Winter Raven (Path of the Samurai Book 1) Page 3

  The general thought it over.

  ‘I’ll speak to Raku and ask his counsel.’

  Raku had, days earlier, been dispatched to kill Akitane’s wife and sons. Motohide had given the shameful order one night after fortifying his nerve with three bottles of saké. He told himself that Akitane would enjoy the company of his family when they joined him in the after-world. The dead man would be a husband and father once more. He had, in a way, done his brother a service.

  ‘There is not time for debate,’ said Asaji. ‘Send him to Kyoto. Tell him to find out what he can.’

  ‘I’ll tell Raku to leave at dawn’ he said.

  The general’s wife bowed and left.

  Nara. The old Imperial capital. A city of temples.

  The samurai walked through the market. His hair was tied in a topknot and he wore a blue hakama, a blue kimono and a quilted hanten. His sword was tucked in the cotton obi tied round his waist. The sword had a plain, weathered sheath. It was a sturdy, unpretentious weapon which had clearly been by the man’s side for years.

  The market was an assault upon the senses. The samurai found the bustle of town overwhelming – the crowds, the noise, the smells. He craned to see above an ocean of straw hats. The harsh cacophony of clogs on cobbles hurt his ears.

  He patiently side-stepped milling pilgrims apologising each time he bumped shoulders. There were other samurai among the throng, proud men carrying swords and naginatas. They strode down the street expecting folk to clear a path. The samurai did his best to shrink into himself. He didn’t want to cross one of the ronin. A lingering stare might be perceived as an insult and an insult might lead to a fight. He averted his gaze, relaxed his shoulders and passed through the multitude as if he were invisible.

  Cart-stalls either side of the street sold pots and textiles, charms and amulets. He passed spice stalls loaded with sweet-smelling bowls of saffron, coriander and turmeric. Dried herbs hung by the bunch. He passed a tobacco vendor shouting for trade. A peddler tried to sell him a grilled eel.

  He scanned the row of storefronts until he found what he was looking for – the weathered sign of an apothecary.

  * * *

  The samurai stepped in from the street, let his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior of the apothecary and surveyed the racks of bottles – roots and herbs grouped by genus. He inspected a maple wall-chest with countless labelled drawers and studied an anatomical wall chart detailing meridian lines; the longitudinal and transverse pathways of ki.

  ‘Ohayo,’ he called. He was answered by a voice from out back:

  ‘One moment, please.’

  The samurai stroked the yellowed chart. Man, and his position within a harmonious Chinese cosmology.

  A physician emerged from a curtained back room. An old man with a white beard wearing a black silk jacket and a black skull cap gave the samurai a welcoming smile. He noted, from the subtle grey pallor of the samurai’s skin, that the swordsman was almost certainly dying.

  They bowed. The physician gestured for the samurai to sit in light thrown from the window.

  ‘Please. Make yourself comfortable.’

  The samurai knelt on cedar boards setting his pack on the floor next to him. He pulled the sword from his belt and laid it on top of the pack, tsuka within easy reach.

  ‘So. How can I assist you?’ asked the physician.

  The samurai hesitated. He was ashamed to admit he was in pain and, on some deep level, terrified. He wasn’t frightened of dying in battle. He was a warrior. He expected to die from a sword stroke, or the thrust of a naginata. There was little to fear. It would be quick. It would be easy. He would experience an instant of pain, then oblivion. But he was frightened of terminal sickness. He didn’t want to succumb to a flesh-rotting affliction that would strip away his dignity, his identity, and leave him a helpless, incontinent bag of bones.

  He pointed to the right side of his torso just below the ribs.

  ‘A stabbing sensation. Here. It comes and goes.’

  ‘How long have you had the pain?’

  ‘It started late spring. Slight, at first. Intermittent. Then, as summer wore on, it got worse. Almost constant.’

  The apothecary nodded. He assessed the timbre of the samurai’s voice. He suspected an imbalance of water.

  ‘Could you stand and take off your shirt?’

  The samurai took off his vest and kimono. The physician showed no reaction at the sight of a torso criss-crossed by battle scars. There were blade-slashes to each shoulder and a deep gash carved across the swordsman’s chest. They seemed to be old wounds. Pinched and puckered skin like the man had been injured during late-childhood, before he was fully grown.

  The physician probed the right side of the samurai’s chest, just below the ribs. The samurai flinched as the old man continued to probe as if he were trying to judge the dimensions of something beneath the skin. The physician held the samurai’s wrist a while and assessed the quality of his pulse. He had the samurai throw back his head and open his mouth so he could examine his tongue. The man’s teeth were dark near the gums suggesting he had used to blacken them with gallnut, but not for a long while.

  He pulled down one of the samurai’s lower eyelids and examined his eyes.

  ‘Look left. Look right. Thank you. You can put your shirt back on.’

  The samurai dressed.

  ‘You’ve lost weight?’

  ‘A little, I think.’

  ‘How is your sleep?’

  ‘Good enough.’

  ‘Your bowels?’

  ‘I pass water a lot. Especially at night.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Thirsty. I’m thirsty all the time.’

  The physician nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  The samurai resumed his position on the floor.

  ‘You have an excess of water, and an imbalance of earth. I will treat you and then I suggest you leave the city for a while. Monastic seclusion would be best. You need to restore balance to your mind, your body. Then, perhaps, your symptoms will diminish.’

  The samurai shook his head. ‘A man knows when he is dying. Tell me: how long do I have?’

  The apothecary looked away. He stood at the window and surveyed the street crowd.

  ‘How long do any of us have? I can see you are an intelligent man, so I won’t lie to you. Everyone who walks in that door is sick and looking for a cure. They want some potion that will help them defy nature. The maimed want to be whole and the old want to be young. Often, they find something better. They find understanding. They find acceptance.’

  The samurai took a slow, deep breath as he looked at a wall chart on the other side of the room. A circular depiction of the five elements. He experienced a moment of painfully heightened awareness. He could see, with febrile clarity, the brush strokes, the fine weave of the silk banner, threads hanging from the frayed hem. The child in him had wanted the physician to say: You are ill, but I have the cure. Take this preparation and you will be well again and live a long life. But there would be no reprieve. His time was done.

  He slowly exhaled.

  ‘I help people live well,’ said the physician. ‘But I cannot prolong life. No one can. There are people out there in the market who will sell you charms and trinkets to ward off illness. It’s all nonsense. Let me treat you. Let me alleviate your pain. Then follow my advice and find a monastery. You need peace. You need people who will look after you.’

  The physician unwrapped a packet of moxibustion sticks. He took a lacquered case from a shelf and lifted a lid. The samurai glimpsed rows of acupuncture needles laid on a silk bed.

  ‘No,’ said the samurai. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t have time for elaborate therapies. What can you give me? For a journey?’

  ‘There is no herb that will instantly transform your health. Please. Listen. You need peace and rest.’

  ‘I have a task to accomplish. Just give me a few more weeks of health. That’s all I
need.’

  The physician reluctantly closed his needle case and mixed a preparation. He ground roots, stalks, leafs, flowers and seeds in a pestle. Medicinal herbs collected from the apothecary’s garden behind the store. He laid a handful of paper twists on a table.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Shenqu. Hawthorn. Ginger. Many things. Consume this mixture each morning before you eat. Then find a high place, somewhere with plenty of air, and face the sun. It will help a little.’

  The samurai nodded.

  The physician placed another folded packet on the table.

  ‘You may have problems with your digestion in the days to come. Take this. Chinese snake gourd. A purgative.’

  ‘I’ve seen these symptoms before,’ said the samurai. ‘An uncle. His last days were unimaginable torment.’

  The physician nodded and sighed. He ducked behind the curtain and stepped into the back room, returning with a wooden box.

  ‘You understand this is against my advice. Drugging yourself insensible. It might alleviate the pain for a while, but your time is running out. You should be concerned for your soul.’

  ‘I have a job to complete over the coming days,’ said the samurai. ‘A final task I have to execute before I leave this world. I don’t care what happens to me after that. Please. I swore. I took an oath. Help me finish my work.’

  The samurai opened the slide-lid of the wooden box. It contained little green ampoules. He picked up one of the bottles and held it to the light, inspecting the clear liquid within.

  ‘Extract of poppy bulbs, among other things,’ said the physician. ‘Use it as a last resort.’

  The samurai nodded.

  ‘One of those vials will ease your pain for a while,’ said the physician. ‘But, as you say, your last days could be very difficult. Save the last four vials. When the pain becomes too much to bear, when you decide it is time to join your ancestors, drink them in quick succession. It will stop your heart. It won’t hurt. Death will take you like a deep sleep.’

  The samurai stowed the wooden box in his pack and stood, tucking his sword into his obi. He dug coins from his purse and laid them on the table.

  ‘Thank you for your help, physician-sama.’

  He stepped out into the busy street.

  * * *

  A tavern. Most of the patrons were in the back yard waiting for a dog fight to begin. Six starved mongrels were penned in bamboo cages draped with blankets. A chorus of snarls and barks suggested the competition would be keenly fought.

  The samurai sat cross-legged in the front room stroking the rough matting beside him. He thought about what it meant to be alive and aware and what it would mean to be dead. He listened to laughter and shouts from the yard out back. Men were placing bets. He felt utterly alone.

  The girl sat by the fire pit warming her hands. She poured hot saké from an iron kettle, carried the bowl to the samurai and knelt beside him.

  ‘So what have you heard?’ he asked.

  ‘The soldiers didn’t say much at first,’ said the girl, ‘but I filled their bowls a few times and they started to talk amongst themselves. A large consignment from China is due in a couple of days. They’ll avoid the main ports and aim to bring it ashore at a small harbour east of Tottori. Imperial troops will transport it to Kyoto by cart. The journey will take them through thick woodland – the perfect place for an ambush.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the samurai.

  ‘You think we can actually do it? You think we can kill the Emperor?’

  ‘All the pieces are falling into place. It seems the gods are smiling on our venture. It’s as if they are urging us onward, daring us to succeed. Give me one more drink, then we will leave.’

  The girl refilled his cup.

  ‘Did you find a physician?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the samurai.

  ‘So what did he say?’

  The samurai took a sip of saké and considered his reply.

  He said I’m dying. He says it will hurt. He says I should find a temple infirmary and spend my last days in prayer.

  ‘He said I should get some rest.’

  The girl and the samurai reached a forest glade in the late afternoon. The sun threw long shadows.

  The samurai paced the clearing studying the carpet of leaves and twigs. He looked for sure footing. Time to practise. He was sick but that was no reason to neglect his swordcraft.

  The girl sat on a log and watched.

  ‘Teach me,’ she said. ‘Teach me how to fight.’

  The samurai could have told her to forget the idea. He could have told the girl she had no business with a sword in her hand, but plenty of women were trained in martial arts. Wives and mothers who had to protect their homesteads and children with a naginata while their husbands were at war.

  Besides it was a long journey to the coast. They had walked many miles through wooded hills. He had walked upfront hacking his way through bamboo thickets with his sword while the girl walked a few paces behind following the track he had cut. A monotonous trek. They could both use some kind of respite, some kind of distraction.

  He cut two lengths of bamboo and tore away the stalks. He rapped the poles against a tree trunk to make sure they were robust.

  ‘I’ll attack. You defend.’

  She nodded agreement. The samurai was a master swordsman, but he was dying and his knowledge – experience draw from a lifetime of combat and contemplation – would die with him. She had made up her mind to become a samurai and would need to draw whatever lessons she could in the time he had left.

  He threw one of the poles to the girl and took a downward slice at her head before she had a chance to grab the pole out of the air and defend herself.

  She ducked the blow and rolled. She snatched up the pole and jumped to her feet.

  They faced each other at the centre of the glade, weapons raised. They circled, unblinking concentration, each waiting for the perfect instant to strike.

  The samurai smiled, amused at her aggression and focus. When he was younger he wanted a son. He looked forward to teaching his son how to ride, how to draw a bow, how to fight with a sword. He planned the boy’s first lessons. He would begin by teaching him to cut wood, how to heft an axe and channel its momentum. It would strengthen the boy’s arms and shoulders. Later, he would put bokken in his hands and teach him how to slice and block. But his wife had died in childbirth and his dreams of teaching a son and perhaps a grandson died with her. He had no children.

  ‘You’re weak,’ said the samurai. ‘But you’re fast, so play to that advantage. If you find yourself facing a soldier in full battledress, don’t try to hack through his armour. It takes a lot of strength, a man’s strength, to slice through leather plates. Instead, you should aim for areas of vulnerability. Target your opponent’s arms and legs. Strike at the arteries in their neck. And strike at the joint between the chest plate and groin guard, if you get the opportunity.’

  ‘When will you give me a real sword?’ she asked.

  The samurai advanced raining blows. He suddenly paused and restarted, trying to disrupt her concentration and break any sense of rhythm. She backed away, desperately trying to fend each strike.

  He spoke as they fought:

  ‘I met a man in a tavern one day. He was travelling ronin, like myself. He had a magnificent sword. He showed it to anyone who bought him a drink. Battlefield plunder from the Ōnin Wars, pulled from the belt of a dead samurai by his father. Dragons etched along the length of the blade. Couple of bowls of saké and he would wave it around. I stopped by that tavern a few days later and they told me the man was dead. He drank too much, talked too much and got into a fight. Someone hit him over the head with a kettle and killed him stone dead.’

  The samurai took a step back to indicate a pause in the practise bout. The girl caught her breath and adjusted her grip on the bamboo pole.

  ‘He learned a lesson,’ said the samurai. ‘A hard, hard lesson. A sword is just a strip
of metal. You,’ he said, pointing at the girl for emphasis, ‘You are the weapon. You are the killing blade. Understand? If you are determined to annihilate your opponent, if you attack him with concentrated fury, odds are you will prevail. Doesn’t matter if you are armed with a stick, a rock, or your bare hands. You’ll beat a swordsman trying to execute an elaborate technique.’ He slapped his lower belly. ‘Here. Your guts, your spirit. That’s where the battle is won or lost.’

  They squared up ready to resume the fight.

  ‘You’ll be shorter than most of you opponents,’ advised the samurai. ‘But any weakness can be turned into a strength. If you find yourself facing a big man in armour try to strike upward at their armpit, if you get the chance. A particularly useful weak spot. There’s a big artery near the surface of the skin. Stab an opponent in the armpit and they’ll bleed to death in moments.’

  She nodded. He lunged.

  * * *

  The girl sat on a log and massaged her sore hands while the samurai practised his craft. He centred himself, adjusted his footing and executed a series of lethal draw-cuts, a flourish that turned the act of unsheathing his sword into a killing slash.

  The girl looked around, troubled by the forest. Remote woodland. The kind of desolate, unpeopled place haunted by daemons. She expected to see leering, canine faces peering from the undergrowth.

  The samurai sliced the air as he cut down phantom opponents. He blocked. He span. He crouched. He released an explosive exhalation with each blow. His feet danced on a carpet of leaves, barley disturbing the brush. Combat moves executed as an elegant dance. He was light and nimble. He strove to remain thoughtless, effortless. Gentle as a summer breeze, yet lethal, absolute death.

  ‘So when did this idea enter your head?’ he asked as he struck invisible assailants. ‘When did you look at your reflection and glimpse a mighty warrior?’