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Authors: Travis Heermann

Heart of the Ronin (21 page)

BOOK: Heart of the Ronin
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“What are you doing?” came a whisper from half a step behind her.

Kazuko gasped, her hand clutching her mouth. Her breath hissed out of her. “Hatsumi! You frightened me!”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Hatsumi whispered. “What are you watching?”

“I heard a noise. . . .”

Hatsumi stepped nearer the window and looked out. Kazuko watched Hatsumi’s expression change from curiosity to a frown. “It’s not seemly to spy on people,” Hatsumi said.

“I heard a noise! I just wanted to see what it was!” Kazuko whispered.

“You’ve been watching him for a long time.” Hatsumi’s voice was sharp with reproof, and she crossed her arms.

Kazuko sighed and looked back out the window. “Isn’t he the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?”

Hatsumi snorted, and her face twisted into a sneer. “He’s a ruffian! He has no more manners than a monkey! I would be surprised if he doesn’t throw shit like a monkey.”

Kazuko turned toward her. “Such talk! Where are
your
manners? He wasn’t raised in a proper household. He hasn’t learned proper manners. Not yet.”

“Doesn’t that make him a crude ruffian? I don’t trust him.”

“How can you be so unkind, Hatsumi? He saved our lives. He carried you for a whole day.”

Hatsumi’s face softened abruptly. She sighed. “I suppose you’re right, dear. I’m sorry. He is a strong man for one so young.”

“We are the same age. And you aren’t that much older! You are only twenty-four.”

“I feel much older than that.”

Kazuko’s voice melted with pity. “I am sorry, Hatsumi. How do you feel today?”

“Better than yesterday. I can see with one eye. I can walk a little. By the time we reach home, I will be my old self.”

Kazuko paused, thinking Hatsumi’s voice was not as certain as her words. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine when we get home. When we get there, you can rest until you are healed. You are strong. I will talk to Father about taking Ken’ishi into his service. It is only fitting after all he has done for us.” Kazuko thought she saw Hatsumi hesitate or nearly stumble at her last words. “This displeases you?”

“No, dear,” Hatsumi said. “Of course not. He may learn some manners in a proper household.”

Kazuko listened carefully to her tone. Hatsumi was seldom able to hide her feelings. But something was wrong.

When Kazuko looked back outside, she thought more time had passed than she realized, because the day had brightened, and the rest of the village was stirring. Ken’ishi had ceased his practice and was putting his clothes back on.

“Come away, dear,” Hatsumi said. “It’s not polite to spy.”

Kazuko sighed and obeyed, thinking perhaps she had taken longer to turn away than Hatsumi would have liked.
 

 

* * *

 

Ken’ishi and Kazuko walked together at the head of the small procession. Akao ranged ahead as he often did, scampering from bush to bush, sniffing here and there, weaving in and out of the foliage in a never-ending cycle. Hatsumi was still in too much pain to walk any distance, so she rode on the stretcher. They sent the four original bearers back to their own village and borrowed four more from this one. Kazuko sent them off with generous rewards for their labor before the party continued its journey.

As they walked, Ken’ishi felt Hatsumi’s gaze on his back, and for some reason it set him ill at ease. Now that the swelling in her face had diminished, he saw she was not a pretty woman. Her features were too broad and blunt, her eyes too small, and she had the teeth of a horse, even dyed black as they were. Kazuko’s teeth were not dyed black, and he wondered why. That was customary among most women, especially those of means. Perhaps Kazuko was still too young. He could not fathom many customs, no matter how hard he tried. He liked Kazuko’s fine, white teeth. Today it seemed that she walked a little closer to him than before. He could almost feel her warmth on the skin of his forearm. Perhaps this was why Hatsumi watched them so closely. But he sensed something else that he could not give a name. Perhaps this feeling was the voices of the kami, as Kaa had said. As the day progressed and the feeling persisted, Ken’ishi found himself growing ever more uncomfortable, a buzzing or tittering in his gut. He never glanced to see if she was watching. He did not have to.

Kazuko said, “You said that until you left Kaa’s tutelage, you could remember seeing only one person, one human. Was that the person who gave you the flute?”

Ken’ishi nodded. “It was about two years before I left the mountain. He sent me down to fish from the river.”
 

 

* * *

 

The boy sat quietly on the bank of the river, watching the waters of the river slide by, feeling the cool stiffness of the grass, the moist firmness of the earth under his backside. The long bamboo fishing pole rested between his knees. Its end bobbed faintly with the tug of the string as the water tugged on his hook and bait. The whispered ripple of the water soothed him, allowed him to feel a kind of calm that Kaa’s incessant harping would not. The sounds of birds and insects echoed along the river valley, and there were no other sounds. That is, until he heard something strange yet vaguely familiar, but unlike anything he had ever heard in nature.

What was that sound? It grew louder. It whistled like birdsong, but the tones were strangely related, rhythmic, melodious. He looked upriver, toward the opposite bank. A head emerged above the tall rushes, the shaven head of a man. The man looked like he was blowing on one end of a bamboo stick, holding the stick in both hands as he walked.

The boy stared as the man grew nearer and the sounds grew louder. The man stopped opposite the boy, lowered the stick, and turned to look at him. The man spoke, but his words and inflection were strange and alien, and he spoke so quickly that the boy could only pick out a few words.

The boy said, “I cannot understand you. Who are you?”

The man spoke again, and his expression changed, his forehead growing all wrinkled. The boy could not remember the last time he had seen a human face, and this one with the shaven head fascinated him.

“You talk too fast,” the boy said. “Who are you?”

The man listened intently, then nodded. He thrust himself through the rushes and down the riverbank to the water. Then he stepped down into the river and began to cross. The river was not deep or wide, but it was cold this time of year, chilled by fresh snowmelt. The water rose to his chest, but the cold did not appear to bother him as he sloshed across.

Soon he stepped up on the riverbank a few paces from the boy, dripping wet. The boy put down his fishing pole and stood up. The man bowed. The boy returned the gesture.

The man spoke, but the words were gibberish.

The boy said, “I cannot understand you. Who are you?”

The man listened intently, then nodded with a broad smile. When he spoke again, his words were slow and methodical. “My name is Doshin.”

“My name is Boy.”

The man smiled widely, and his eyes sparkled. “I did not expect to see anyone here. Do you live nearby?”

“Yes.”

“How big is your village?”

“I don’t have a village.”

“Strange to see one so young all alone in the wilderness.”

“I am not alone. I have my teacher.”

“Oh? And where is he?”

The boy turned and pointed up the mountainside. “He is up there. I am fishing for us.”

“He is your teacher, eh? What does he teach you?”

“The sword and the bow.”

“Those are the tools of the warrior. You must be a fierce lad. My own tools are not so fierce.” He raised the bamboo stick in his hand. It was almost as long as his arm, as thick as his wrist, and the boy saw that it was hollow, with a line of holes on the side.

“What is that thing?”

“It is a shakuhachi, a bamboo flute.”

“It makes that pretty noise?”

Doshin nodded, then brought one end of the flute to his lips and began to play.

The boy was enraptured, motionless, listening with every fiber of his being. After a while, the sounds trailed off, and the boy blinked as if waking from a dream. “Are you a god?” he asked.

Doshin laughed, and his eyes sparkled with humor. “No, I am not a god. I merely serve them. I am just a simple monk.”

“How do you serve them?”

“Through my faith, and by chanting sutras for others that they might reach paradise, and by playing music.”

“What is paradise? It is a place?”

“There are many paradises, just as there are many hells.”

“What is it like? Why do people want to go there?”

“It is a place of peace and plenty, without suffering and want. With music and—”

“Music? There is music there?”

“Certainly.”

“Like yours?”

“Why, yes, only much better. The music of the heavens could make the gods themselves weep.”

The boy’s mind raced, trying to imagine such a thing.

The man continued, “Music is a gift from the gods. That is why I play this flute.”

“Can you play some more?”

“Of course!” Doshin sat down on the ground and began to play. The boy sat down in front of him and listened.

The day wore on, and the monk played. The shadows of the mountains on the riverbanks grew longer. The boy’s fishing pole sat forgotten next to him, and the lilting, melancholy emanations from the monk’s flute washed over the boy, echoed down the riverbed. For a long time, the boy sat motionless, oblivious to everything else around him.

When at last the monk stopped playing, the boy sighed deeply. “How does it work?”
 

The monk answered, “You blow in this end and place your fingers over these holes. The holes change the note. Would you like to try?”

The boy’s chin flapped up and down.

The monk smiled and handed him the flute. The boy took the flute, studied it, held it as he had seen the monk hold it, and began to blow. A shrill bleat burst out of the flute, and the boy jumped.

The monk chuckled. “Not so hard. Blow softly.”

The boy blew again, softly, easing his breath into the bamboo tube until a tone formed itself in the air. A thrill of elation swept through him.

The shadows grew longer still as the sun sank to touch the mountains with incredible swiftness. The monk instructed the boy in how to play the instrument, to create tunes, to let the music flow. He pointed at his lower belly. “Remember that the belly, the hara, is the seat of all emotions. Breathe with your hara. Play the flute with your hara. Do not play the flute with your mind or your fingers. Play with your belly. Good, that is better! You learn quickly!”

Finally, the boy noticed that the day had almost fallen into night. His teacher would be furious with him! He had caught no fish!

The monk noticed his alarm. “I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.”

“My teacher will be angry.”

“I am sorry to hear that I have kept you from your duties. Please take the flute as recompense.”

The boy’s heart leaped. “Truly?”

The monk nodded. “I made that one. I can make another.”

“I’m sorry. I must go now.”

“Then go, by all means.” His smile of farewell was warm and gentle.

The boy bowed to him, then snatched up his fishing pole. He turned to hurry up the riverbank, when he felt a tug on his line. He thrust the flute into his belt and took the fishing pole in both hands. Something was on the line!

The monk said, “Perhaps you need not go home empty-handed after all.”

The boy pulled on the pole and drew in his line. In the clear water, the sleek dark shape of the fish writhed on his hook.

The monk said, “My! That’s a big one!”

The boy backed up the riverbank, drawing the fish closer to the water’s edge, then with a mighty pull, he dragged the fish up onto the ground, where it flopped and thrashed. The fish was as long as his arm. The boy pulled out his small knife, leaped down upon the fish, and stabbed it in the head before it could flop back into the water.

“What a fine catch!”

The boy grinned at him. “Do you want to eat with us?”

“No, I couldn’t. I do not eat living creatures, but thank you for the invitation. I must be moving along. I have a long way to travel before I reach paradise.” The monk bowed.

The boy bowed in return, then grasped the fish by the gills with one hand, his fishing pole with the other, and dashed up the riverbank, running for the trail leading up the mountain to the cave he called home.

He often pushed himself to run up the mountain faster and faster, and his lateness made this game seem more important. When he finally reached the cave, he was puffing with exertion, and the day had gone away to darkness. Kaa was waiting for him, and Ken’ishi saw by the puff of his feathers and the angle of his head that he was both worried and irritated.

“That is a fine fish, monkey-boy!” Kaa said, his harsh voice even more shrill than normal. “It took you all day to catch it?”

The boy said nothing as he offered it up.

“What is that you are carrying?” The tengu turned his sharp, dark eyes on the flute in the boy’s rope belt.

The boy’s ears reddened. “It’s a flute.”

“Where did you get it?”

The boy hesitated, unsure if he should speak of the monk. Finally, he said, “I found it.”

“And I suppose you learned how to play it all by yourself. Don’t look so surprised. How could I fail to hear all that terrible squawking? Next time that shaven-headed monkey calling himself Doshin helps you ‘find’ something, you better see your work done first!”

The boy froze. “Do you know him?”

Kaa’s eyes blinked, and he preened the feathers on his shoulder with his beak before his spoke. “We have been acquainted. He may not remember me, though. When he saw me, I looked a bit different.”

The boy looked at him for a moment, then he said, “You were playing a trick on him!”

The tengu’s eyes closed in silent laughter. “It amuses us to play tricks on humans. Especially monks and priests. They think they are so wise.”

“Why? Isn’t it bad to play tricks on others?”

“Humans worship so many strange gods and things that sometimes it is amusing to act like one of them. The looks on their faces when we reveal the deception are priceless! It makes the losses my race has suffered over the centuries more bearable.”

BOOK: Heart of the Ronin
12.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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