Heart of the Ronin (16 page)

Twelve

Now the swinging bridge

Is quieted with creepers . . .

Like our tendrilled life

—
Basho

Ken’ishi sat beside a broad, placid lake. The far side of the lake was swathed in the red-orange conflagration of a sunset or perhaps a sunrise; he could not remember which it was. Flocks of birds filled the air like wind-driven clouds, adjusting their paths as if they were single entities. Behind him was the mountain where he had been raised. He did not need to see it to know it was there. It weighed down upon his shoulders like a past life, always following him wherever he went. He looked onto the flawless surface of the lake and saw its reflection. Strangely, the lake did not give him his own reflection.

Ripples on the water drifted across his field of vision, distorting the image of the mountain. The ripples were formed from the wake of an oshidori, a mandarin duck, swimming calmly across the water. It was a brilliantly colored drake. With iridescent purple, green, white, and chestnut plumage and the feathered crest on the back of its arched neck in full array, it was a beautiful creature. Ken’ishi watched its course for a time. The drake seemed to be looking for something, and it grew more and more urgent, its bill turning this way and that way.

Heavy footsteps walked up beside him. He looked up over his shoulder and saw that it was the oni bandit chieftain, Hakamadare. He thought it curious that he felt so calm. Cradled in its huge, misshapen hands, the oni held another duck, a female. The oni sat beside Ken’ishi and placed the duck on the ground, releasing it. The duck waddled toward the lake. The drake saw her and began to paddle for shore. The two birds met at the water’s edge. The drake shook the water from his fine, beautiful clothes, and the modestly garbed female stepped up to him and bowed. Her colors were plain, muted browns and grays, less ostentatious than the brightly colored drake, but the drake did not care. He preened himself with his bill, then laid his head against her delicately arched neck.

The oni’s voice was rough, but unhurried, unthreatening, almost playful. “Go now, little ducks, before I eat you.”

The ducks waddled together into the lake and began to paddle away.

Ken’ishi called after them, “Congratulations on your marriage, Oshidori!” His teacher had taught him that mandarin ducks formed long, loyal marriages. Even among humans, mandarin ducks symbolized fidelity and happy marriage.

He looked at the oni, and Hatsumi was there instead. Hatsumi looked out over the water with a blank expression on her face. “It’s too bad they’re gone now,” she said. “I was hungry.”

Ken’ishi watched the ducks move farther away until they were all but out of sight. The glow of the sunset had deepened to a blood red, reflecting off the surface of the water.

Hatsumi stood and walked down to the water’s edge, knelt, and dipped her hands in the water. Ken’ishi could only see her back as she cupped her hands and raised the water to her lips, drinking deeply. She drank several handfuls, before she turned around. The lower half of her face was a mask of bright crimson blood, and she held out her blood-soaked hands to him entreatingly.

The entire lake had turned into a sea of frothy scarlet gore, and Hatsumi smiled at him, baring her bloody teeth.

* * *

Ken’ishi jerked awake. The horrid image faded into a view of the darkened ceiling of the priest’s house. He sat up, the back of his neck cold with sweat, his robe damp. The dim, gray light filtering into the room through the slatted window told him that it was early morning. What a strange, terrible dream! He did not like the queasy fear lingering in his gut, so he stood and grabbed his sword. He would go outside and practice, hoping the physical exertion would help dispel these unwelcome emotions.

Stepping to the door to the main room, he reached out to slide it open. Suddenly a pale arm, tipped with blood-smeared black claws, tore through the rice-paper door. The claws snatched him by the chest, burying themselves in his flesh, and clenched. He gasped at the sudden agony. He was driven backward as his attacker tore through the door. Hatsumi’s face, contorted into a clay mask of rage and hatred, eyes shot through with blood, with no whites, her yellowed teeth protruding like boar’s tusks through blood-smeared lips. She snarled and laughed as her claws cut into his ribs. With incredible strength, she wrenched her talons back and ripped open his chest. His flesh tore apart as his ribs snapped and a hot deluge gushed down his belly.

He fell backward, every smallest part of strength draining like blood out of him. She loomed over him and laughed again. His head sagged back against the floor, and his vision began to blur.
 

* * *

Ken’ishi spasmed awake, gasping for breath. His heart beat against his ribs like a mill hammer. He clutched his chest, feeling the agony of the dream already fading away. For a long time, he sat hunched over on his futon, regaining control over his breath, his heartbeat slowing. Finally, with a shaky hand, he grabbed his sword. He needed the practice now more than before.

He stood up and stepped up to the door, almost expecting that horrible arm to seize him again. But nothing happened. Breathing a small sigh of relief, he slid the door open. Kazuko and Hatsumi both lay on their futons, fast asleep. He crept past them and went outside.

* * *

Hatsumi tossed and turned all night long. The priest’s horrid concoction had left a terrible taste in her mouth. Mixed with the constant taste of blood, it left her feeling queasy. The pain in her nether region had diminished, but somehow she did not believe it was because of anything the priest had done. She only faintly remembered the terrible dreams of the day before, and she felt a perpetual unease, as if there were eyes on her, watching, boring into her soul. The day before felt like a deep, black fog of pain, and she felt as if she saw snatches of events through the shifting veil. Tonight, however, she was conscious, and she knew where she was.

She thought about how the ronin had played his flute. She had not known the tune he played, and the discordant squawking had grated on her already over-taxed nerves. She had been so relieved when he finally put the silly thing away. That such an uneducated peasant would presume to play an instrument irked her. Then she thought about his kindness toward her, his concern for her welfare, and she grew angry again. She did not need or want his concern! Should she not feel more grateful toward him for saving their lives? Why did she not? Perhaps because she would rather be dead than remember the horror of what had happened to her? Death would mean freedom from the pain. And she would not have to watch that unwashed ruffian pawing at Kazuko with his eyes! It was obvious what he wanted. But he had done nothing objectionable, yet, nothing that dozens of other men had not done ever since Kazuko had reached the flower of her womanhood. Those other men had not angered Hatsumi because they were men of proper station; they could do as they wished.

That was why Hatsumi had Kazuko’s little plaything, Yuta, removed from the castle. Kazuko foolishly thought their little affair was a secret. Quite the contrary, as Hatsumi and most of the servants knew about the boy’s secret love notes. He was a pretty boy, with good heart, but he was nevertheless only a servant. Hatsumi had him sent away and ordered the servants never to tell Kazuko what happened to him, on pain of the same fate. She allowed Kazuko to keep her little fantasies because they made her happy, and Hatsumi loved to see the way Kazuko’s face glowed when she was happy. But they had been dangerously close to becoming intimate, and that Hatsumi could not allow. No man could be allowed to touch her except her husband. If Kazuko was not a virgin when she was married, her husband, whoever that might be, might consider himself slighted. And the ramifications of that could be tremendous. And now here was another man, again beneath Kazuko’s station, with designs upon her chastity!

As she grew angrier at the ronin, she could more easily forget the kindness he had shown her and better remember the way he ogled Kazuko. Then she thought about how Kazuko behaved in his presence. She spoke to him as an equal! And worse, the girl was developing feelings for him. And he used none of the honorifics that were proper for addressing someone of higher station.

At some point during her ruminations, Hatsumi slid unnoticed into sleep. Before she realized it happened, she was again surrounded by tortured images, black fires and bloody lakes, suffering and weeping, ripping, tearing, gushing, suffocating, dying, healing, awakening, sliding back into darkness and despair. Throughout the night, the endless cycle of restless sleep, nightmares, violent wakefulness, and burning tears plagued her. She awoke once with her cheap saffron robe soaked with sweat. She pulled the blankets tighter around her. It was difficult to see with one eye still swollen nearly shut. The glow of the coals had faded to a dull orange. A voice cried out in the next room. The ronin, stirring in the deep silence, fighting against something in his slumber. Perhaps he had his own nightmares. As well he should! The gods should punish someone who tried to rise above their station.

But then, why was she being punished with nightmares? She had done nothing wrong! Maybe she should have fought harder against the oni. Perhaps she should have killed herself rather than be raped. But she had had no chance for that. Why had the oni chosen her instead of Kazuko? Why had Kazuko been spared this horror, but not Hatsumi? Why must Hatsumi be the one to suffer? And that foul little girl had the audacity to have feelings for that ruffian while loyal Hatsumi lay battered and beaten!

No.

Hatsumi took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. Such feelings were wrong. They were evil. Hatsumi loved Kazuko with all her spirit. She could not imagine her life without the young woman. The oni chose Hatsumi first purely by chance. If the palanquin had fallen to the other side, if Kazuko had been sitting on the other side, if the ronin had arrived only a few moments sooner. . . . If . . . if . . . if. . . . And hating the ronin was wrong, too. Hate was one of the world’s greatest evils, and it harmed one’s soul. If she felt too much hate, she would be reborn in a lower station as punishment.

Why did she feel such hatred? She had never hated anyone before. She was a kind, patient person. It was strange. But then, she had endured a terrible experience, one that no one should have to live through, and she survived. She would survive.

Then the door of the ronin’s room slid open, and she quickly closed her eyes. His soft footsteps passed within arm’s reach, moving toward the door. A draft of cool air caressed her swollen face as the front door opened and closed. As she sank back into sleep, her dreams were less terrible, and she was grateful for the blessed numbness.

* * *

Ken’ishi went to the edge of the village, where he practiced his customary sword drills. He went through all of them twice. Then he sliced buds from the low-hanging branches of an old camphor tree. The morning was cool and moist, with patches of fog hanging low over the irrigation ditches. When he had worked up a good sweat, he thanked the tree for the use of its branches, wiped his blade clean, and returned to the priest’s house, where he found Kazuko preparing to continue their journey.

He was surprised to see Hatsumi up and moving around. She moved gingerly, her back hunched over with pain and caution against any sudden moves. The bruises on her face had darkened, but the swelling around her eyes had diminished just enough for her to see. Kazuko was trying to be the mother hen, but the other woman would have none of it.

Ken’ishi watched their activity for a while, until Kazuko noticed him. “Ah! Ken’ishi, good morning.” She bowed.

He returned her gesture. “Good morning, Kazuko, Hatsumi.”

Hatsumi’s bow was curt and did not distract her from folding up the futon she had slept on.

Ken’ishi tried to ignore the slight, but he could not forget the look in her eyes the night before. Nevertheless, the sight of Kazuko with her hair freshly arranged and her face powdered enchanted him. He took a deep breath of the crisp morning air, and said, “A beautiful day for travel, eh?”

“Yes. The bearers will be here shortly. The headman has given us food and water for our journey.” She gestured toward a bundle of large pouches tied together in a clump and a string of stoppered flasks made of gourds.

The villagers were already about their own business. Some farmers were already hard at work carrying buckets of the village’s waste out onto the empty rice fields, and others toiled with shovels and rakes to work the fertilizer into the soil. Later in the year, as summer approached, the fields would be flooded and the seedlings planted.

Within an hour, they resumed their journey. Ken’ishi walked some distance in front. Having Kazuko near was too distracting for him to remain properly vigilant. His ki, his spirit, was scattered. They were still vulnerable to another pack of determined bandits, and he had no wish to take chances. Unfortunately, Kazuko would be the only other reliable person in a fight. She carried the naginata like a walking stick, and he admired her ease with it. Four villagers carried Hatsumi on Ken’ishi’s makeshift stretcher. When one of the bearers stumbled or missed a step, she would groan and admonish them to be careful. Kazuko walked beside the stretcher.

After they stopped to rest and eat near a stream, Kazuko came to walk beside him.
 
Akao ran ahead, slipping in and out of view along the road.

She said, “It’s tomorrow. Will you tell me about your teacher?”

He hesitated.
 

“If you do not wish to. . . .”

“No, I’ll tell you. But. . . . You’ll think I’m deranged. Or a liar.”

“I would not think those things of you. I trust you.”

Warmth spread in his belly, and his heart skipped a beat. “I haven’t seen him in almost two years. He saved me from a burning house when I was three. My parents had been killed. My father was a clan samurai who became a ronin. He retired from the warrior’s life to marry my mother and work a small plot of land in the north.”