Child of Vengeance (14 page)

T
he armor was still scattered before Munisai on the floor. The lantern in his hand had begun to splutter and falter. He barely noticed.

Those tears. That racking sob that escaped her. The instant before she hardened and spoke the words that broke him … That was what defined him, and yet his pride as a samurai would never let him tell anyone but himself of this. Not even her son. Not even when he wanted to die.

It had taken him years to even acknowledge it himself. At first he had fixated on that final smile Yoshiko had forced onto her face. He had thought about it every night while he waited for sleep to come and saw it in the edge of every sharp sword that flashed toward him. It filled him with anger and hatred, and those were easy to deal with.

They were false and constructed enemies, though, and he always knew it. Even then, part of him admired her; the samurai in him saw her resolve and dedication in pursuit of a correct and proper vengeance. The rest of him could not hold out forever. Slowly, slowly
over the years wandering in the wilderness and then those in Shinmen’s service, he gradually allowed himself to admit the presence of the tears, to admit the truth of what he had done.

He remembered the rustling of the sheets and the gentle rocking of the bed as Yoshiko lay weeping behind him that first night he had betrayed her. He thought of that innocent, rare joy he had blithely trampled and tarnished. It tugged at his soul relentlessly, and his anger had turned to shame. He came to realize he had brought what Yoshiko had done to him onto himself with his arrogance, and for that he had murdered her.

Today, after eight years, he had thought at last that he could atone. It had come to him suddenly, when he had become aware of Bennosuke following him as he walked to the temple. What could be more perfect than her son killing him? Tell the story, in vivid, stark detail, steal the wits and the restraint from the boy, and then let him do what he would do; clean and quick and justice done.

But the boy …

A
fter he had finished with killing, Munisai had watched the fire burn down within the village for some time, and then had returned to his estate. He did not enter, but instead slumped against the wall on the outside looking down across the valley. Cries of terror, pain, and grief echoed as dawn came, but none approached the house. Munisai sat in his filthy kimono alone, until he looked up and saw Dorinbo there in the daylight
.

The monk said nothing. He must have walked through the carnage to reach the house. Dorinbo looked at Munisai, and the samurai knew the monk expected some kind of apology or an explanation, but there was nothing left in him. All he could do was look back
.

That silence brought rage into Dorinbo. The monk started lashing at him with his fists and his feet, and Munisai did not stop him. It was the first time he had seen his brother lose control, but he understood why. He accepted the blows, and that if anything made Dorinbo angrier. The monk grabbed him by the scruff of his kimono and spun him around in a flurry, both pushing and dragging Munisai away from the house
.

“Leave!” the monk said, letting Munisai go. The samurai stood up and looked his brother in the eye. There were tears of shame and anger there. He could not argue, so he nodded
.

He had gone five paces before Dorinbo stopped him once more
.

“Munisai—Bennosuke is waiting down the road. Change your kimono,” he said
.

Munisai looked down. Dried blood was spattered across him. Of the peasant who had cuckolded him, of the peasants whom he had slaughtered, but most of all of Yoshiko. Wordlessly he entered his estate and slipped into fresh clothing, forcing himself not to look at the two corpses within the courtyard and his bedchamber
.

When he emerged once more he walked past his brother, neither of them meeting the other’s eyes. Down the path Munisai found Bennosuke as Dorinbo had said, sitting on a boulder looking at the smoke in the sky curiously. The five-year-old scrabbled to his feet when he saw the samurai coming. The Hirata crest rode high upon the breast of Bennosuke’s small kimono, mocking Munisai
.

“Father? Where’s Mother?” he said, looking up at the man. His eyes were sparkling and keen, and his face much too young to tell if Yoshiko had been lying or not. Munisai had sucked the air into his chest and fought the spasm of anger and sadness
.

“Bennosuke. Try to be samurai,” he said, placing a hand on the child’s shoulder. The boy’s brow furrowed, and then it earnestly formed itself into an expression of determination
.

Munisai left then, not looking behind him once, and that had been that. That was the start of his exile
.

T
he inability to live up to a child’s wordless pledge to do something he had no real understanding of could be held as no true failure, but regardless, over the intervening years Bennosuke had not become samurai. Oh, he showed potential with a sword and wore his hair correctly, but they were superficial things only. The boy still lacked something within, a fundamental desire, a base pride that would have compelled Bennosuke to slaughter his father as a matter of instinct.

What could have been a finer justice than that? Vengeance, after all, was holy, and a son avenging a murdered mother was as natural
and pure as the sky above. But Yoshiko was Yoshiko. For all her tears she was samurai like he was, and her vengeance had been observed perfectly thus far—why should it get any easier for him now?

Munisai sighed. He would have to find some other way to earn her forgiveness.

He spent a few minutes replacing the scattered armor perfectly on the stand. Later he woke as he often did, forgetting all the years that had passed, and rolled over expecting to find her there, warm and delicate. But as always in the darkness, there were only his blankets and his swords by the side of the bed.

As always, neither of those would accept his apologies.

CHAPTER FIVE

Amaterasu came, and with her the light of morning.

She lit up another faith; a Buddhist mandala hung upon Dorinbo’s wall. Bennosuke looked at it from where he lay on his side in the corner where he had slept. Though he had dedicated his life to the Shinto sun goddess, Dorinbo saw nothing wrong with studying other faiths and beliefs, and had a quiet fascination and admiration for the story of the Buddha, a man who valued learning and compassion.

It was a copy of an ancient painting, done in bright colors and bold black lines upon thick cloth and as wide as a man’s outstretched arms. Beneath the world sat the devil Enma at his table of judgement, demons holding men before him. Then came a crush of bodies twisted and mangled, a stratum of the lost and the weak who lived upon the earth. Above all were the symmetrical, perfect slopes of Mount Fuji reaching up to the enlightened lands, crude white stick figures of pilgrims climbing upward on hands and knees.

Though it was simplistic it was beautiful in a way, the color vivid and the weird, malformed detail of each little figure captivating. Bennosuke had first seen it when he was a child, and when Dorinbo had explained it to him, he had pointed to the little white figures ascending and said:

“But where are their swords?”

A happy memory, it twisted in his heart now.

Bennosuke lay there until he became aware of voices outside. There was no sermon today; it should have been quiet. Curious, he rose and opened the door to the outside world. He was surprised to find Dorinbo and Munisai there. Neither man looked happy, but their
voices were level and measured. Both turned to look at him, and he stopped uneasily in the doorway.

“Good morning,” said Munisai, but his words were courtesy only. His stance was immaculately neutral, the traditional, considered poise that samurai affected at rest; chest out, hand sweeping the jacket of his kimono back at his waist so that his swords were unhindered.

“Why are you here?” the boy said eventually.

“Your training begins today,” Munisai said.

“Training?” said Bennosuke.

“Yes.” Munisai nodded. “As I said yesterday at the dojo, there are inklings of skill in you. Tasumi has laid the foundation, and now I shall hone you.”

Bennosuke looked to Dorinbo. The monk made a gesture that he was relenting to Munisai, though it was clear from his expression that he disapproved. The boy turned back to the samurai suspiciously, but said nothing.

“You overcame emotion yesterday,” said Munisai at his silence. “You did not attack me, though I provoked you. To resist negating yourself with sentiment in such a way is part of being samurai. If that is in you, then perhaps I can teach you the rest.”

The man did not seem to be joking. He held the boy’s gaze levelly, and that serenity began to infuriate the boy. There was not a single trace of apology or shame in the samurai, and at that absence Bennosuke felt the hatred and anger of yesterday come into him.

“No,” he said, “I don’t want that. I don’t need it. You think you can still pretend to be my father?”

“I said nothing of being your father,” Munisai snorted, amused by the absurdity of it. “You shall call me Lord, as your position dictates.”

Bennosuke felt a hot flush of anger at the dismissal, and made as if to move toward the man. But as he had yesterday, he checked himself, and at that Munisai’s face turned into a full, mocking smile.

“I hate you,” said Bennosuke, and instantly regretted speaking. It sounded futile and childish, and it seemed only to deepen the mirth in Munisai—or perhaps darken it, for though his lips still smiled his eyes lost their gleam and became serious.

“If that is the case,” he said, “then accept my training, grow stronger, and then try to kill me.”

There was the challenge, and as Bennosuke considered it he saw more clearly the strange look in Munisai’s eyes. There had been glimpses of it yesterday as he had barked and raved, but now, held steady before him, he could examine it. A bitter longing, empty and dark.