Winter Raven Read online

  ‘It’s an honest question. Why would you want to take up a sword?’

  ‘At home, I could see hills from my bedroom window. I always wondered what lay beyond those hills.’

  ‘You want freedom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The samurai doubled up and vomited.

  ‘Kyoto,’ said the girl. ‘We should go to Kyoto right away. Find another physician.’

  He shook his head, spat and wiped his mouth. ‘My time is up. Nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Go to the monastery. Make your peace with the world and let them look after you.’

  ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘Does it truly matter? You could spend your last days in comfort.’

  ‘It matters more than ever.’

  He closed his eyes, centred himself, listened to the rustling leaves of the trees around him.

  ‘Are you scared to die?’ asked the girl.

  ‘No. I’m not scared of death.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘I’m scared of decrepitude. I’m scared of not fulfilling my purpose.’

  He looked up at the darkening sky. ‘It doesn’t look like we’ll reach Tottori tonight. We had best make camp.’

  The samurai and the girl belly-crawled through undergrowth to a cliff edge. They heard gull-caws and the susurration of waves. They breathed ocean spray. The samurai pulled a curtain of coarse grass aside. The girl was astonished by the view. It was the first time she had seen the sea. As a child she had been told Honshu was an island by surrounding savage kingdoms which posed an eternal threat of invasion. But it wasn’t until, with her own eyes, she saw water stretching to the horizon she fully understood that a vast continent lay beyond the horizon. If she bought passage on a boat and sailed north she would reach China and its adjacent barbarian lands. If she jumped ashore, bought a horse and kept travelling she would soon pass beyond the boundaries of any known chart. She would hack through jungles, cross nameless deserts and would encounter alien civilisations each stranger than the last. It was exhilarating to imagine the worlds that lay beyond her experience. Reluctantly she brought herself back to the present.

  They surveyed the coastal inlet beneath them. They were overlooking a small fishing village – a crescent of wooden shacks facing the sea. There were upturned boats on the beach alongside piles of netting and iron cauldrons for distilling salt.

  ‘There they are,’ said the girl, pointing to the edge of the hamlet. Four soldiers lolled on grass near the treeline guarding a two-wheel cart and a grazing ox. They were peasant-stock who seemed to relish the absence of a commanding officer. Their errand had briefly liberated them from the iron discipline of their barracks and they were enjoying their few days of freedom.

  They weren’t many villagers around. Maybe the fishermen were keeping their wives and daughters shut away at home until the soldiers left.

  The samurai looked up and gauged the position of the sun. ‘The ship will come riding the morning tide,’ he said.

  * * *

  The ship turned the headland mid-morning. It was a twin-sailed vessel with a thatched crew cabin on the foredeck. The timbers were patched and weathered suggesting the ship had survived countless voyages and several typhoons. It sailed into harbour and anchored offshore.

  The fishermen and their families left their homes. Curiosity overcame caution. They gathered on the beach, intrigued to know why the solitude of the bay had been broken by a contingent of Imperial troops and a Chinese vessel.

  The infantrymen shouted at the villagers. They drove them back to their shacks and ordered them to stay there. The soldiers harnessed the ox and had it haul the cart down to the beach. The cart cut deep ruts in the sand.

  The infantrymen threw down their helmets and unstrapped their armour. They stripped to fundoshi and waded out to the boat, chest-deep by the time they reached the ship.

  The crew unknotted rope and pulled a sheet of oil cloth aside. The main cargo compartment was filled with small barrels. The crew passed kegs over the side of the ship to the soldiers waiting below who then headed back to shore carrying a barrel on each shoulder. When the cargo was fully unloaded the boat weighed anchor and set sail, rounding the headland and riding high in the water.

  The soldiers stacked the barrels in the wagon. When the cart was fully loaded the infantrymen dried and dressed, securing the barrels with rope and draping oil cloth over the consignment.

  ‘Twenty six kegs,’ murmured the samurai.

  The men laboured to roll the cart across the beach. The ox strained to pull the wagon. The troops put their shoulders to the rear of the cart and heaved, leading the cart through the fishing hamlet. Two soldiers walked in front and two walked behind. A couple of curious children approached. They drove them away with shouts and hurled stones.

  ‘You’d think they would send more troops,’ said the girl. ‘You’d think they would send a caravan of men given the value of the cargo.’

  ‘A simple subterfuge. The Imperial guard is evidently arming itself in secret, trying to stockpile weapons without alerting the Shōgun. If they sent a platoon of heavily armed men it might draw too much attention. This way, they pass unnoticed. If you didn’t know the nature of the consignment, if you hadn’t been tipped off, would you give them a second glance? Bored, ragged foot-soldiers escorting a cart. They could be hauling anything. Nails. Tallow. Anything at all.’

  ‘It looks like they’re taking the valley road through the forest.’

  ‘They used to have a bandit problem round here. A lot of fish didn’t reach the market so the local bailiff summoned troops and purged the area. Put a lot of heads on spikes.’

  ‘So they think the forest is safe.’

  The samurai nodded. ‘Poor wretches,’ he said. ‘They’ll be dead by sundown.’

  * * *

  The cart jolted along the forest track, the ox plodding mile after mile, its hooves sinking into leaf-mulch and mud. The soldiers walked alongside the cart with the blank resignation of men who had performed mindless grunt-work all their lives in exchange for a rice ration. There were three infantrymen led by a corporal all wearing conical helmets and tunics striped white with sweat salt. Their crude leather boots squelched and skidded in the mud. Weak sun shafted through the branches that arched over the track turning it to a claustrophobic tunnel of dappled light.

  ‘Hold on,’ said the corporal and raised a hand. They brought the ox to a stop.

  ‘Thought I heard something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Music. A flute.’

  The soldiers looked around, uneasy. They peered into the undergrowth for any sign of movement, any sign they were being stalked.

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ said one of the men.

  They listened hard. They heard the reassuring call of a wood pigeon from the branches high above them and a reciprocal call somewhere down the track.

  ‘Must have imagined it,’ murmured the corporal. ‘Letting fear getting the better of me.’

  ‘We should keep moving, Corporal-sama,’ said one of the men. ‘We need to get out of the woods by nightfall, before the daemons come.’

  The track entered a gully. Sheer rock walls loomed above them. They moved through the humid twilight in trepidation looking up at the slick granite and hanging vines. They were hemmed in – a good place for an ambush. This was the kind of backwater road starving ronin might haunt in the hope of stealing some coin. They had been assured the woods had been purged of bandits, but more might have taken their place.

  ‘Stay alert,’ said the corporal. ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’

  * * *

  They turned a corner. A girl stood in the middle of the gully with her hands behind her back. She seemed well groomed. She had sleek hair, a clean kimono and leather travel shoes.

  ‘Daemon,’ whispered one of the men, gripping a talisman hung round his neck.

  The corporal cautiously approached the girl. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  She didn
’t reply but casually pulled a two-reed flute from her obi and started to play.

  The corporal reached out like he wanted to place a hand on her shoulder to find out if she were made of flesh or smoke. He flinched as an arrow suddenly sang past his head. The man holding the ox reins froze as the arrow pierced his right eye. His face slackened. The reins fell from his hands as he dropped to his knees and pitched forward in the mud. The girl turned and ran.

  ‘Ambush,’ shouted the corporal to the remaining infantrymen, trying to break their shock and urge them to action. ‘Get out of here. Get back to the village. Await reinforcements. Guard the cargo with your lives.’

  The remaining troops unhitched the ox, threw their shoulders against the cart and struggled to turn it in the tight ravine. They grunted and strained as they frantically glanced around in case further attackers appeared.

  The corporal gripped his naginata and edged down the gully. He reached a corner and peered round the bend. He surveyed the sheer granite walls of the gorge, studied every crevice and shadow, but there was no sign of the girl.

  * * *

  The cartwheels were sunk deep in the mud so the infantrymen quickly removed the barrels to lighten the load. One man stood in the cart and tossed kegs to the soldier standing below. They moved fast, driven by panic. When the cart was unloaded they heaved it around to face the direction from which they came. One of the men started to reload the kegs.

  ‘Leave it,’ said his companion, itching to flee on foot. ‘Bandits. Forget the cargo. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Do you know what the bandits will do to us?’ said the infantryman, continuing to hurriedly stack barrels. ‘The same thing the guard will do to us if we abandon this consignment.’

  They finished loading the cart and coaxed the ox back towards the hemp harness. They pushed and slapped the animal’s flank to speed its progress, causing the nervous animal to trample the dead soldier, splintering bone.

  A dislodged rock clattered from a ledge high above them. One of the infantrymen finished securing the harness then turned to his companion to speak. An arrow caught him in the back of the neck. He fell against the cart and hit the ground, the jolt spurring the ox. The cart rolled forward, its wheel pressing the dead soldier’s head into the mud.

  The remaining man sprinted down the gorge. His helmet fell off and he dropped his naginata. He didn’t pause to pick them up but kept running. He heard the wind-whistle of an incoming arrow. The tip tore his tunic and gouged his thigh. He stumbled, regained his footing, and limped onward down the track.

  * * *

  The corporal edged down the gorge blinking sweat from his eyes. He warily looked around keeping his attention focused upward at the ledges and vegetation at the top of the gorge walls, ready for any bandits that might try to drop from above. He kept a white-knuckle grip on his naginata, ready to brace his legs and thrust at the first sign of threat.

  He heard approaching footsteps – the echoing rasp of leather travelling shoes approaching down the gorge. Someone was heading his way stepping rock-to-rock to avoid the mud.

  The samurai rounded the corner. The soldier took an involuntary step backwards. Although the samurai wore no armour his muscular composure, the intensity of his gaze, conveyed a deadly threat. The man had clearly seen plenty of combat. The corporal, on the other hand, had never been to war. He joined the Imperial Guard precisely because it was largely decorative. Food and a roof over his head and all he had to do was stand sentry at a palace gate and challenge visitors. He was about to pay for his lack of experience.

  As the samurai drew his sword the corporal turned to run.

  ‘No,’ bellowed the samurai.

  The soldier stopped in his tracks weak with fear. He had a gut conviction that no matter how far, how fast he ran, he wouldn’t be able to evade the samurai. There was no choice but to turn and face him.

  The samurai approached and the corporal realised his only infinitesimally slight chance of survival was to strike first and strike fast. He bellowed and lunged, his voice echoing back at him, boyish and filled with fear. It sounded like his first day in the guard, the first time they put a weapon in his hands and ordered him to charge a straw target.

  The samurai side-stepped the spear tip then struck twice. He barked a war-cry and advanced with two abrupt stamp-steps. The first cut sheered through the shaft of the naginata. The return stroke cut through leather armour and sliced open the soldier’s belly. The corporal dropped the remains of his naginata and gripped his stomach. He sank to his knees trying to stop his intestines from sliding between his fingers. A third sword-stroke sliced through his neck. His head hit the ground and rolled as his decapitated body crumpled sideways. The samurai wiped his sword on the hem of the dead man’s tunic.

  * * *

  The girl found the cart in a high section of gorge. The ox had come to a standstill half-crazed with fear. Its eyes rolled white and it snorted great plumes of steam-breath. The smell of blood and the screams of dying men had filled it with slaughter-house terror. She stroked and patted the ox as she circled the cart, checking the ropes to make sure the barrels were secure.

  Her attention was drawn by a something on the rock at her feet. She crouched and examined the splash of blood following its trail with her eye. Crimson drips mingled with mud-water. The trail headed down the gorge, then took a left turn behind an outcrop. She straightened up pulling a knife from her obi. The samurai had been insistent: there must be no witnesses, no one left alive to warn the Emperor of their plan.

  She crept forward, stepping rock-to-rock with the delicate precision of Noh. She cornered the outcrop, knife raised ready to stab.

  The injured soldier was crouched behind a boulder with a stone gripped in his hand, his face contorted into the desperate snarl of a trapped beast. It was a frozen moment. The girl experienced the heat-pounding realisation she was about to fight for her life. She looked at him. He looked at her. She tensed ready to attack.

  ‘Wait,’ said the samurai. He was standing a few paces distant watching the confrontation unfold. He had a look of dispassionate appraisal on his face like he was tempted to let the girl and the soldier fight it out, like a spectator at a cock fight curious to see who would prevail. ‘He could be useful.’

  The girl lowered her knife as the samurai approached the injured soldier. ‘Get up,’ he commanded.

  The soldier looked at the man and tried to gauge his chances of prevailing in a fight. He noticed fine blood drops on the skirt of the samurai’s kimono and realised with cold horror his companions were dead. He reluctantly dropped the rock and straightened up.

  ‘Move,’ said the samurai.

  They cut a length of leather lace from the soldier’s shoulder pad and used it to bind his wrists.

  ‘Get on the cart.’

  He climbed onto the wagon alongside the barrels. They bound his ankles.

  ‘We should collect up the bodies,’ said the samurai. ‘We need to cover our tracks.’

  The girl untied a rope, lifted the canvas and checked out the cargo. She prised open one of the kegs with a knife and ran coarse black powder though her fingers.

  ‘Careful,’ advised the samurai, checking the ox reins. ‘One spark. That’s all it takes.’

  * * *

  They walked the length of the gorge. The samurai lead the ox and the girl walked by his side. Four soldiers weighed down the cart. One living, three dead.

  They emerged from the gully and walked through the forest. The track climbed the side of a hill. They found themselves traversing the rim of a deep gorge. The samurai brought the ox to a halt.

  ‘Let’s ditch the bodies.’

  They rolled the three bodies from the cart and kicked them into the gorge. The injured soldier watched, sullen, as his dead comrades tumbled down the steep gradient and were swallowed by dense brush.

  * * *

  The girl cooked rabbit over a campfire, having skinned and spitted the animal under the samurai’s direction.
It was the first time she had cooked a meal. He usually provided a meal each evening but, by unspoken agreement, he had begun to teach her how to fend for herself. She turned the animal on a spit. Crisping flesh sweated fat. She cut thick strips with her knife.

  ‘Make it last,’ advised the samurai as she stuffed ribbons of meat in her mouth.

  The injured soldier watched them eat.

  ‘You froze,’ said the samurai, addressing the girl. ‘I watched. When you confronted this man you had a knife and were ready to use it. But you froze.’

  She nodded sipping water from a bamboo flask

  ‘I was scared.’

  ‘Killing a man at a distance is difficult enough. Stringing your arrow, taking aim, coldly deciding to take a life. It can be a terrible thing. But facing someone up close, someone determined to fight to the death, well, that’s something else entirely. Nothing can prepare you for it. The fear. Time stands still. All those elaborate sword techniques you practised in the dojo are forgotten in an instant. In the end it becomes a contest of will. Which of you is more determined to prevail.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘If you find yourself in that situation again, scream. It will break your paralysis and panic your opponent. Then attack. Hard and fast. Don’t give your opponent time to compose themselves and fight back. Overwhelm them. Like my master used to say: Leave no space for death to enter.

  ‘And don’t let violence become a vice. Hard to believe. But some men come to love the euphoria of combat. It’s addictive, like poppy sap.’

  The girl gave a discrete tilt of the head towards the captive soldier as if to say: What are we going to do with him?

  The samurai got to his feet. The girl joined him out of earshot of their prisoner.

  ‘You understand the situation,’ said the samurai. ‘We can’t let him go.’