Heart of the Ronin (41 page)

“No!” He realized that his voice had come out as a snarl. The boy stepped back again and almost ran away. Taro softened his voice, mellowed his tone. “No, I’m not a ronin. I’m a constable, and I’m looking for a ronin.”

“Why did you talk that way? That was scary.”

“I’m sorry. My voice is rough sometimes.”

“Show me your hand!”

“Very well.” Taro unwrapped the linen wrappings around his right hand, revealing the disfigured member that now served him so well.

Shota’s eyes grew wide when he saw the strange reddish flesh and the long, yellowed nails. His voice was a mixture of wonder and fear. “Scary! It’s the color of the oni statue guarding the temple.”

“Yes, that’s why I don’t show it to people. But you’re special. You won’t run away.”

“No, I won’t run away. I’m strong and brave.”

Taro looked at his hand with fresh eyes. Every time he exposed it, he felt a strange sense of wonder, as if it was not his own. His hand felt the same as it always had. Almost. The day he fought with the ronin, he had passed out from the bleeding. When he had regained consciousness, he was lying in a pool of his own blood, and his neatly severed right hand lay beside him. He remembered little, except for picking up his hand and feeling a sudden urge to hold the arm to the severed stump. A sudden slithering sensation, like worms in his skin, snakes in his muscles, spines in his bones. He was so surprised that he would have dropped the dead limb, except that it was attached once again by writhing shreds of flesh. He remembered losing consciousness again, and when he woke up, the arm had reattached itself completely. It took several more days before his fingers would work properly again, but he was whole again and able to pursue his vengeance against the ronin who maimed him and left him for dead. Over time, the flesh had changed color, as if he had dipped it in a vat of dye the color of clotting blood.

Since that day, not an hour passed that he did not burn for vengeance. Images of the horrible tortures he would inflict upon his prey filled his dreams. Painstaking dismemberment, burning, flaying, tearing, flensing, breaking, puncturing. The shivers of glee grew stronger with each more depraved thought.

But his thoughts were right and just. The ronin deserved it all. What was the ronin’s name? He couldn’t remember anymore, but he didn’t need to. He did not need to ask people if they had seen the ronin or knew where he was. Taro already
knew
how to find him. When he awoke in the morning, after a night of terrible, bloody, gleeful dreams, he could smell his quarry like fresh blood on the air. As the mornings wore on, the smell of the ronin’s blood became too confused with other smells, and he lost the trail, but he always picked it up again the following morning. And it was not just blood that he smelled; it was something else, something warm and metallic, like the taste of a silver coin. And it stirred memories of pain. When he thought about that smell, that taste, his heart thumped ever harder in his breast, until he was sure that everyone around him could hear the sound.

Since he left the sword school, he had made his way to the city of Hakata, then moved on to Hakozaki. He did not remember why Master Koga cast him out, but he remembered a reprimand of some kind, then leaving the school carrying his things. . . . He was too strong for the other students anyway. He always had to be careful, to hold himself back from hurting them. Well, they would not have to worry about him anymore. Master Koga could rest easy now that none of his other students would be harmed in practice again. They had all been weak.

His way seemed to point northeast along the coast. And every morning the scent strengthened, as if he was drawing nearer. Every morning, he could follow a little longer.

Then he wondered, why had he fought the ronin that day? Why had they dueled? What was the reason? The ronin had killed someone he knew? The ronin had cut him to pieces? Killed all his men and robbed him of a beautiful girl? Wait, that was not right. Parts of his memory felt like a dream. Why had he been chasing the ronin in the first place? He could not remember now, and it made him angry. Why could he not remember?

Shota reached out and touched Taro’s disfigured hand. But only for a moment before he recoiled, and the smile of wonder faded from his face.

“Don’t be afraid,” Taro said. “It’s only a hand.”

Shota took a step back, and his big brown eyes brimmed with fear.

“Where is your mother, Shota?”

The boy turned and pointed across the street. “She is home, washing laundry.”

“Where is your house?”

“Over there.”

“Your mother will be getting worried soon.”

The boy shrugged.

“Where is your father?”

“He’s working. He goes to the docks every day.”

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“Two sisters, but they are just
babies.
”

“Ah, so you’re the big boy, eh?” As Taro spoke, he found disconcerting thoughts passing through his mind, like strangers in the street. Thoughts he did not know, thoughts that did not feel like his own. Like how it would feel to crush this boy’s little skull like an eggshell, and how it would taste to drink his blood. And stranger still, part of him already knew! Part of him already knew that it would feel
good,
would taste
good.

He realized that his crimson right hand was stroking the top of the boy’s head. The boy’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide, staring up at Taro.

Taro pulled his hand away quickly. “There is no reason to be afraid,” he said quickly. “You are strong and brave.”

The boy gulped, and his voice was a whisper. “Strong and brave.” Then he took a step back. A tear trickled from his eye, making a streak in the dirt and fermented beans clinging to his ripe, red cheek.

Taro tasted blood on his lips. He touched his mouth with his left hand and found blood where he had bitten his lower lip. He licked the blood and a shudder went through him.

The boy took another step back, then turned and ran away toward his house.

Taro stood up languidly, like a snake coiling around a tree, and placed his basket hat upon his head. He brushed his fallen hair from his shoulders, wrapped his right hand in linen once again, adjusted his swords and his jitte. Shota disappeared into a house a few doors down the street. Taro watched him go.

* * *

Then, abruptly, he sat up. The room was dark. He had just been standing in the street, in full daylight! Now it was dark. He could feel the coolness of the night air, hear the chatter of crickets and frogs outside, the distant rustle of the surf.

He jumped to his feet, throwing the blanket aside. He was still clothed, and his weapons lay beside the sleeping mat. He looked around. This was a small room in a house, too poor and plain to be an inn. Where was he?

A moment of panic shot through him. Not again! More of his life had disappeared, and he found himself with no idea of where he was or how he had come to be there. He swore fervently. What was wrong with him?

What was that horrific smell? Death. Blood and death.

He could see clearly in the dark and looked down at his clothes. They were spattered with stiff, dark stains. He snatched up his weapons and thrust them through his sash. Then he stepped up to the thin paper door of the small room and shoved it aside.

The buzzing of flies filled the small room with the sound of death and pestilence. Shiny black specks glittered in the light of the dying fire in the central fire pit, clustering on the blood-spattered faces, crawling through the congealing blood. Five shapes, two large, three small, all lying scattered and broken around the room. And the smell was . . . delicious.

No!

Why did he think such things? That was . . . horrible!

He lunged for the front door, threw it open, and plunged down the street, running as fast as he could. The horror of what he had seen in that house paled beside the knowledge that
he
had done it, and that horror choked his throat closed until he could hardly breathe, and his breath wheezed and gurgled from his mouth.

Taro did not stop running for a long time.

Fourteen

Behind me the moon

Brushes shadows of pine trees

Lightly on the floor

—
Kikaku

The days passed into weeks, and the village returned to normal after the waves of gossip created by Tetta’s disappearance subsided into a period of quiet mourning. Ken’ishi sometimes heard whispers of fear as the townsfolk speculated on what could have happened to the innkeeper. A few still refused to accept the story that Yellow Tiger had killed him. It was as if people simply speculated and made up stories because those were more exciting than the truth. Perhaps it was because they never found Tetta’s corpse. Perhaps it was because Norikage and Ken’ishi were outsiders. Some still speculated that Tetta might be alive somewhere. Did a hungry ghost take him? Did he fall into the sea and drown? Had a trickster fox lured him away? Perhaps he went mad and wandered away. Did someone kill him and hide his body in the forest? Perhaps the whore had killed her master.

Idle suspicion thrown at Kiosé was something Ken’ishi had not expected, and it made him angry. Norikage told him, “
That
is what I was speaking of when I told you how insular these villagers can be. Kiosé is an outsider, like you and me, and worse, she is a whore. I suspected there were some who might blame her.”

But the weeks passed, and the cool, wet spring became a hot and humid summer. The air thickened, heavy and stifling. The heat did not relent, even at night. Ken’ishi often awoke in the morning soaked with sweat. Villagers toiled and complained just as they always had. Fireflies danced in the summer darkness. The sea beat against the shore with its unceasing rhythm. Monkeys chattered and screeched in the shade of the tree boughs. Frogs chirped in night-swathed bogs. The rice crop greened and grew, and the plums swelled and ripened on their branches. Kiosé began to swell also.

Throughout this time, Ken’ishi and Norikage watched Chiba and his brothers like falcons. Chiba remained defiant and reticent, but he gave them no proof or even further reason to believe he had anything to do with Tetta’s disappearance.

Then one day Ken’ishi’s noon meal was interrupted by a commotion outside his house, loud voices shouting his name. The day was hot and humid, his clothes clung to his back and arms, and the insects had been insistent in irritating him. As he put on his sword, he strode to the front door and slid it open. “What is it?” he demanded.

Standing outside his house were a dozen villagers, men and women, and he noticed that most of the men were woodsmen and carpenters. Their faces held the wide-eyed, hesitant look of people expected to be protected.

One of the carpenters stepped forward, a man named Ryu. “Ken’ishi-sama, there has been another disappearance! Gorobei is missing!”

Ken’ishi’s belly turned into a stone ball. Gorobei was a good man, a skilled carpenter with a kind spirit, and he had helped smooth the way for Ken’ishi’s grudging acceptance into village society. For a long moment, no words would come. Finally, he swallowed the lump in his throat and said, “Does anyone know where he was last seen?”

One man said, “I saw him two days ago.”

“He went to the inn two nights ago.”

“He said he was going into the forest sometime soon to find a special kind of wood.”

“The forest?” Ken’ishi said. “Which direction?”

The man who had spoken was another carpenter, one of Gorobei’s friendly rivals. “I don’t know. He was working on a very special thing, he said, and said that regular wood would not do for it.”
 

“What was it?” Ken’ishi asked.

“I don’t know.”

Ken’ishi said, “Everyone, be calm. I will get to the bottom of this.”

A voice from the back sneered, “That is what you said last time!”

Another voice said, “You brought us this bad fortune!”

“It all started after
you
came!”

“You have angered the spirits!”

“The kami hate you!”

Ken’ishi shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched for a moment, and his gaze flicked toward those voices, but he was unable to distinguish who had said those things. His ears began to burn. “Go home. Norikage and I will investigate, and we will find out what has happened to him.” But even as he spoke the words, he felt their hollowness. “Go home.” His eyes scanned the crowd and met nothing but unpleasant stares. “Go home. We will get to the bottom of this! I swear upon my honor!”

The villagers began to shuffle back to their homes. He overheard some of them speculating about the cause of the disappearances. Was it a kappa? A fox? Maybe it was a tengu playing tricks. He caught many skeptical glances as he waited for the crowd to disperse. Something terrible was happening, and only Ken’ishi could stop it. There was no one else.

He went to the constabulary and found Norikage already deep in thought. He told Norikage the news.

“I heard them out there,” Norikage said. “What do you want to do?”

“Go to Gorobei’s house and see if we find anything there.”

“Very well. Let us go.”

The house of Gorobei the carpenter was on the outer edge of the village, where he lived alone. He had no wife or living family. His skill earned him a good living in a modest house. Gorobei’s workshop was redolent with the rich, earthy smells of wood and oil, mixed with the sharp tang of lacquer. Lying in the corner were several similar-looking scraps of wood. All of them looked like abandoned attempts to create a scabbard for a sword.

“Now why would he be making a scabbard?” Norikage wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. You didn’t ask him?”

“I did not.” Norikage fingered his thin mustache. “Who would he make such a thing for? Perhaps he was making the scabbard for you. There are no other samurai in the area. I doubt that he somehow acquired a sword for himself. I know he made many bokken for you. Were you friendly with him?”

“We sometimes drank his plum wine together after he finished a commission.”