Heart of the Ronin (30 page)

The innkeeper said, “Your father didn’t give
him
a chance.” He pointed at the wounded samurai, who lay on the floor, gasping, his lips stained with blood. The samurai stared at the ceiling as if trying to concentrate on breathing, but the awareness in his eyes was diminishing. Then his chest ceased to rise, and his gasping ceased with a wet rattle.

The young man’s voice shrilled as he turned to the quivering, terrified girl. “He wouldn’t have hurt her! Slut! This is all your fault! Unclean whore!” He took a step toward her.

“Don’t.” Ken’ishi’s voice was cold as he raised his weapon.

Another young man jumped up and grabbed the first by the arm. “Chiba, don’t be a fool.”

Ken’ishi said, “Listen to your friend. According to the law, the penalty for murder is death.”

“What do you know of law? Are you a constable? Or are you just a murderer!” Chiba said, challenging.

“I have this authority,” Ken’ishi said, raising his gleaming blade, “and the knowledge of what is right. The samurai was killed by a drunken, treacherous fool. There is no honor in that. Justice has been done.”

Chiba’s companion whispered, “Let it go, Chiba. Let it go for now. He’ll kill you, too.”

Helpless, Chiba looked from his companion, to Ken’ishi, to the cowering girl, to his father’s body. He knelt and rolled the corpse onto its back, then he and his companion picked up by the body by the hands and feet and carried it outside, dribbling a trail of dark blood behind them.

Within moments, the musicians and other patrons scurried out of the inn like a stampede of frightened rats. Ken’ishi was left alone with the innkeeper, the girl, and the dead samurai. He cleaned and sheathed his blade. The girl ran from behind the innkeeper and threw herself against Ken’ishi, weeping and sobbing words of thanks.
 

The innkeeper approached him. “Thank you, sir, for your help. Yoba has always been a drunken fool, always causing problems. Tonight he went too far. Only his family will miss him.”

“Family?”

“He has three sons, Chiba, Koba, and Utsuba. His wife ran away years ago.”

Ken’ishi pointed at the samurai’s body. “This man’s family will want his body, and his sword.”

The innkeeper said to the girl, “Kiosé, go and bring Norikage-sama. Tell him what happened.”

She bowed, then turned away and moved toward the door.

The innkeeper said, “Kiosé.”

She stopped and turned expectantly.

“Did you try to steal his money?”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Then why did he attack you?” Ken’ishi asked.

The welt on her cheek darkened with the redness of her face. She hesitated, her gaze falling inward. “He . . . couldn’t. And it made him angry.”

The innkeeper nodded, then gave her permission to go. She trotted off into the night.

Ken’ishi nodded toward the dead samurai. “Who was he?”

The innkeeper sighed. “Regrettably, he was our constable. His name was Hojo no Masahige.”

“Who is Norikage?”

“Masahige’s assistant.”

The innkeeper moved to straighten a table that had been knocked askew, stepping around the large pool of thickening blood on the floor. “In ten years I have never had a brawl such as this.” He was speaking half to himself. “Why would Yoba do something as stupid as kill the constable? That fool! And poor Kiosé! I have not had her long. I hope he didn’t hurt her badly.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I bought her from her father, a fisherman in Hakozaki. He had fallen on hard times and could not support her. But she is pretty enough, and the men in the village seem to like her. It is fortunate you were here, sir. He might have killed her. And perhaps me, too. What is your name, sir?”

“Ken’ishi.”

“Ken’ishi-sama, thank you very much for your help tonight. My name is Tetta.” He bowed low.

Ken’ishi bowed.

“If I may ask, how long do you plan to stay?”

Before Ken’ishi could answer the question, a new voice came from the doorway. “What happened here? Where is Masahige?”

Ken’ishi turned to look at the newcomer. Trotting into the inn came a small, thin man, with a narrow face, his age about thirty. He stopped and squinted up at Ken’ishi with his beady eyes. “Who are you?” Before Ken’ishi could answer, the man’s gaze began to flick about the room, fixing on the corpse on the floor. “Ah, my lord! What has happened to you? You are dead!” The man’s voice was rich and sonorous, despite his size.

Kiosé followed him a few paces behind, her eyes downcast, hands properly folded.

“Who did this?”

Tetta said, “Norikage-sama, Yoba the fisherman killed him in a drunken frenzy.”

Norikage’s beady eyes narrowed even further. “Masahige was a capable warrior! How could he be killed by a simple fisherman?”

Ken’ishi said, “Treachery, sir. The fisherman had a hidden knife and struck without warning.”

Norikage rubbed his thin, pointed beard. His hands were soft and thin. His gaze flicked toward Ken’ishi. “And who are you?”

“My name is Ken’ishi. I have just come to this village tonight.”

Norikage said, “And where is Yoba now?”

“Dead,” Ken’ishi said. “I killed him.”

Norikage said gravely. “Yoba was a base, vulgar peasant. The world is a better place without him. You should beware of his sons, however. They are as stupid as he was. They might seek vengeance.”

Norikage’s eyes shifted about, glancing from Ken’ishi to the corpse, from Tetta to the floor, his lips pursed, brow furrowed. Then he said, “Ken’ishi, come with me. There is something we must discuss.”

Something in the rat-like little man’s demeanor made him uneasy. “Where?”

“To my office. We can speak privately there. This will not take long.”

Ken’ishi bowed. “Very well.”

“Excuse me, Norikage-sama, but what about the body?” Tetta asked tentatively. “My inn will be polluted!”

“We’ll see to it in good time. Ken’ishi, follow me please.”
 

* * *

Norikage’s office was a dark, cramped place, with a small desk stacked deep with dozens of documents. Ken’ishi seated himself opposite the desk from Norikage, and he noticed the little man wince with pain when he sat down himself, as if he were nursing an old injury. The room smelled of ink and dust. Norikage sifted through a stack of documents, pulled out one and gathered his inkpot and brush. Ken’ishi waited as Norikage brushed several lines of characters onto the paper.

“Ken’ishi,” Norikage said, “please tell me again what happened in the inn. Leave out no detail.”

Ken’ishi told the story.

When Ken’ishi was finished, Norikage said, “Aoka village is now without a constable. You seem like a man who hears the call of justice, and a man capable with a blade.” His brush fluttered over the paper, leaving a black trace of swirls and lines.

Ken’ishi nodded.

“Masahige was my superior, and now he is dead. I cannot become constable myself because I have no skill with weapons. I am not a samurai, but I am an able administrator. Masahige and I worked well together. We had . . . an arrangement, an understanding.”

“Are you Nishimuta clan?”

Norikage stopped speaking for a moment, an emotion Ken’ishi could not identify flicking across his face. “No. I . . . have no family name. Is that funny? You are smiling.” His smooth voice rose slightly.

“I also have no family name.”

Norikage’s eyes narrowed. “A ronin? That explains your presence in these parts and answers many of my questions.”

“What are you writing?”

“A deputization order. The constable assigned to this village is dead. I believe you are a man who can be trusted, and you can handle yourself in a fight. I also sense that you are a man looking for an opportunity. I am offering you an opportunity. What do you say?”

Blood rushed in Ken’ishi’s ears. He tried to keep his voice even. “You’re offering me a place as constable of this village?”

“Of course, you would take orders from me, rather than the other way around.”

“Why would you do this? You do not know me.”

“I have many reasons. After tonight, this offer will not be open. What do you say?”

“Very well,” Ken’ishi said. “I accept.”

Norikage grinned like an eel. “Excellent! We will work well together, I think. Now, sign your name to this document.” He handed Ken’ishi the document he had been writing.

Ken’ishi took the document and the brush and signed his name in ink for the first time. “What does it say?”

“You cannot read?”

“Only a few characters.”

Norikage blinked once and paused. “Well, that’s more than anyone else in this village except for me,” he said briskly. “This document is mostly formalities, but states that you are now the village’s protector, and that you are subordinate to my orders.”

Ken’ishi nodded, but said nothing. He handed the document back to Norikage.

Norikage hid the traces of his smile. “No matter. Your name is ‘Ken’ishi.’ That is a strange name. What character is that? Your calligraphy is atrocious. Is it ‘Sword?’
 
”

“Yes.”

He placed the document in front of him and brushed some more characters. “A proper constable must be able to read and write.”

Ken’ishi said nothing.

“Teaching is not a task I like, but it is necessary, I suppose. I will teach you.”

“Thank you, Norikage-sama.”

Norikage grimaced. “Not ‘sama.’ Save that for the provincial governor.”

“Very well, Norikage. Thank you for the . . . opportunity.”
 

* * *

As Ken’ishi walked back to the inn, feeling the cold moistness of the night air on his face, he wondered about his reactions to what had just happened. Finding service as a constable was not what he had envisioned. A constable. Him. Nevertheless, he was thrilled at the opportunity to have a place to sleep and food to eat. And he would not be an outlaw. How strange it would be not to be a criminal any longer. He had worn that face for far too long. But he would watch Norikage. That man was too slippery to be trustworthy. Ken’ishi had seen others of Norikage’s kind when passing through the capital, a great city of fabulous wealth and beauty, but also one rife with corruption and poverty.

Yes, he would wait and see. In the morning when Akao returned, he would share in the dog’s insights. The dog would be happy to have enough food as well.

When he entered the inn, Kiosé was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bloodstains from the wooden floor. The water in her bucket was as red as fresh blood. Masahige’s body still lay where it had fallen. She turned toward Ken’ishi and pressed her forehead to the floor. She said, “Thank you for all you have done, Ken’ishi-sama.” Her voice was soft and quavering.

Ken’ishi bowed. “I only wish to be of service.” He stepped around her and glanced at the samurai’s face on the way to his room. The eyes stared at the ceiling, and the skin had taken on a grayish cast.

In his room, he spread out the futon and prepared himself for sleep. The room was chilly and had no means of heat, but the blanket was heavy. He blew out the candle. Moments later a silhouette appeared on the rice-paper door of his room, kneeling outside the threshold.

Kiosé’s voice was soft and quavering. “Sir, may I come in?”

“Yes.”

The door slid open, and she entered, tentatively, closing the door behind her. She bowed and slid toward him on her knees. “I’m sorry I’m so forward. Please forgive my rudeness.”

“What is it?”

She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “He would have killed me. I have but one thing to offer you in return for my life.”

He turned the blanket aside and beckoned her.

She lay down beside him, and he covered her with the blanket. He encircled her with one arm and held her against his chest. Her hand delved lower, seeking his manhood, but he stopped her with a gentle touch.

“There will be time for that later,” he said.

“Later?”

“I will be staying here for a while, in the village.”

She nodded and rested her cheek upon his breast. For a long time, they lay together, embraced, drifting toward sleep like unmoored boats. He felt the weight of her body against his, the softness of her flesh and the sharp impressions of bones beneath, perhaps too close to the surface. He breathed in the scent of her hair, but there was another face in his mind.

Neither of them spoke again, but soon her tears were cooling on his chest.

Three

“It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, you will wake up and tell yourself it was only a dream. It is said that the world we live in is not a bit different from this.”

—
Hagakure

The priest approached the small house, his tread growing slower at every step. Uneasiness whispered along his backbone, a nameless dread, and the tray of rice and tea in his hands began to rattle. When he reached the door, he slid it open, allowing morning sunlight to spill into the darkness within. The square of golden sunlight revealed a rumpled sleeping mat and blankets in careless disarray, and that strange smell that always lingered around the man inside wafted out, as if drawn into the fresh air. The smell was almost metallic, akin to hot iron left in a forge, but with something of the smell of blood as well. That the smell of blood still lingered was strange, because the man’s injuries had healed. But something was still amiss. The man’s body had healed, but his spirit had not. The man came outside into the day only rarely these days.

Outside the walls of the temple could be heard the lively hustle of the port city of Hakata. The cacophony of voices, the rumble and creak of cart wheels, the bleat and squawk of livestock, the fresh breeze billowing from the sea, the clatter of carpenters mending a roof, all were audible but muffled within the quiet confines of the temple walls and garden.

In the sunlit patch, the man’s outstretched legs joined a shadowy form sitting in the corner of the room. A hoarse voice croaked from the dark shape, “Good morning, priest.”