Heart of the Ronin (6 page)

He had spent the next ten days waiting. Polishing a sword was a long and exacting process, just as important as the forging of the weapon. He felt both honored and honor-bound to have Silver Crane polished, therefore he could not have refused the offer. Besides, ronin could rarely afford to have their weapons polished by craftsmen as renowned as Masamoto, unless they were successful criminals.

He and Akao stayed at the temple, and the priest there gave each of them two rice balls every day. Ken’ishi accepted his with great discomfort, and Akao with great enthusiasm. Ken’ishi had done nothing to deserve this kindness, and the way the priest looked at him made him nervous. It would only be a matter of time before something bad happened and he would be turned out. People who were kind to him always turned him out, eventually. One of the few times the priest spoke to him, he said only, “I was a ronin once, until I entered the path of peace. You have a good heart. I can see that.” He did what he could to help the priest without being asked. He swept the walks clean of dust. He picked up fallen leaves and sticks and bits of detritus that drifted in with the wind. And he gave a portion of his rice ball every day to the jovial stone god of the central shrine. The priest told him that the god was Hotei, the Laughing Buddha. Ken’ishi thought the god looked like a kind, jolly old man with arms upraised in joy.

When ten days had passed, he returned to the sword polisher’s shop. Masamoto gave him back his sword, bowing deeply and offering it with both hands, an expression of profound solemnity on his face.
 
The sword polisher said, “It has been my great honor to polish this weapon for you, sir. May I ask, where did you get it?”

“It was my father’s weapon.”

“Truly? Who was your father?”

Ken’ishi did not answer. He looked away, took a deep breath, then said, “A great man.”

Masamoto looked at him for a long time, his searching gaze so intent that a prickle of uneasiness crept up the back of Ken’ishi’s neck. The sword polisher said, “Yes, a great man, indeed. Please, young man, hear me now. One such as I well knows that some swords are . . . special. Their smiths, their histories, their lineages, their masters, these things sometimes. . . . Well, I don’t know the secrets of Silver Crane, but I do know this. Wield it well, and it will honor you.”

Ken’ishi could only stare at the sword polisher, puzzled, with a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue. But he did not dare to betray his own ignorance. Something in the man’s eyes told him there was danger in the secrets he implied. Instead, he bowed and said, “I thank you. You have been good to me.” Then he took the sword and hurried away.

Now that his sword was finished, Ken’ishi knew he could not stay with the kindly priest, so he left the temple. He was able to sell a few of his arrows for enough money to buy food, but he could not keep that up for long. If he had been in the countryside, he could have fished or hunted or foraged, but here in the city there were no wild roots, no game, and no clean streams. The next day they moved on into the countryside, where he and Akao could find their own food.

* * *

Ken’ishi thought about Captain Mishima often, wondering how much like his father Mishima was. Seeing such nobility and quiet strength filled Ken’ishi with an admiration he could not describe. He aspired to become a man like Mishima, one who lived with such integrity and power. Those like Goemon and Takenaga were to be reviled and destroyed. Someday, Ken’ishi would find a master, and he would prove himself worthy to that master with every fiber of his muscles, every drop of his blood, every bit of his strength. He wished his teacher had told him more about his father, so he would have more than his imagination and a few vague impressions.

While he had been lost in his memories, the stars had disappeared behind thick dark clouds, and silence had fallen like a blanket, as if in anticipation. The darkness would be a perfect time for him to move on without danger of being spotted.

Akao seemed to have sensed his wakefulness. “Move now?”

“Yes, let’s go now. No one will see us in the dark.” He sat up and began to roll up his blanket.

Akao stretched and yawned, then sniffed the air. “Rain.”

Ken’ishi nodded. The clouds boded rain today, which would also help conceal them and obliterate their tracks. Those villagers would be less likely to be out searching in bad weather.

The road lay below them, about the distance of a long bowshot, and they threaded their way down through groves of bamboo and trees to resume their trek in the early morning darkness.

The day dawned gray and dismal, and the rain came with the daylight. It grew heavier and heavier, and before long, he was soaked, along with everything he carried. Akao looked like a bedraggled, rust-colored rat, with his bony ribs sticking out and water dripping from his drooping ears. Ken’ishi told him as much, the dog responded with an insult that only dogs used.

He had never seen such a rain. It poured out of the sky in bucketfuls, a thick, pelting gray mass that chilled him to the bone. As always, he was hungry too, and that did little to improve his foul mood. The cold mud of the road had almost numbed his feet, squishing between his toes in spite of the platform wooden sandals he was wearing. As he walked, they made sucking, slurping noises when they pulled from the muck. They passed by a lone farmhouse with a warm orange light glowing within, and he felt a pang of envy. The rain beat on his bare head, each drop like a tiny mallet, striking a rhythm that said,
You have no home! You have no roof to shed the rain!

“Hate rain,” Akao said. “Can’t smell anything. Only water and mud.”

A voice called out from somewhere nearby. “Hey!”

Ken’ishi stopped and listened. The voice had been faint, coming from off the road.

“Over here!”

He turned and looked. Several dozen paces off the path was a small, roofed shrine. Huddled under the roof, standing next to a stone statue of the shrine’s god, was a soaked, disheveled woman. Her mud-spattered clothes clung to her like wet rice paper.

“Jizo will protect us!” she said. “You should get out of the rain!”

Ken’ishi saw no reason not to, so he joined her under the shrine’s roof. He had to stoop, and there was hardly enough room for both of them, Akao, and the stone god, but the pattering against his skull had ceased. For that, he was grateful.

Akao slunk in between them, shouldering a space around Ken’ishi’s feet. He looked up at the woman, his tongue lolling in a smile. “Thank you,” he said, but she did not understand him. She edged away.

The shrine god was in the shape of a youthful monk carrying a pilgrim’s staff with six metal rings on the end. The air under the low roof was redolent with the scent of incense from the bowl of ashes at the stone god’s feet. Beside the bowl was a cup full of sake and a rice cake on a small earthen plate.

Ken’ishi said to the woman, “This god is Jizo?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She looked as if she was a few years older than Ken’ishi. Her clothes were so sodden and soiled that he could not judge their quality. Her face had been powdered and her lips rouged, and the rain had caused her makeup to streak and run, giving her a strange, warped appearance. Strings of hair clung to her face and hung in disarray around her shoulders. She clutched her hands in front of her chest, shivering. He had no blanket to give her that was not soaked through.

He said, “My foster father told me about Jizo.”

“He is everywhere. He sometimes watches over travelers.”

“He helps those who are mired in unhappiness and despair, yes? He told me about other gods too, like Kannon, the Mother of Compassion.”

As the rain pounded on the wooden roof, echoing strangely in the small, peaked cavity above his head, Ken’ishi remembered how his foster father had described Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. On a day like today, he could understand why people called upon the gods and Buddhas for aid. His foster father had made them sound like wonderful, caring beings that helped the weak and the downtrodden. They sounded like the ideal that people should aspire to become. Precious little true kindness had come his way since he had left his foster parents in that little village far to the north.

He said, “You’re shivering. I have a blanket, but it is surely soaked through. I’ve been walking for a while.”

She smiled and bowed. “No need to trouble yourself. Thank you for thinking of my welfare. The sun will come out soon enough.”

They stood for a while in silence, listening to the slow, rhythmic surge of the rain’s intensity.

Then she said, “Are you hungry?”

He looked at her, unsure how to answer. He was ravenous.

“Would you like a rice ball?” She pulled a large one from somewhere inside her clothes.

He looked at it. It was soggy from the rain, but his stomach roared. He could not take food from someone so poor. “No.”

“Please, take it. I have two. See?” She pulled out another. “Please.”

“Very well. Thank you.” He took it, and he tried to resist devouring it in a single bite, like Akao would. He broke the rice ball in half and handed one part to the dog, who, as expected, devoured it in a single bite. Together they ate their rice balls in silence. She smiled at him.

He said, “Are you traveling somewhere?”

“No. This village is my home.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Then why don’t you go to your home? Why are you standing in the rain?”

“My house burned down not long ago. I have nowhere else to go.”

“What about your husband?”

“I don’t have a husband.”

“Then how do you live?”

She looked away, and a look of sadness and shame welled out of her features, like blood from a puncture wound. Her lip began to quiver. She bit her finger, stifling a sob. “Are you so young you cannot see what I am? Otherwise I would think you cruel.”

“I didn’t want to be cruel!” he protested.

Some of her despair drained away, replaced by a weak smile. “Then perhaps I can tell you, and you will not think poorly of me. I lie down with men for money.”

Ken’ishi did not understand, but he nodded sagely. “People do what they must to eat.”

Her smile broadened, mixed with a look of relief.

He said, “Perhaps Jizo and Kannon look over you because you do not have a house.”

“You are kind to say so. But I fear I am doomed to live a hundred lifetimes as an unclean woman, or worse.”

“You are kind to give me your food. Perhaps the kami and the gods will reward you for your kindness.”

“Are you a pious man?” she asked.

Ken’ishi blinked, then shrugged. “I don’t know what that means. I know that I trust the kami to guide me, to protect me. If they grow angry with me, they will forsake me. That I do know.”

“I can see that you are poor, a ronin. And you have not starved either. I can see that you are not a bandit. You do not have the wolfish look of a bandit, and I have . . . seen many.”

“I am glad you don’t think I’m a bandit.” It was all he could think of to say.

They stood in silence again, waiting for the rain to end. He watched her, as much as he could without being rude, to see how her face remained calm and warm, in spite of her shivering, and on a good day, she might have been pretty. He thought about the kindness and nobility in her manner and bearing. He could only conclude that such virtues could exist in every layer of the world, from the most powerful samurai to the lowliest whore. So strange. But what were those qualities that made them to be admired? He could not put words to them; he just knew he respected them. He knew them when he saw them, but that was all.

Finally, after about an hour, the rain diminished. Then he pulled out his heavy coin purse, and dumped half of the contents into his hand. The woman’s eyes bulged with surprise, but without a trace of avarice in them. He stuffed the handful of coins into his own pouch, then wrapped up the rest and held it out to her.

“Please,” he said.

She shook her head and cringed away from him. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Please take it. You will be doing me an honor if you do. I have much to atone for. And you don’t have to lie down with me.”

She refused again, but when he insisted a third time, she relented and gingerly took the coin purse. She bowed low, thanking him profusely. He bowed in return, and then they went their separate ways. He never saw her again, and he never learned her name.

Four

Leaf alone, fluttering

Alas, leaf alone, fluttering

Floating down the wind

—
Anonymous

The image of the spreading pool of blood around Takenaga’s face crept back into his mind over and over, but he pushed it away. He did not dare to dwell upon it too long. His pursuers knew his name. Every village in the province would be looking for a ronin called “Ken’ishi.” He thought about what name he would choose, and many swirled through his thoughts, but he could settle on none.

Akao padded along beside him as they slogged through the mud of the road. He knew the dog was hungry. Akao’s attention was repeatedly drawn toward the forest along the sides of the road.

“What is it?” Ken’ishi asked.

“Rain stopped. Rabbits are out now. Look for tender shoots. Going hunting.”

“Very well.” He knew the dog could find him easily when his hunt was successful.

The sun emerged, warm and strong, and tufts of cloud appeared among the dark crowns of the slender pine trees on the high hilltops above. The sun felt good, warming his flesh, drying his clothes. After another hour of walking, he noticed the puddles on the road dwindling and the soil firming under his feet.

The day had just passed noon when a distant scream snatched his attention. He cursed himself for not hearing the sounds of battle sooner, the clash of blades and cries of alarm. Akao would have warned him of danger long before. Perhaps he was growing too reliant on the dog’s sharp senses. He needed to start using his own senses again, as he had been taught.

He ran down the road toward the sounds, holding his quiver steady to keep the arrows from rattling, slowing to a creep just before the source of the sounds came into view. He placed his pack out of sight behind a tree, marking the location in his memory. Then he slung his almost empty quiver onto his waist, pulled his bowstring out of its watertight wooden box, and strung his bow. Alas, he had only three arrows. He had sold most of them for food. No need to throw himself into someone else’s fight, but a warrior should be prepared for anything. He slipped into the underbrush and made his way toward the fight, ducking from bush to bush and tree to tree. The ringing of steel and the cries of men grew sharper as he neared.