The Archer arrived at the plantation at before dawn. One of the Priest’s men waited at the main gate shawled in blankets and blowing his hands to keep warm. He wordlessly ushered the Archer through the gateway and led him up the moonlit track to the estate. He left the man in a disused stable building where he could meet with the Priest unobserved by the mansion’s domestic staff.
The Priest crossed the courtyard holding a lamp, the hem of his silk robe brushing the cobbles. He stood in the stable doorway, held up the candle and let his eyes adjust to the shadows. The Archer sat on a plank bench against the back wall. He didn’t rise to greet the Priest. Instead he lolled, relaxed and insolent. The Priest’s man shut them inside the stable and guarded the doorway outside to ensure their conference was not disturbed.
The Priest set the lamp on a stone shelf and sat beside the Archer.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘You don’t need my name,’ said the Archer.
‘You come highly recommended. They say you were one of General Akitane’s finest bowmen and now you sell your services to those who require your unique skill. There’s no shame in it, I suppose. Plenty of loyal soldiers find themselves living as ronin, through no fault of your own.’
‘I’m not interested in your approval. And yes, I can hit a target well enough. What target do you need me to hit?’
‘First, let us discuss your remuneration. How much will it cost to retain your services?’
‘The more elusive the prey, the higher the price.’
‘A local peasant.’
‘Send a kitchen lad to beat him over the head with a rock.’
‘This peasant is currently protected by a regiment of samurai. There is a tournament, a contest of swordcraft taking place at a river shrine near the head of the valley. A general from Kyoto has arrived to view the contest, so your target is surrounded by soldiers, guards alert for an assassin. It will be hard to get close. You will need to choose your moment well.’
‘Why not wait until the tournament is over? The General will leave and his protective detail will withdraw.’
‘The deed must be done as soon as possible. You must achieve your task by sundown tomorrow.’
‘Is this peasant expecting an attempt on his life?’
‘No.’
The Priest handed the man a purse. The Archer unlaced the pouch and counted copper coins.
‘Sundown tomorrow, understand?’
The Archer nodded and got to his feet.
‘You’ll be hearing from me soon,’ he said.
The Monk lay in front of his hut and waited for the sunrise on what would probably be his final day. Tengu woke inside the hut, saw his mat was vacant so joined him outside. The woodland around them was greyed by mist. The other contenders were nowhere to be seen. She wondered if the swordsmen had slept or lain awake all night praying to their gods and ancestors to grant them victory.
General Yukio’s pavilion had been erected on cleared ground on the other side of the quadrangle the previous night. Sentries stood among the trees, insubstantial as ghosts.
Tengu and the Monk sat in silence a long while thinking about what it meant for a person to reach their last day, then the Monk ran his hand over his scalp stubble and said:
‘Would you shave my head? I don’t want to look dishevelled when I step into the arena.’
Tengu fetched a bowl of water and honed her knife on the stone doorframe. The monk bowed and leaned forward while she wet his head and began to shave him bald. It seemed as good a way as any to spend his final moments. She wiped stubbleflecked water onto a rag. When she was done with his scalp he jutted his chin and she shaved his face clean.
You’re good at this,’ he said, ‘considering you have no beard of your own.’
‘I have performed this service for many men.’
She dabbed his jaw clean then dried her knife on the rag.
There, she thought to herself with deep melancholy, fit for your grave.
They heard the rumble of cartwheels as two villagers emerged from the vapour-shrouded road, hauled a wagon into the quadrangle and stopped it flush with the tavern wall. They chocked the wheels, sank to the ground and massaged the rope burns on their shoulders.
‘What do you think they have brought?’ asked Tengu, peering at the pots and baskets lashed beneath a tarpaulin.
‘More food and wine than these peasants have ever seen,’ said the Monk. ‘They must have hauled the cart through the hills from the town in the north. I imagine the local lord has borrowed against the money the swordsmen will spend prior to the tournament. The contestants will feast before they die, and if the villagers are lucky they might find a few tasty scraps among the discarded bones and seeds of the garbage pile.’
The sun breasted the horizon and the mist began to disperse.
‘These could be your last hours,’ said Tengu. ‘Forgive me, but I’m curious to know what is on your mind.’
‘You want some final words?’ said the Monk. ‘Something to carry in your heart?’ He sat up and looked her in the eye. ‘What do you suppose all the contestants in this tournament have in common? These disparate men have travelled long and dusty miles to come here and fight. What binds them?’
‘Tell me.’
‘They are cowards. They each have a deep, deep fear of death. Strange, neh? They live by the sword, but I guarantee that every man taking part in this tournament is terrified of his own extinction, even more terrified than the average man. Fear fills their dreams and wakes them with a pounding heart long before daybreak. They think of nothing else. It haunts them as they wash, as they eat, as they go about their day. It chases them long after nightfall, until exhaustion allows them to sleep.
‘You see, everyone knows they will die. They know it like they know the Emperor resides in Kyoto. It is a dry, distant fact which carries no true power but sooner or later, as a person’s life progresses, they glimpse their reflection in still water and see grey hairs and slackening skin, and then the realization that their time is cruelly limited hits with visceral force. If we could speak honestly to each of the swordsmen gathered here I imagine we would discover this awful death-terror settled on their bones very early in their youth. Maybe they saw a grandparent suddenly clutch their heart and fall dead. Maybe they saw a brother or sister slowly succumb to some dreadful canker, watched them scream in torment as they wasted away. Fear has dominated their thoughts and, over the years, curdled into a subtle death-yearning that leads them to take up a sword and travel from place to place in search of opportunities to take part in mortal combat. Paradoxical, neh? That the horror of oncoming death could be such torture one would seek to end one’s life to escape it. So what do you think, girl? Do you find yourself preoccupied hour by hour with the oblivion that awaits us all?’
‘It certainly sounds as if you are very familiar with the predicament,’ said Tengu.
‘This is my mission for you, my parting challenge. You boast that you are a fine swordsman and I can well believe it. No doubt plenty of blood has stained your blade. But the Way can be a terrible burden upon the soul. An adept spends every waking moment suspended between life and death, begins each day wondering if they will live to see nightfall. This knowledge makes a mockery of all human endeavour. Love, riches, titles – all of them are laughable in the face of the darkness that awaits. Yet somehow you must live and use whatever time remains between now and the grave. That is your duty once I’m gone. Don’t dwell on death. Embrace life instead. Find a meaning, a purpose. Find a way to enjoy your days rather than restlessly travelling in search of death, do you understand?’
Tengu nodded. ‘I understand.’
The sun rose higher in the morning sky and villagers began to arrive in pairs and groups. Every resident of the village intended to view the tournament except those too old and infirm to make the short journey. Most had never visited the shrine before. The ruins were close to the hamlet but valley folk regarded it as a place of ill-omen, the kind of spot where mischievous woodland kami might toy with anyone foolish enough to dare approach their secluded home. However it was daylight and the villagers felt safe moving as a crowd. They brought baskets of food and pots of water. They brought babies and children. Later they were joined by folk from surrounding villages, families that had walked a long distance and spent a night in the forest lured by the spectacle of swordsmen pitting their skill one against another. They were excited to be witnesses to history, spectators of a contest that would, no doubt, be discussed for generations. The crowd sat on the flagstones clustered in family groups, and left clear the roped expanse of the arena. They treated it as a festival. Parents ate and laughed while their children played among the trees. The kept a respectful distance from the stone huts in which the tournament contestants were accommodated. The hut doorways were curtained and the villagers wondered if the swordsmen were inside or elsewhere. They lapsed into awed silence and stared as, mid-morning, one of the curtains was drawn back, NoName strode across the flagstones and pissed into the underbrush.
Kotau watched the crowd from the porch a while. Tengu retrieved a sack from the Monk’s hut and crossed the courtyard to greet him.
‘Can you feel it?’ said Kotau, taking a deep lungful of air. ‘The expectancy. The crowd lusting to see someone die, yearning for blood and screams.’
She drew him away from the spectacle of the gathering crowd and ushered him into the kitchen.
‘Take off your shirt,’ she commanded. He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head while she drew a breastplate from a sack. ‘Nobody will attack you face-to-face while the tournament is in progress. There are too many soldiers here. A killer might get close enough to drive a knife into your side, but they couldn’t hope to escape with their life. And professional assassins take their survival very seriously. If someone paid me to kill you, I would use an arrow.’
She helped Kotau strap on the breastplate.
‘I bought this from a villager,’ she said. ‘It cost me a big bag of rice. Some of the men that spend their days in the tea house once served as conscripts in General Motohide’s army. They still have old weapons and uniforms in their huts.’
‘Will it stop an arrow?’ he asked. She punched the leather breastplate.
‘I think so. The assassin won’t have time for multiple attempts. He will aim a single arrow at your heart then flee the moment it leaves his bow. Put on your shirt. Don’t let anyone know you are wearing armour.’
They walked outside and stood on the porch. Tengu studied the valley folk milling behind the rope cordon. She watched children fight mock duels with sticks.
‘What do you suppose the peasants make of the tournament?’ she asked. ‘The villagers avoid the swordsmen as if they are lepers. They must think we are all madmen, travelling long miles for the privilege of spilling our guts in the dirt.’
‘It’s a battle of the gods as far as they are concerned,’ said Kotau. ‘They will tell their grandchildren about this day, so we must hold our heads high. We are about to enter myth, our exploits handed down father to son. The least we can do is be worthy of the tale.’
Tengu began to walk across the flagstone quadrangle.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Kotau. ‘I retained you as a bodyguard. Your place is at my side.’
‘I’m more use to you as a face in the crowd, keeping watch.’
She crossed the quadrangle and sat beside the Monk. Kotau stood on the porch and watched them talk. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He was hit by a sudden pang of jealousy as he realized he had no companions, no one to whom he could reveal his dark heart.
He surveyed the villagers cordoned on the other side of the arena. The peasants looked back at him in dumb wonder. A few days ago, he had been one of their number, a dirt-poor valley peasant, but now he had been elevated to local aristocracy, a man who consorted with generals.
Kotau fetched a few apples from the kitchen, tossed them one by one to the crowd and watched the villagers fight and scrabble.
He checked the position of the sun. It was noon. Time for the contest to begin. He looked across the compound and gave Chikaaki the nod. Chikaaki walked to the centre of the arena as the crowd fought for position at the side ropes in anticipation of the first bout. Tengu felt sick dread as he signalled for hush.
‘We welcome you all,’ he said, addressing the villagers. He turned to face the General’s retinue, the senior samurai who had arranged themselves in a protective crescent around Yukio’s empty stool. He bowed. ‘We hope our honoured guests will enjoy the humble display of martial skill we have arranged for you.’
Chikaaki held aloft a small cloth bag.
‘We will draw the first opponents,’ he declared. He dug in the bag, pulled out a blue ball and held it up. ‘Nabootu, a freeman of this village will fight…’ – he dug in the bag once more and drew a red ball – ‘the Champion of our esteemed guest his Excellency General Yukio. The fighters will prepare themselves for the arena.’
Chikaaki approached the farmer’s hut and drew back the curtain.
‘It’s time,’ he said. The farmer emerged into daylight, white with terror, like a prisoner about to be led to his execution.
‘You will need your sword,’ prompted Chikaaki. The farmer ducked back inside the hut and retrieved the blade he had been lent for the tournament. He stood on the hut step and awkwardly held the sword.
Tengu took the measure of the farmer. A lifetime of poor nutrition had left him a hand span shorter than his opponent, but he was strong. Years spent cultivating the soil and tanning hides had built lean muscle and roped tendons. He hadn’t picked up a sword before, but desperate unschooled men could lash out in unpredictable ways. The Champion was a veteran warrior, but there was a slim chance the peasant might strike a death blow.
Chikaaki approached the Champion’s hut with deference. He cleared his throat and prepared to request the samurai’s presence for the contest, but the curtain was pulled back before he could speak and the Champion emerged. On the face of it, he looked formidable. He was heavy with muscle, sure-footed and powerful. But there was something about his gaze, a hint of melancholy that drew Tengu’s attention. He was a young man but he already seemed tired of killing. He yawned, stretched and cracked his knuckles.
Chikaaki faced the General’s retinue.
‘If his Excellency pleases, the fighters are ready to begin.’
The Archer carried his bow and a quiver of arrows into the woods and hid them beneath a trunk dusted with orange lichen. If he was stopped and interrogated by soldiers as he explored the forest it would be easier to excuse his presence if he didn’t have a weapon strapped to his back. He climbed a high crag and belly-crawled to the edge of a precipice, slowly so he didn’t shock a flurry of birds into the air and give away his position. He looked down on the distant shrine. He could see the expanse of flagstones and the half crescent of outbuildings. He could see people milling around, the crowd preparing to view the first bout of the tournament.
The shrine was surrounded by woodland which would give good cover for his approach, but would also block his aim. He could comfortably send an arrow four hundred paces across open ground. To secure a guaranteed kill shot to the heart he would need to be a hundred and fifty paces or less from his target. But heavy tree cover might force him to approach within twenty or thirty paces to get a clear view of his prey. It would make it difficult to escape in the immediate aftermath of the assassination.
He descended from the crag and began to pick his way across the wooded valley floor in search of some kind of elevation that would allow him to deliver an arrow and escape unchecked.
Chikaaki decreed that none of the swordsmen were to enter the killing ground with an advantage that could be bought in a marketplace, so those who brought armour had to leave it in their huts. The tournament contestants were to face each other as equals. Each man would be equipped with a sword, nothing more.
The Champion tied a red band round his forehead and swung his arms back and forth. He had spent his adulthood laced into heavy leather armour and felt light and unencumbered without his usual carapace. He walked to the centre of the killing ground and paced back and forth. The expectant villagers jostled to get close to the rope cordon and secure a clear view of the fight. The General emerged from his canvas pavilion in full armour and walked with great majesty to his stool. He sat down, his fan was placed in his hand and burly soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder behind him to protect his back.
The crowd parted as Nabootu approached the arena. The villagers stepped back as if the touch of a doomed man might transmit a fatal curse. The ragged farmer walked out onto the killing ground and retightened the blue rag tied round his head. His face was a mess of runes painted on his skin for luck and protection.
The Champion stood before General Yukio, gave a stiff bow then turned to face his opponent. The peasant was clearly terrified, his face twisted into a weird simian grimace.
Chikaaki stood at the edge of the ring and called for silence. When the crowd were fully hushed he held up a bell and said:
‘To the death.’
He struck the bell to signal the beginning of the bout and stepped aside.
The farmer summoned what courage he could, gripped his sword and ran at the Champion with a shrill scream. The Champion drew his blade, raised it above his head and bellowed an explosive war cry that froze the farmer in his tracks. The peasant stood paralysed, sword trembling in his hands. He panted with fear. Urine puddled at his feet. The Champion wanted to tell the wretched man to drop his weapon, turn and run from the arena. The peasant would be ridiculed and shunned by the villagers for years to come, but at least he would be alive.
‘Fight,’ urged the Champion. ‘Come on. At least fight.’
The farmer couldn’t move so the Champion took pity and ended his misery. He opened the man’s neck with a precise flick of his sword like a slaughterman dispatching a pig. Arterial spray jetted into the air and created a fine, pink mist. The peasant slapped a hand over the hole in his throat to stem the bleed. His eyes bulged in terror but he soon grew woozy as blood frothed between his fingers. He lost consciousness and toppled to the ground. His slashed throat bled freely, jetting blood slowing to a trickle as his heart fluttered to a standstill. The Champion bent and cleaned his blade on the hem of the peasant’s shirt and tried not to look at the sightless eyes that stared back at him. The crowd maintained an awed hush. The Champion approached the General and his retinue and bowed deeply. Yukio gave a curt nod of approval. This was his sole reward for risking his life, all he would ever receive for entering combat as the regimental Champion. To be the subject of General Yukio’s gaze, to have his insignificant life briefly intrude upon the thoughts of a Great Man.
Later, when the crowd had dispersed, Tengu stood at Kotau’s side and watched a couple of villagers drag the dead man across the flagstones and lay him under a tree. She supposed they would carry him back to the village at the end of the day, along with three other dead swordsmen, and bury him at the village graveyard. The soil would settle, the grass would grow and it would be as if he never existed.
‘Who was he?’ she asked.
‘A farmer called Nabootu. He and his brother both yearned for the same village girl. The brother was handsome and owned chickens whereas Nabootu was poor and ugly. He stood no chance of winning the girl’s heart unless he transformed his fortunes so, in a fit of desperation, he volunteered for this tournament in the hope of proving his valour and securing some kind of prize. His troubles are now at an end.’
‘I was born on a farm,’ lied Tengu. It was the kind of story Kotau would expect to hear from a young swordsman. ‘I left the village when I was young but my brother stayed behind. I often wonder what became of him.’
They watched the Champion wearily return to his hut. He sat on the step, unsheathed his knife and etched another death notch onto the hilt of his sword.
Tengu and the Monk sat in the shade of the hut’s doorway and waited for the next contestants to be drawn. The Monk pressed his back to the doorframe and tried to force his spine straight in preparation for the fight. He gritted his teeth and sweated with agony. Tengu fanned him with a fern leaf.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ asked Tengu. ‘Shall I fetch something for you to drink?’
The Monk shook his head. He seemed resigned to his discomfort, knowing the pain and indignity would be over soon. Tengu made conversation to help him pass the time. She pointed to the General’s pavilion and the empty stool from which General Yukio would observe the next fight.
‘There has been a rivalry between the Shōgun and the Imperial house for as long as anyone can remember,’ she said. ‘Who would you serve, if you were in a position to make a choice? If you were some provincial lord, to whom would you pledge your loyalty?’
‘The Emperor.’
‘Why?’
‘The Shōgun wields the power of a god, but the Emperor remains the Emperor. One can live by principle or be guided by day-to-day expediency, get blown this way and that by the winds of fortune like ship sailing stormy seas. I choose principle.’
‘But look at General Yukio. Look at all these soldiers mustered on his behalf. This regiment is a mere a sliver of the power at the Shōgun’s disposal whereas the Emperor is little more than a figurehead and commands a fraction of the men. Surely a pragmatist would side with the mighty.’
‘There is a natural order to the world. Grass is green, water is wet and the Emperor resides in Kyoto. Abandon that, surrender to chaos and the world will be consumed by darkness.’
Chikaaki walked to the centre of the arena and held aloft the colours bag. The crowd grew silent as they waited to see who would be drawn. Tengu held her breath. She dreaded the sight of the Monk’s yellow token, but a slim part of her wanted it to be drawn so she could confront the awful moment. Chikaaki drew a green ball and held it aloft.
The Ronin.
He drew a white ball.
Tattoo.
Tengu exhaled and relaxed, both relieved and frustrated. The Monk remained calm and untroubled.
‘So who do you favour in this contest?’ he asked, determined to remain composed despite the prospect of imminent death. Tengu tried to match his detachment.
‘The tattooed swordsman has admirable skill. His blade seems weightless in his hand. He can make it dance at the speed of thought and he is quick on his feet, but the Ronin clearly has more combat experience. In a fight of this nature, a showman versus a killer, one would have to favour the Ronin.’
Chikaaki summoned Tattoo from his hut. The swordsman had stripped to the waist and let his hair hang long and lank like he was some king of berserker. His arms and chest were etched with dragons and flames, inks that must have been vivid when they were first pricked into his skin, must have must have made him look like a daemonic silk screen, but had since faded to pale pastel. He spread his arms and walked a tight circle so everyone could see the savage dragon teeth and flames branded on his chest. He drew his blade and twirled the weapon. He sent it blurring around his neck, around his back, then back and forth between each hand. It was the kind of eye-catching display a travelling entertainer might stage in a marketplace.
The Ronin emerged from his hut and walked to the centre of the ring, subdued and calm. He was a burly man but didn’t swagger, didn’t puff out his chest. He walked with the self-possession of a true warrior.
Yukio’s adjutant entered the canvas pavilion and informed the General that the second contest was about to begin. Yukio emerged from his tent and sat on the stool. He looked the Ronin up and down and tried to get the measure of the battle-scarred veteran. He was the oldest competitor in the tournament but he looked formidable.
Tattoo and the Ronin bowed to the General, then turned to face each other.
‘To the death,’ declared Chikaaki. He rang the bell, stepped clear and the contest began.
Sword school training bouts in which young kohai battled each other with wooden bokken could last from dawn until dusk, but true combat rarely lasted more than a few heartbeats. The spectators would experience the fight primarily as a memory, reviewing the explosive movements to fully understand how one of the opponents came to be lying dead in pooling blood.
Tattoo whirled his sword back and forth in an acrobatic display, and launched a series of feints, hoping to provoke the Ronin to commit to a block or a strike that might leave him exposed. The Ronin remained calm and kept his guard. He ignored the blurring steel, focused on Tattoo’s eyes and waited for the man to attack. He subtly leaned backwards and increased the distance between himself and Tattoo. Tattoo instinctively stepped forward and in that brief moment of lessened concentration the Ronin struck. He sliced at waist height, a blow with such force it could have cut Tattoo clean in half. Tattoo managed to block the strike but his katana broke at the hilt and the crowd ducked as the detached blade scythed over their heads and slashed into the undergrowth.
The fight was over. Tattoo was disarmed and the Ronin grimly adjusted his grip on his sword, ready to deliver a decapitating death blow. But Tattoo suddenly screamed and launched himself forward, embraced the Ronin and brought him down. The Ronin’s head slammed against the flagstones with a sickening crack and the sword flew from his hand. He lay semi-conscious and woozily raised his arms to defend his face. Tattoo sat on his chest and slammed down the hilt of his broken sword. The impact mashed the Ronin’s nose with an audible bone crunch. A second blow broke his jaw. The Ronin spluttered blood and teeth, pawed the air and mewed in desperation. Tattoo hammered the old warrior’s head until the man’s skull cracked and caved in, his face was a pulped mess and all movement had ceased. He sat back and panted with exhaustion. His face and clothes were crimson with blood spray.
‘One can never underestimate a person’s will to live,’ marvelled the Monk.
The Priest paced the perimeter of the raked gravel garden. Anxiety made him restless. He wanted to hear news from the tournament. He wanted to hear that the deed was done, the assassin had loosed an arrow and Kotau was dead. He tried to remain calm and detached, but the rise of the House of Makoto had been his life’s work and now all he had built was under threat. The late lord had been an oaf but had married well. The tea plantation had been a dilapidated farmstead when Makoto’s wife first took residence. She visited a temple in Shinano renowned for its cultivation and had been impressed by the well-tended monastry. As a woman, she couldn’t speak to the abbot directly, but they communicated through intermediaries and the abbot gifted her with a novice tutored in the systematic cultivation of crops in return for a sizable donation to the temple’s coffers. The young novice was instructed to act as the Makoto clan’s spiritual adviser as well the overseer of their estate. It had taken most of his adult years to reshape the fortunes of the clan. He had hired farmers expert in the enrichment of soil with manure and bone meal to help boosts the plantation yield, and he had travelled to Kyoto many times to establish business terms with the city’s less reputable tea merchants.
An attendant hurried down the path. The Priest stood straight-backed and alert in expectation of news.
‘Forgive the intrusion, master. A religious mendicant has arrived at the main gate.’
‘Give him some food and send him on his way,’ said the Priest irritably.
‘He asked that you be presented with this flower.’
The attendant laid a chrysanthemum on a stone table. The Priest picked up the flower and examined it.
‘The Holy Man is still at the gate?’
‘Yes, master.’
The Priest smelled the flower. The chrysanthemum was the symbol of the Emperor. Clearly the itinerant Holy Man was less humble than he seemed.
‘Bring him to me.’
The Holy Man was escorted from the gate to the rear of the mansion. He was brought to the kitchen and given a bowl of rice, the standard hospitality extended to any traveller who might present himself at the gate asking for alms.
The Priest wandered into the kitchen. The cooks hurriedly dropped their utensils, wiped their hands and bowed. He stood over the mendicant and inspected his frayed robes and sun-burnished skin. The visitor was bald, little larger than a child and infinitely old. He looked up and smiled at the Priest, unimpressed by his silk robes and manicured fingernails.
‘It’s a fine day, Father,’ said the Priest. ‘Perhaps you should eat outside.’
They left the kitchen, walked to a secluded corner of the garden and sat side by side on a bench. The Holy Man ate his rice.
‘Have you travelled far?’ asked the Priest.
‘I am on an endless journey. There is no beginning and no end.’
‘How admirable. You represent the interests of an august personage in Kyoto, I presume. He wishes to buy my loyalty. What is his offer?’
‘There is no offer, no land, no money. Simply the observation that one can live in accord with the divine will, or one can become mired in the material world and succumb to disharmony and chaos.’
‘I take it you know the Shōgun’s man has arrived in this province. He and his regiment are camped near the river. No doubt he will come here soon to court my favour. He will offer money, perhaps a military garrison to help cement the Makoto estate’s dominance of the valley and surrounding hills in exchange for an oath of loyalty. You, on the other hand, bring nothing but a blessing.’
‘The emissary will certainly make such an offer. Although it remains to be seen whether he will address the offer to you. I hear you have a rival for his attention. A peasant is currently entertaining the General. He claims to be the new lord of the valley.’
‘Have you ever seen the monkeys that vagabond entertainers carry from one village to another? They dress the animals in robes, tie little wooden swords to their hands and make them fight. That wretch with a ring round his neck is no better than those carnival creatures. I have taken steps to end his charade.’
‘Good, then you will be able to turn your thoughts to the future. I ask nothing of you for now. I’m simply here to remind you that the Shōgun can bestow a degree of material wealth, and perhaps award some minor military rank, but we both know estates founded solely on coin are weak as a house of straw. Only the Emperor has it within his gift to elevate this family to the realms of the aristocracy. Only he can make their bloodline eternal. You have guided this family for many years, raised them from nothing to their current worldly prosperity. What more can you do for their line? What will be your legacy? The Shōgun can provide a few bags of gold but the Emperor can add their name to the pantheon of great families that have ruled Honshu for generations. Please bear that in mind.’
The Holy Man finished his rice and set his bowl aside.
‘Is that all you have to say? Is that the sum of your message?’
‘If I may be allowed to make one additional observation. The Shōgun has unparalleled martial might at his disposal yet the provinces of Honshu have been in chaos for generations. A reflective man might wonder how this great warrior has come to preside over year upon year of military failure. Perhaps he isn’t the strategic genius, the all-powerful ally, he purports to be.’
The Holy Man stood and bowed.
‘I shall remain in the valley a few days more. With your permission, I will visit once more before I leave, when perhaps we can discuss the future of the Makoto clan some more. In the meantime, you can find me near the village if you wish to speak before then.’
The Holy Man bowed once more and returned his bowl to the kitchen. The Priest remained in the garden and watched the visiting mendicant walk to the distant gate. Then he walked to the end of the cherry tree arbour where a gardener was burning dead branches and leaves, and thoughtfully added the chrysanthemum to the flames.
Late afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky and threw long shadows. Tengu kept the Monk company, but also kept a close watch on the tree line. If she were an assassin hiding in the bushes with a bow and arrow she would wait until nightfall to strike. She would make her escape via a practised route through the woods while her pursuers were hampered by the gathering darkness.
Chikaaki and Kotau lit the torches staked around the arena to provide additional light, then Chikaaki drew the colours for the penultimate bout. He drew purple for the Drunkard and brown for the Thief.
‘Well, the matter is resolved,’ said the Monk, now that the uncertainty was at an end and the order in which the fighters would take to the ring was settled. He seemed both resigned and strangely content. He would enjoy his last sunset, then a little later that evening he would face NoName in the final contest of the evening.
The crowd watched expectantly for the Drunkard to emerge from his hut but the curtain remained closed. Chikaaki cleared his throat and announced the man’s colour a second time. There was no movement from his sleeping quarters.
Tengu got to her feet and joined Kotau as he approached the hut with a lamp in his hand. He stood on the hut step and addressed the curtain.
‘Excuse me, noble sir. Your presence is required in the arena. The crowd are waiting.’
There was no reply.
‘Come out,’ shouted Tengu. ‘Time to fight.’ She waited a couple of breaths but heard no movement from inside. ‘We’re coming in,’ she warned, then pulled back the curtain and squinted into the shadows. The Drunkard was sprawled on a mat with an empty wine bottle at his side. Tengu crouched and slapped his face. ‘Wake up. Come on, open your eyes.’ The Drunkard moaned in his sleep and feebly tried to push him away. Kotau grabbed the water jug from the floor beside him and poured it over his face. The Drunkard thrashed and coughed.
‘Come on, you pig. The General is waiting.’
The Drunkard groaned and tried to shield his eyes from the lamplight. Kotau kicked him. The man clumsily got to his feet and stretched.
‘Pick up your sword,’ commanded Kotau. ‘Pull yourself together. You may have lived like a dog but at least you can die with some dignity.’
The Drunkard smoothed his wet hair, took a deep breath and gathered his composure. He tucked his sword into his obi and strode through the doorway out into the arena, all the while trying to walk and tall and steady. Tengu marvelled at the man. During his time at the tavern he had perpetually stunk of wine and carried a bottle wherever he went, yet had never seemed fully inebriated. It was as if he was able to steady his hands and focus his mind by force of will, as if he had drunk so much wine over the years it no longer fully clouded his thoughts. She got the impression the bottle he carried in his hand each day and the perpetual taste of wine on his lips were a comfort without which he would be lost.
Tengu and Kotau crossed the quadrangle to where the Thief sat cross-legged in his cage. He seemed relaxed and good-humoured, but Tengu could tell by the pulsing vein in his neck that his heart was hammering in anticipation of the fight. Two of the General’s soldiers flanked the cage, hands on the hilts of their swords, as Kotau cut the laboriously knotted twine which held the cage closed. The Thief climbed from the cage and stretched his cramped legs and back. Kotau put a katana in his hand then stepped back in case the Thief tried to grab him as a hostage. The Thief relished the heft of the weapon and glanced around, clearly calculating his chances of fighting his way to freedom. There were troops positioned around the arena, and another cordon of sentries half hidden in the undergrowth. He was surrounded by a ring of steel. If he attempted to flee he would be cut down almost immediately. He had little option but to join the Drunkard at the centre of the arena.
Tengu sat next to the Monk and waited for the bout to begin.
‘Who do you suppose will win?’ asked the Monk, gesturing to the two contenders.
‘The Thief,’ said Tengu. ‘The Drunkard might be habituated to wine but this time I think he has sunk so many bottles it has robbed him of his wits. Look at him. He’s struggling to hold himself upright. The Thief may have no martial training, but he is sober and a life spent among lowlifes will have taught him to prevail in a fight.’
‘We will see.’
Both fighters bowed to the General then turned to face one another. Chikaaki declared:
‘To the death,’ then rang the bell and stepped back.
The strange fight unfolded like something out of a dream. The Thief advanced in a crouch like a man used to the scuffle and thrust of back-alley knife fights. The Drunkard wove and swayed like he could barely stand upright, but somehow his erratic stagger helped him evade the slash and stab of his opponent’s blade. The Thief rallied his strength for a decisive lunge, but once again the Drunkard slid out of his path. The Thief stumbled as the blade struck the flagstones in a jet of sparks. The tip lodged in a crack and snapped. He tried to regain his balance and block a blow by the Drunkard, but the sword was knocked clean out of his hand and he fell to the ground. He rolled clear and stood defenceless.
‘You see? It’s all an act,’ said the Monk. ‘That man may stink of wine and carry a bottle everywhere he goes, but he is as sober as you or me. When it is time to fight, he is a clear-headed swordsman through and through.’
The Thief hung his head in defeat. The Drunkard stepped forward and raised his sword for the killing-stroke but the Thief suddenly sprang forward and delivered what at first appeared to be a punch to the jaw. The Drunkard staggered backwards, dropped his sword and gripped his chin. A murmur rippled through the crowd as they realized what had happened. The Thief must have palmed the broken tip of his sword as he rolled on the flagstones. He had slammed the tip into the Drunkard’s chin and nailed his mouth closed. The Drunkard roared in pain with his jaw locked tight, and blood frothed between his clenched teeth. He fell on his back and writhed. He tried to pull the sword shard from his chin but the steel was slick with blood. He sat up, desperate to defend himself. He tried to blink away the tears of pain and grope for his sword. The Thief aimed a sharp kick under his jaw, a blow which punched the sword tip further through the roof of the Drunkard’s mouth, up into his brain.
The Drunkard lay with his back arched, eyes rolling, legs dancing, until his violent spasms slowly subsided into death. The Thief panted with exhaustion and looked around at the crowd in angry defiance. He raised his fists and exulted to have survived when everyone present wanted him dead. Soldiers led him back to his cage and shut him inside but he sat behind the bamboo bars with the triumphant smile of a champion.
‘Extraordinary,’ said the Monk.
‘As you said, never underestimate the will to live.’
The Archer built a branch shelter in the woods next to the meandering stream that brought water from the hill to the river. He covered the lattice of branches with artfully placed bracken and leaves until the shelter merged with the forest underbrush. He crouched by the stream, painted his face with mud and dirtied his clothes to camouflage himself. He explored the forest to familiarize himself with the terrain in case he was discovered and had to flee for his life. He became sunlight and shadow each time he stopped and crouched, blended with foliage and tree bark, invisible except for the whites of his eyes.
He insinuated his way through the woodland on his hands and knees like something feral and predatory. He crossed clearings and parted leaves, avoided every twig and branch that might crack and betray his presence. He could hear the murmur of voices through the trees up ahead, the excited chatter of the crowd as another dead fighter was dragged from the arena.
The archer crawled closer to the edge of the trees in the hope of getting a clearer view of the shrine. He caught glimpses of village folk crowded into the ruins, but his position was still too deep in the forest to offer a clear vantage point. He was about to creep further forward when he glimpsed a soldier’s feet four paces away behind a bush. He looked around and saw another pair of crimson feet nearby. He realized he had crawled right up to a cordon of samurai hidden among the trees. He was hidden by underbrush, but the slightest sound might provoke the troops to investigate. The Archer fought bladder-loosening fear and remained as still as he could until he got his breathing under control. Slowly, and with infinite care, he began to reverse his movements and crawl back into the forest. He looked over his shoulder to make sure a misplaced knee wouldn’t snap the branches and twigs that littered the forest floor. When he was far enough from the soldiers to be hidden by trees he got to his feet and ran.
Nightfall. Tengu and the Monk sat on the hut step and waited for the final fight to be called. They sat in silence. She wanted to make the most of their last moments together but she didn’t know what to do or say.
Tengu looked across the quadrangle to the stretch of dirt where the dead swordsmen had been laid side by side. The farmer, the Ronin and the Drunkard. Their bodies were arranged neatly, with their arms by their sides, beneath a tree. She wondered who would get the Ronin’s armour. One of the villagers would probably unbuckle the thick leather plates prior to burial and sell them in town. It would fetch a high price. Just as a simple teapot could become a priceless treasure as it aged through use and became richly lacquered by tannin, the hide carapace had developed a deep gloss after years of wear and become imbued with the Ronin’s spirit. It would be keenly desired by any samurai who truly valued martial skill. Each corpse would be stripped of possessions in the same manner. Their purses, sandals, obis and swords would all be distributed among the villagers and sold. The swordsmen would be rolled near-naked into unmarked graves. An ignoble end, but each man had forsworn money and status, and would have expected nothing better.
The Monk followed the direction of Tengu’s gaze.
‘Did anyone know much about the old Ronin?’ asked the Monk.
‘I overheard him talk in the tavern last night. He was a member of General Motohide’s cavalry. He rode into battle at the head the army, said he had seen the ground painted red with blood many times, and saw the bodies of his comrades burned in piles. He laughed about his exploits, but one could tell he was haunted. He seemed trapped on the battlefield, locked in that moment of chaos and fear. The screams and clamour continued to fill his ears wherever he went.’
‘Well, he’s free of it all now.’
‘I don’t think anyone knew his name.’
‘It hardly matters.’
‘Maybe he had a family somewhere.’
‘He had no one.’
They watched a couple of the villagers lash branches to create a litter. They tied the Ronin’s body in place and hauled him towards the road.
The peasants hauled the Ronin from the shrine on a bamboo drag sledge and took the road back to the village. They had got a few paces down the track when Kotau called from the tree line.
‘Bring him here.’
They dragged the body out of sight and into a small clearing. Kotau staked a torch in the ground, unlaced the ropes and pulled back the dead man’s canvas shroud. He did it quickly and glanced around at the surrounding trees as if he was scared to be out in the open beyond the protection of General Yukio’s men. He pulled a knife from his sash and began to saw through the Ronin’s neck. He cut through flesh then twisted the head full circle until vertebrae cartilage ripped and snapped. He lifted the bearded head clear and the peasants watched in revulsion as he raised the dead man’s head by the topknot and examined his slack, milk-white face. He stared into the unseeing eyes, held the face close until he almost kissed the blue lips.
‘Bring each body to me before it is taken to the village for burial,’ ordered Kotau. ‘Tell no one. But don’t tip these carcasses in a hole until I have taken their heads, understand?’
The villagers nodded, faces betraying fear and disgust. Kotau stuffed the Ronin’s head in a sack and carried it back to the shrine.
Tengu and the Monk waited for Chikaaki to announce the final fight.
‘Sell my sword,’ said the Monk. ‘It’s old and corroded, but it will fetch a few coins at the market. Enough to persuade the villagers to let my body lie within their graveyard.’
‘I’ll see that you are buried with all due ceremony,’ said Tengu.
‘I’m pleased to quit this life. My departure is long overdue. A true warrior should die at the great noontide of his life, twenty-five summers or thereabouts, before his body and mind begin their slow deterioration. I left it too long. I allowed myself to succumb to age. That is my dishonour. Still, it is never too late to draw a sword and face a worthy adversary. May I ask a favour?’
‘Of course,’ said Tengu.
‘Will you watch me fight?’
‘No, I can’t. I will stay with you until it is time to fight, but you can’t ask me to watch you die.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Be my witness.’
‘There will be plenty of witnesses.’
‘These villagers are dumb as oxen. I don’t hold myself above common folk, you understand, but I want a bugeisha to see me fight, someone who comprehends what they see, someone who will carry my memory within their heart.’
‘I will watch, if that is what you truly want.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The fight seems to have been delayed. Do you wish to retire for a while before the fight to focus your thought? Spend some time alone in the hut? I can ensure you are not disturbed.’
‘No. I would rather sit here and enjoy the night air.’
They sat in silence a while longer, then Kotau returned to the arena from whatever errand had delayed him and resumed his position on the tavern’s raised porch overseeing the combat.
‘This is it,’ said Tengu. ‘The final fight is about to begin.’
Chikaaki walked to the centre of the arena, held up the yellow and black tokens and paraded them with great ceremony so the crowd could see.
‘The fighters will now present themselves for the final bout of the day,’ he announced.
The Monk struggled to his feet.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
‘Please live, for my sake,’ said Tengu.
‘I will miss you, little bird, but I have to go.’
He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled farewell, then shuffled to the centre of the arena.
Kotau approached NoName’s hut in case the swordsman hadn’t heard Chikaaki’s summons. He opened his mouth to rouse the man but the curtain was abruptly flung back and NoName emerged. He stood on the porch, drank in the night air and surveyed the crowd of onlookers. He watched the Monk limp to the centre of the quadrangle. He leaned close to Kotau and whispered:
‘What’s wrong with the man? He’s pale and sweating. Is he sick?’
‘He has injured his back. He has a boy who fetches and carries for him, and supports him when he walks.’
‘But why allow him compete? He can barely hold a sword.’
‘He has a reputation in these parts,’ said Kotau. ‘He killed a couple of bandits a few months back. Nobody actually saw him fight, but rumour spread that a Monk had passed near the valley, been threatened by vagabonds and cut down both men in the blink of an eye. He’s formidable, they say.’
‘But look at him. He’s in pain. He can barely hold himself upright. He might have been a worthy opponent a while ago, but at the moment he can barely move. This will be a shameful spectacle. You’re asking me to slaughter an invalid.’
‘The man wishes to fight. We cannot deny him the opportunity. It is not our decision to make.’
‘What if I refuse to take part in this grotesque nonsense?’
‘Imagine you were to find yourself in his position, sick, wracked with pain and yearning for an honourable end? Show him the same mercy you hope someone would show you.’
Chikaaki stood at the centre of the killing ground and beckoned the contestants. NoName reluctantly stretched and took position. The Monk shuffled to the centre of the ring, stood stooped and dabbed sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He was obviously in great pain and it took all his strength to hold himself upright. NoName couldn’t help but be relieved to have drawn such an ineffectual opponent in the first round of the tournament. He hated himself for feeling relieved, and hated the Monk for putting him in such a degrading position.
‘You understand that you are about to die, neh?’ said NoName. The Monk gave a reassuring smile in return, as if to say I want this. NoName looked around at the crowd. The Champion had remained in his hut, demonstrating an ostentatious disregard for any of the opponents he might face the following day. But the Thief gripped the bars of his cage and watched intently, and Tattoo had shouldered his way through the crowd and stood at the cordon rope, anxious to get the measure of his competitors.
NoName didn’t want to execute a sick man, didn’t want to soil his blade, but General Yukio and his staff expected blood. He had no choice but to perform the distasteful act.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Chikaaki, leaning close to the competitors.
The swordsmen nodded. He stepped back and declared:
‘To the death,’ and rang the commencement bell.
The Monk didn’t move. He stood tired and defeated as if waiting for execution, hung his head the way some livestock meekly submitted to the slaughterman’s knife. NoName decided to perform the act quickly and cleanly, for the Monk’s sake and his own. He drew his sword and slashed at the Monk’s neck, intending to open an artery and rob the man of life in an instant. The Monk blocked at lightning speed. He didn’t move position, barely raised his head, but drew his sword, deflected the blow then whipped his sword down in a knee-level counter-strike that forced NoName to jump over the blurring blade to save his feet. The fight began in earnest. The Monk stood perfectly still. Only his right arm moved, spinning and slicing, as he maintained a wall of steel. NoName circled the Monk but found him impossible to approach. Every strike was blocked and immediately followed by a vicious counter-blow that forced NoName to jump clear to avoid evisceration. A stab from the Monk tore his arm and NoName couldn’t help but smile, glad the Monk had proved a worthy adversary. The Monk also smiled, exhilarated that, despite his pain and immobility, his skill had not deserted him.
The fight ended in an instant. The Monk took a faltering step forward and launched a down strike intended to split NoName’s head in two. NoName should have jumped clear but instead he lunged beneath the descending blade and drove the tip of his katana so deep into his opponent’s belly it erupted from his back. The Monk grunted as if he had received a gut punch. NoName wrenched the weapon free and stepped away. The Monk dropped his sword, looked down and watched his yellow robe creep dark with blood. The crowd were silent as the two men faced each other. The Monk looked at NoName without animosity. He looked over at Tengu and smiled as if to say: Don’t worry. Everything is fine. Then he sank to his knees, toppled onto his side and died with an expression of blissful relief, all his pain at an end. NoName wiped his sword on the hem of the dead man’s robe, re-sheathed, then untied the black rag from his forehead and used it to bind the wound in his bicep. He walked back to his hut, sat on the steps and watched the Monk’s body being dragged by the ankles from the killing ground, leaving a red streak across the flagstones. The Monk’s yellow pennant was removed from one of the arena posts, leaving a bare stake.
Kotau crossed to NoName, crouched beside him and hissed:
‘Get up. You must bow to the General.’
NoName didn’t reply. He closed his eyes and withdrew into himself, glad to have lived through another day.
‘General Yukio is watching,’ said Kotau. ‘He expects to be acknowledged. He will be insulted if you don’t get to your feet and bow. That’s all you have to do. Just stand and bow.’
NoName ignored him. He slowed his breathing, calmed his pounding heart then retreated to the darkness of his hut. Kotau anxiously looked towards the General to see if he was angered by the slight. Yukio got to his feet and returned to the pavilion, his face unreadable.
The Monk’s body was laid beneath a tree. A couple of villagers started to wrap him in a canvas shroud. Tengu walked over to the tree and gently pushed the villagers aside.
‘Let me,’ she said. She tucked the shroud around the Monk’s body as if she was preparing a child for sleep. She drew the canvas over his calm, contented face and then lashed the shroud in twine and bound it tight. She helped lift the body onto a branch litter and gripped the frame ready to drag the Monk on a final journey down the road just as, days earlier, she had hauled him down remote tracks on a cart, but one of the villagers respectfully blocked her path.
‘This is our task,’ he said.
‘I must do this on my own.’
‘Please, noble sir. This is our task. You don’t need to soil your hands. It is time to take your leave of your comrade. Remember him as he was in life.’
Tengu nodded and reluctantly turned her back. Better to recall the Monk’s sardonic humour than the sight of his corpse strapped for burial.
She returned to the Monk’s hut and sat on the steps. She had known he would almost certainly die in the final bout, but nevertheless she still found herself shocked numb and thoughtless. She was sure the muffled meat-rip of NoName’s blade puncturing his belly below the ribs would stay with her for years. No doubt the villagers would be pleased to have a holy man buried in the village. His spirit would bring them luck. They would pray to him each harvest time, ask for his blessing.
Perhaps it was best she wasn’t present when the Monk was rolled into the ground. She didn’t want to see earth shovelled onto his body. She didn’t want to see labourers tamp the soil down. She would visit his grave when the tournament was over, lay a flower on his resting place as her last act before she left the valley.
She closed her eyes and prayed for the Monk. She had only known him a few days but she felt empty now he was gone. People pass in and out of our lives, she reminded herself. That’s what a holy man would say if she visited a temple and asked for advice. Enjoy their presence, the unique gifts they bring, but don’t try to hold on to them. The imagined lecture didn’t help lift her loneliness so she retired to the dark interior of the hut before someone saw her tears fall from her reddening eyes.
Kotau stood at the kitchen window and waited until the crowd had left the shrine. When the quadrangle was empty he retrieved a blood-darkened sack from the kitchen and carried it to the arena. He reached in the bag and removed the first severed head. The Ronin’s slack face was lit by the flicker of dying torchlight.
Chikaaki watched from the moon-shadowed porch as Kotau jammed and twisted the head into position at the top of the Ronin’s empty colour pole. He turned away in disgust and left Kotau to his macabre task.
When all four heads were positioned around the fight space Kotau stood back and admired his work. He paced the killing ground and enjoyed his audience of the dead.
Tengu couldn’t sleep. She lay in the dark beside the Monk’s empty mat and felt the hut walls close around her as if she had been entombed alive. She was desperate for space and air so she scrambled to her feet, ripped the entrance curtain aside and ran outside.
The arena was lit by moonlight and the single torch which had yet to burn out. She stood at the centre of the arena, looked up at the midnight sky and drank in the fabulous star field above her. She felt cleansed by the cool night air. Then she glanced down and recoiled in sudden horror as she saw the dead farmer staring at her from the shadows. For a moment she thought she was face-to-face with a vengeful spirit; then she realized the man’s severed head had been jammed on top of a stake. His face was still etched with protective spells and his unfocused eyes looked through and beyond her.
She backed away from the head and looked around the arena in horror. The Drunkard had been staked near the tavern, his eyes closed as if asleep. The Ronin’s head had been staked on the north side of the arena. The veteran warrior’s jaw hung open, giving his face a slack, imbecilic expression. She slowly turned around and looked behind her, already knowing what she would see. The Monk’s head stared back at her, still with his contented smile. She backed away before deciding she couldn’t leave his head mounted as a trophy. She had to take it to the village and restore it to his grave. She approached the stake and tried to summon the courage to wrench the head from its spike.
‘No,’ said a voice from the darkness. ‘Leave him there.’
Kotau emerged from the tavern’s shadow and entered the pool of torchlight.
‘The sight of the vanquished swordsmen will spur tomorrow’s contenders to fight even harder,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the prospect of ending the day mounted on a stake will concentrate their minds.’
He stared her down, torchlight dancing in the darkness of his eyes. Tengu realized she was alone among the ruins with something daemonic.
He flicked a coin. She instinctively snatched it out of the air.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, with a mock-courtly bow.
Tengu returned to the Monk’s hut and sat against the back wall. She toyed with the little bronze coin and thought about what it meant to serve monsters for money. She laid her sword ready across her lap, and waited for the dawn.
General Yukio retired to his quarters, allowed his servants to strip him of armour then knelt at his table. Tookage accompanied the servant who brought food and set a tray in front of the General. The tray held a single porcelain bowl. The servant lifted the lid. Yukio leaned forward, sniffed the noodle broth and scowled on finding himself presented with a peasant dish.
‘The swordsmen were offered a meal of their choice before they fought,’ explained Tookage. ‘The Ronin chose fish broth. He said it was his favourite meal.’
The General smiled. Tookage knew him well enough to know there was nothing he relished more than pleasures lost to the dead. It made him feel fiercely alive.
The General picked up his nashi, slowly lowered a clump of noodles into his mouth and relished their flavour.