The road was dusty, the hedges withering, the sun was burning. He wanted a destination and he really, really wanted a drink.
But when the attack came he whirled on one foot and narrowly avoided putting a blade through an unarmed young man’s throat.
‘Fool!’ he snapped, sheathing the sword. ‘Never startle a Samurai. Who are you?’
‘My unimportant name is Takeshi,’ faltered the comely young man, bowing. ‘I was about to speak to your magnificence... your reflexes are amazing...’
‘Thank you. Go away,’ said the Samurai.
‘I want to be a Samurai,’ insisted the young man.
‘You don’t,’ snarled Samurai Chiba no Suke Taira Ichiro.
‘Oh, but I do,’ repeated Takeshi.
‘The rewards of being a Samurai? Regard me, and tell me what they are,’ said Ichiro softly. He stood still as Takeshi looked him over. Shabby robes which had once been fine, dirty hair, dusty feet. No attendant. No horse. His only valuable possessions were his sword and the small eating knife at his waist. No rings on his fingers. No coins in his belt. Tired and in need of a bath. And not as young as he had been. Ichiro let the young man stare. Then he made a dismissive gesture.
‘Off home, you. You don’t want to wander the roads, hungry, unrespected, unrewarded, to find an unmarked grave.’
The young man bowed again. ‘It pains me to say so, but I have seen you, noble lord, and I still want to be a Samurai.’
‘Then you are a fool indeed,’ Ichiro resumed his steady pace. Takeshi fell in beside him. ‘I did tell you to go away,’ Ichiro reminded him.
‘Yes, lord, you did,’ agreed Takeshi.
Without warning, Ichiro aimed an irritated slap at the back of the young man’s head, to find himself, exceptionally, brought to his knees by a couple of lightning fast blows. Then Takeshi stood back and bowed again.
‘Will you stop bowing!’ yelled the Samurai. ‘That was curious. Fast! Remarkable. Come and help me up. That was karate, eh, the empty hand? Do you know how forbidden that is?’
‘I do,’ agreed Takeshi, hauling Ichiro to his feet. ‘There is a bathhouse just along this road. I think we need a wash.’
‘And that’s the truth,’ grumbled the Samurai.
The sento was just like all other bathhouses in the Shogunate. Clean, spare, and to be had for 45 ryo, a fixed fee for the whole island. Takeshi paid for both. They left their clothes with the attendant to be washed or brushed and sat down on stools on the slatted wooden floor as attendants began pouring buckets of hot water over them, lathering and scrubbing them with oatmeal. The Samurai indicated that he wanted his hair washed, and almost groaned with pleasure as all the grime was scoured off his body, his nails cleaned, his foot soles pumiced, his hair washed clean and combed and dressed high on his head.
‘You, boy, you’re staring,’ he grunted.
‘Honourable scars, noble lord,’ replied Takeshi.
The Samurai was muscular, with the swordsman’s broad shoulders, solid arms and scarred hands. His body tapered to a small waist, the perfect shape. Takeshi could not take his eyes off this pure, beautiful masculine form. He was striped and slashed with scars, one across his chest, one which must have almost taken off his leg at the knee, one glancing blow which had sliced across his belly. He shifted uncomfortably under the young man’s gaze.
‘Battered,’ he said. ‘Damaged. Not like you, Takeshi. You are quite perfect.’
Ichiro examined the young man. He was built like a dancer. All slim, long musculature, golden skinned and untouched. Takeshi blushed.
‘You are beautiful, lord, and your body just proves your life of service,’ he replied. ‘Will you tell me of those battles, while we recline in the pool?’
‘Boys always want to hear war stories,’ grunted Ichiro.
But he took Takeshi’s hand as they went down the steps into the pool of mineral water, warm and clean, and as they sat together, Takeshi insinuated himself under Ichiro’s arm like a snuggling cat. The Samurai chuckled and hugged him.
‘You’re very determined, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Tell me, Takeshi, have you done this before? Sought a Samurai as a lover?’
‘Never,’ said Takeshi, sitting up straight in horror. ‘Never!’
‘Then, why me?’ asked Ichiro. ‘No, come back, I did not mean to offend you. My apologies. Look at me, I am thirty and battered and no object for a young man’s dream. Why me?’
‘I saw you defeat six bandits with your sword still sheathed,’ said Takeshi, still withdrawn from the embrace. ‘They had oppressed my parents and robbed and stolen, and you reduced them to porridge. You didn’t even pause in your walking. I thought, that is the man for me. I had been waiting for you.’
‘Oh, yes, those bandits,’ Ichiro recalled. ‘I did encounter some minor resistance as I came down the road. Nothing serious. Not worth getting my katana out. What do you mean, waiting for me?’
‘The monk said...’ Takeshi returned to Ichiro’s arms and touched his face with a careful forefinger. ‘A monk told me that there was a karmic string, a link, between me and a samurai, and that I would know when he came along. And you came along, and I knew.’
Ichiro was silent. Takeshi wanted to throw himself on that broad chest, but stayed still. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this samurai felt no such connection. He wondered if he could actually die of the shame.
‘Yes,’ said Ichiro. ‘I feel it, too. So; this is shudo. You know this is serious? As serious as a marriage. I will belong to you, and you to me, for life. There are vows.’
‘I will take them,’ declared Takeshi. Ichiro laid his cheek beside that of the young man’s. Takeshi’s skin was smooth and smelt of jasmine tea and spices. The oil that the bathhouse had used on the samurai’s hair, Takeshi found, smelt delightfully of dry grass. And Ichiro smelt of strength, earth and iron.
‘I have never sworn myself to anyone but the Shogun,’ murmured Ichiro. ‘But I will swear myself to you. But you should consider this carefully. The poets say you should test me, to find if I am worthy.’
Takeshi was about to reply when he heard running feet and voices shouting. The peace of the bathhouse was disturbed by several peasants, screaming ‘The Samurai! They say there is a Samurai here! Where is he? Where is the Samurai?’
‘Here,’ groaned Ichiro, hauling himself out Takeshi’s arms and subsequently out of the bath. A sudden, heavy dread settled like stone in his belly. This was the last fight, then, and just as he had discovered the man of his heart. Fate had always disliked him but this seemed unutterably cruel.
‘The ronin has taken Kimicho!’ shrieked an elderly man. ‘He just seized her! You must help us!’
‘Where is he?’ asked Ichiro, allowing himself to be dried and dressed in his clean clothes and robes, retrieving his swords.
Takeshi was there, tying on his sandals, holding out his gown. He settled around the Samurai’s neck a broad, flat, metal pendant on a chain. Ichiro raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘My token,’ he whispered. ‘You are mine now. You can’t get killed.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Ichiro, and kissed the young man. Takeshi’s lips were thinned with fear. He embraced the samurai fiercely, briefly, and released him.
‘And I am coming too,’ he declared.
‘Atsusi,’ murmured Ichiro. ‘Faithful.’ He touched the boy’s shoulder. ‘Where is this ronin?’ he asked, and the peasants led the way.
The ronin had the young girl by the hair. He was in the process of trying to subdue her frantic struggles when he heard someone ask, in a pleasant tone.
‘Greetings, ronin. Your lord is dead. Why are you still living?’
Snarling, the man released the girl, who fled, and turned to face the Samurai, who had drawn his sword.
‘The old eagle,’ he sneered. ‘Is it you, Chiba no Suke Taira?’
‘As you see,’ replied Ichiro. ‘Why not leave? I have no wish to spend an hour cleaning your dishonourable blood off my precious sword.’
‘Sato,’ yelled the ronin. ‘Where is your lord?’
‘Quite healthy and ruling the realm as usual,’ returned Ichiro.
Without warning, the ronin attacked. Ichiro fended off the wild blow, then another, without much effort. Takeshi and the peasants watched, agog. One of the old men said, ‘It’s as good as a play!’ and Takeshi bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood. No one but he, himself, would care what the outcome of this fight might be. The peasants had their girl back unharmed. And fighting evildoers was what Samurai were for.
They circled each other, the ronin and the Samurai. Ichiro recited a verse. Takeshi realised it was a death-verse - his last words, if this duel went the wrong way. And the ronin had called him the old eagle.
‘Snow showers scan tipped wings
Blue clouds draw strength of will no more
Rise wings: above all storms.’
The endless circling continued. Then the ronin stooped, grasped a handful of dust and flung it into the Samurai’s face. He stumbled back a pace, and the ronin’s sword slashed across his chest.
Takeshi suppressed a scream.
Ichiro leapt forward and with one magnificent, deadly sweep, sliced the ronin’s sword arm from his shoulder. The ronin fell to his knees.
‘Had I not known
That I was dead already
I would have mourned
My loss of life,’ he said.
Then, as blood spouted from his wound, he fell face down and did not move again. The peasants cheered, and fetched a hurdle to remove the corpse.
Takeshi rushed to Ichiro and bore him up as he staggered. He tore at the Samurai’s robe, parting the front. To reveal his own love token cloven in half, and a mere scratch on the precious skin underneath.
‘You know that you said that I should test you?’ asked Takeshi, pressing close to the samurai’s side. ‘I have. You’re mine, Ichiro-san.’
‘And you’re mine. I think I need to lie down.’
‘Come,’ said Takeshi, and led him to the inn, where he laid him down on a tatami and lay down beside him, kissing him feverishly.
‘First kisses,’ groaned Ichiro. ‘Then food. Then sake.’
In the morning, Ichiro woke entwined with his lover, slightly sore and bewildered. There had been a fight, he had managed not to get badly killed, again, and - karma had given him Takeshi. His golden young man was wrapped around him, fast asleep, with his loose hair tickling the samurai’s nose.
‘Praise to Buddha,’ said Ichiro, and fell asleep again.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Takeshi, shouldering the bundle of clothes and trying to imitate the Samurai’s even, easy pace.
‘To the Abbot of the Temple of Heavenly Clouds, to register our vows, Takeshi-chan. Then I think we should head towards the capital. I need to report to the Shogun.’
‘The shogun will see you?’ gasped Takeshi, taking the Samurai’s left hand. Ichiro grinned.
‘Yes. I’m his half-brother. He sent me out to find my heart. And now I can go home, because I have found it.’
Dancing in the air
Twin butterflies
until, twice white
They meet, they mate.
Ichiro and Takeshi
Iron and Brave
They meet, they mate
Together. Forever.