baggage train would not question his presence riding with them.
With so many men killed, finding an unattended horse was easy. He would have to move quickly, however, or be stuck behind endless columns of peasant spearmen.
* * *
On the road to Takashima, Ken’ishi was back in full armor for the first time since the battle on the spit. The rent in his do-maru had been repaired.
Far ahead in the vanguard rode Tsunetomo and Kazuko with her Scarlet Dragons. Ken’ishi found himself with excuses to ride near the rear of the column. His feelings were too mercurial lately to trust himself for long in her presence, and she seemed content to keep him at a distance. Except that every night when he lay down to sleep, she was back in his thoughts. Some days those thoughts were pleasant.
The men around him had not stopped staring since his wound had healed. If they whispered about him, it was not within his hearing.
Once, however, he did hear a man say, “Maybe so, but he’s on our side.”
Even Michizane and Ushihara, while cordial toward him, kept their distance now.
He understood. It was natural. Even he felt it. He was different from them now. On many days since the battle on Shiga spit, his heart ached for what he had lost since coming down from Kiyomizu. The tendrils around his scar were spreading again. How long before he lost himself completely, he did not know, but it was inevita
ble unless the barbarians gave up their invasion soon. Some days, he did not care. On those days, he simply wanted the gods to place the entire barbarian horde before him so that Silver Crane could scythe them down like a rice harvest and soak the earth with their blood.
He remembered little of the battle of the spit except the rapture of it, not unlike the time he had sampled Shirohige’s lotus. The warmth showering him in a waterfall of blood, and the scent of raw meat filling his nostrils.
When he caught himself thinking such thoughts, he took a deep breath and meditated. He had learned to do it even on horseback, allowing Storm to keep up with the rest of the column on his own.
A voice riding alongside roused him from such a meditation. “Sleeping already, old sot?”
Ken’ishi jerked awake.
The man riding beside him was thick-bodied, beady-eyed, jowled, but clad in a full suit of antique-looking o-yoroi.
“Hage?” Ken’ishi asked.
The man winked at him, a younger version of the old fellow Ken’ishi had first met in the forest near Aoka village.
“What are you doing here?” Ken’ishi said.
“Same thing you’re doing here. Protecting my home.”
“But—”
“But-but, tut-tut. I am a creature of surprises.”
Ken’ishi glanced at the men around them. The column trotted two abreast down the road toward Imari Bay. None of the men before or behind appeared to be listening.
“Don’t worry, old sot. They think we’re talking about the weather. A few other tanuki are mixed in here. Even some foxes. We’re not utterly without care about what happens in the human world. Especially when our entire way of life might change. Have you seen the furs those barbarians wear? The last thing I want is to become a hat. Try to get over your surprise so we can have a two-way conversation.”
Ken’ishi finally smiled. “I’m happy you’re here, Hage.” How long had it been since he smiled?
“I’m not. I’ve a feeling this is going to make the slaughter at Dan-no-Ura look like children at play.”
“You were at Dan-no-Ura?”
“I’ve been many places. Now listen, old sot. You’re starting to worry me. I’m happy you’re not dead from your wound. But...you smell bad.”
Spirit of the Ronin Page 38
