Child of Vengeance (50 page)

“In another life, we shall be friends,” he said to the corpse, as he and his comrades bowed respectfully.

Lesser samurai bore the head reverently to the tower, placed it face outward so that all might look upon and know the image of a brave man, and his body was added to the pyre behind them where space could be found. The Yoshioka swordsmen watched the body ignite, consumed and quickly hidden by the well-stoked flames.

The rightmost of them turned away first and pinched bloody fingers to the bridge of his nose. He was a gruff man, short and compact, and now he was scowling, angry. He had been muttering for some time.

“That’s it—that’s the Yoshioka school?” the man growled in imitation. “I cannot believe Seibei fell to that dog. What was his name?”

“Musashi Miyamoto, I believe he called himself to his own army,” said the centermost man. He was calm, his voice gentle, a young man of slight build and sharp cheekbones. “That whole series of events was very strange, wasn’t it?”

“Is it any wonder we won, with behavior such as that among their ranks?” said the leftmost. He was the eldest of the group, hair starting to gray, eyes sunken and narrow. “The first rule of constructing a house states … Well, I suppose that’s a simile rather too morbid to continue, given the circumstances.”

Another samurai was brought before them with tears streaming down his face, begging incoherently to be spared. He squealed
and raised his hands as the blade came down. The rightmost samurai kicked the head toward the tower desultorily. It was hurled to the top of the pile, where soon the man’s cowardly visage would be buried, hidden and forgotten from the world.

“Bastard,” the rightmost man said. He picked the severed fingers from the earth, the product of the man’s futile attempt at defense, and tossed them one by one into the fire. “Have they found Miyamoto’s corpse yet? I feel the need to shit coming on.”

“No,” said the leftmost man. “Seibei’s has been found, thankfully—both the head and the body, I might add—and it is on its way back to the school with some of the students. We’ll pay our respects to him soon. But this Miyamoto …”

“He was caught in the charge of our spearmen,” said the centermost man. “He’d have to be lucky to survive that.”

“He had to have been lucky to have beaten Seibei. Really—wrestling like that? How crude.”

“A strange one, indeed.”

“But the spirits sometimes smile on those kind of men,” said the leftmost, nodding. “Something tells me he survived.”

“Well, I don’t care how strange or how lucky he is,” snarled the rightmost. “He insulted our school in front of every samurai in Japan—we’re adding him to the list, right?”

“Oh, naturally,” said the centermost man.

“Good,” spat the rightmost. “If he ever comes to Kyoto, I’ll spill his guts across the street and leave him for the crows.”

“We all will,” said the leftmost. “We are of the Yoshioka.”

Yet another samurai was brought before them. The ranks of the captured did not seem to diminish. The rightmost man blinked as a rain drop splashed upon his brow. He looked up, eyes squinting, as above him and the dead and this newborn country of Tokugawa’s Japan, the clouds began to burst.

The pyres burned on regardless.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am greatly indebted to and would like to thank Ayako Sato, who not only helped with translation and research but also endured increasingly ludicrous questions about Japanese culture and history with a patience and grace worthy of any samurai. She also kicked my arse into gear as and when it was needed with a ferocity to match.

DAVID KIRK

Glowing faintly with Cesium-137
,

Sendai, Japan, March 2012

About the Author

David Kirk, twenty-seven, grew up in Stamford, Lincolnshire. He studied media arts at Royal Holloway, University of London, with a major in screenwriting. Currently he lives and works in Sendai, Japan.

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