The Ronin and the Green Maiden (3 page)

“And look at this!” From a crevice in the wall, she withdrew the tattered remnants of a cloth and straw doll. “There was a child here!” The joy on her face shifted, twisted, eyes squeezing shut. She sank to her knees, head bowed, and there she sat, stroking the moldy straw and ragged cloth. “A child,” she whispered. Droplets of tears fell into the dust before her knees.

He left her there and went searching the house and environs for firewood before the rain soaked everything. He returned with his arms full of branches and found her sweeping dust from the floor in great billowing clouds that jerked a sneeze out of him. She smiled at him as he entered, her eyes as bright and clear as if she had not just been weeping.

The susurration of the rain spread over the forest canopy, and the drops began to fall to the forest floor. The whisper of rain rose to a steady hiss in the chill dimness, but the fire formed a bastion of flickering warmth. They huddled together, warming themselves in silence. The rain sluiced into the corner of the room from the collapsed roof. Numerous other leaks dripped water onto spots, including the firepit, where the droplets struck patterns into the embers and hissed with steam.

“You have a strange way of looking at things,” he said, after a long time. “When we came in here, I saw nothing but a ruined hovel, a place to keep off the rain. But you saw something completely different. As if you were looking through a mirror into another time.”

“Does that bother you?”

“It reminds me of things my old teacher used to say, about how a man’s entire world can be twisted by perception. How his thoughts can be locked into patterns he cannot escape from.”

“Perhaps we are all a bit mad.”

“Even though he taught me this, among many things, it is difficult not to forget in the rush and trial of life in this world. I saw abandoned trash. You saw evidence of love.”

“Do you think me foolish?”

“Such emotions have no place in warrior’s heart. He must be prepared to kill or die in any given moment. I have sworn to protect you. I would die to do it. And yet...” Thoughts of everything he had lost, even having lived only twenty summers, drove a spike of pain into his heart. His parents to assassins’ blades. Nearly his humanity to the machinations of the fox-maiden, Haru. His foster parents to fear and distrust. His faithful canine friend, Akao, to a demon’s fury. His heart to Kazuko. And poor Little Frog, and Kiose, whose love had blinded her to the fact his heart would always belong to another, no matter how he might wish it otherwise.

She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder.

He let her.

Her shivers of cold traveled into him through her cheek.

She began to hum a quiet song, a soft, sweet melody he did not recognize.

He let her.

His heart began to pound again. The lust for her rose in him like a demon. Thoughts of her supple flesh under his touch, under his loins, her strange, brilliant eyes looking up into his with equal measures of desire...

Then he glanced at her, and found her face tilted toward his, lips parted, eyes glimmering with yearning for his kiss.

He felt his face drawn toward hers, a relentless pull. Their lips brushed, and fire bloomed in his belly, shot sparks into his groin. She thrust her lips hungrily into his. He took her by the shoulders and pressed her away.

Her eyes were swirling pools, glimmering with desire and confusion. “Kiss me, just once more,” she said.

And he did. With a power that brought the taste of blood into his mouth, he kissed her, devouring her, and her body melted to his, quiet sighs of burgeoning desire seeping from her.

Until he pushed her away.

He stood up, startling her.

“What is it?” she said.

“We cannot,” he said, but the words caught in his throat like barbs. “Honor demands it. I am sorry.”

He went outside and sat huddled under the eave against the side of the house, listening to the hidden rhythms of the rain over leaves and loam, letting the rain pass within a few finger-breadths of him, hoping the coolness of it could quench the fires already burning within.

* * *

The dimness of rain-soaked day faded seamlessly into night. Ken’ishi remained outside, wrapped in his blanket, clinging to the cold as a bulwark against the hot yearning. He sensed her small movements inside, huddled by the fire, sometimes snoring softly, sometimes weeping. His thoughts meandered between the lands of waking and dreams in a twisted morass of wishes and wants, anger and guilt. Love turned men into women, weakened resolve, distracted from the warrior’s way, yet burned like a fire unquenchable, a searing ember embedded in his flesh.

The rain diminished overnight until by morning it had ceased.

He awoke to the sound of Midori within the hut and the smell of fresh-cooked rice and searing meat.

He sat up at the smell of meat and went within.

She smiled up at him, but her eyes were distant and clouded. “Don’t be so sullen. I had some rabbit left in my pouch. Let us have breakfast and move on.”

The rabbit tasted fresher than something she might have had in her pouch for two days, but it was fresh-roasted over the fire, and his stomach roared for it.

They ate in silence, mounted the horse in silence, and traveled in silence, for a while. That Midori did not press herself so tightly against him today came both as a relief and a disappointment. Perhaps it was the
kami
who told him that something about this woman was unreachable to him, in spite of her advances, that there was too much unknown hiding behind beautiful smiles.

Higher on the slope, up under the canopy, the underbrush thinned, and the going was easier. He felt certain they would cross a path or a road soon. They crossed into a grove of bamboo that drove out all other trees. Their path wound between the hard, segmented stalks.

The sound of quick hoof beats, interspersed with the stallion’s, echoed through the grove. Two deer leaped into view, bouncing, running, dodging among the bamboo stalks, coming toward them.

Midori gasped with wonder.

The deer raced past them, ears and tails high.

Ken’ishi did not need the
kami
to warn him of danger. Deer never ran toward men unless running away from something even more dangerous.

A heartbeat later, heavier footfalls tore deep into the carpet of bamboo leaves, and a deep cavernous huffing came. The boar exploded through the underbrush in pursuit of the intruders. When its red, beady eyes caught sight of the horse and riders, it squealed in rage and veered toward them. With shocking speed, it was upon them.

The stallion reared, thrashing his hooves. Midori tumbled over the horse’s rump onto the ground. Ken’ishi heard the heavy thump as Thunder’s front hoof struck the boar’s head. It squealed in greater rage and pain, but its skull was armor enough. Slaver-coated yellow tusks flashed as it lunged and tore into the horse’s left side. The horse screamed.

Ken’ishi whipped out Silver Crane, but the boar was on the left side of the horse. His bow was tied to the saddle, its string safely coiled in a watertight box against the rain.

The horse stumbled. Ken’ishi leaped free, but landed hard on his back, almost losing his grip on Silver Crane. As the stallion went down, he snapped at the boar and tore a chunk of thick bristly hide from the beast’s neck.

The screams of the animal adversaries merged into a cacophony of battle, great slabs of bristled muscle tensed and straining. The boar dove into the horse’s belly, heedless of lethally thrashing hooves, and ripped.

The stallion stiffened and flopped onto his side.

Ken’ishi rolled to his feet and cried, “Here, beast! Taste my steel!”

Its feral eyes fixed upon him for a moment.

Then Midori began to recover from her fall, scrambling away.

It turned toward her and charged.

“No!” Ken’ishi roared and charged.

With incredible fleetness, Midori leaped into flight.

Its thrusting snout hooked her robes, ripping, halting her in mid-step.

Ken’ishi extended Silver Crane into a stretching lunge, piercing the boar’s haunch. It squealed and spun toward him, almost jerking the sword out of his hand, its snout swathed in scraps of Midori’s robe, scarlet-rimmed eyes glowing like flecks of pure hate. With a roar, it charged him. Ken’ishi had only a sliver of heartbeat to bring the point of his sword to bear. The tremendous weight impaled itself on the sword point halfway to the guard, and drove Ken’ishi skidding backwards on his feet for three full paces, before its momentum was arrested, its strength draining away with the blood bursting from its nose. For a long moment, man and boar stood eye-to-eye, motionless. The boar’s shudder traveled up the blade into Ken’ishi’s hands.

At the taste of blood, Silver Crane came alive, and power surged up his arms, like bellowed coals flaring with heat.

He dragged out the sword, raised it high, stepped to the side, and struck.

The boar’s head tumbled loose with a fountain of gore. Its body fell to the side, legs running, tearing up the leaves as if still in pursuit.

The battle fury surged through Ken’ishi’s blood, heating it with the anvil strikes of his heart. He slung the blood from his blade.

Unbridled sobbing found its way into his ears. He ran to where Midori lay.

The lower half of her robes were savagely shredded. He expected to see her bare legs gashed to the bone by the boar’s tusks, but only a smear of filthy slaver marred her fair thigh.

“Are you all right?” he said.

She flew up from the forest floor and flung her arms around him, sobbing and kissing his neck and cheek.

He returned her embrace, his heart thundering with heat. He thrust the point of Silver Crane into the moist earth, and took her in both arms.

Their lips crashed together, melding, parting, tongues darting, embracing.

Fire roared through him again, exploding gooseflesh all over his body, turning his manhood into a throbbing spear. A yearning heat burst from her, and she molded to him like steaming water.

The ragged folds of her robe parted at his tugging, and her questing hands found their way to his flesh.

There was no thought, only aching passion, as he pressed her down onto the bamboo leaves, and drove into her.

The scent of her musk mixed with the stench of blood in his nostrils.

Their bodies melted together in an exquisite rhythm that brought them both to ecstasy within moments. She cried out, clutching him with arms and legs, shuddering, convulsing as he spent himself in her.

“Yes,” she said.

The waves of pleasure subsided, and he rolled to the side, breath slowing.

She rolled onto him, and kissed him again. “Thank you,” she said.

He gazed with wonder upon her exquisite beauty, touched her face.

Then she sat up, gathered her robes, and stood.

And kept standing higher.

And higher.

Shoulders thickened. Her hair burst into a great dark bush. She towered over him now.

He scrambled back, leaping to his feet, snatching his sword free of the earth.

Her arms lengthened, her back broadened.

She turned toward him. Her legs turned to pillars, her arms to hairy tree branches. The emerald-green
menpo
appeared on the warrior’s face.

Ken’ishi raised his sword, naked from the waist down.

The massive warrior stood motionless, hands on hips.

“What are you?” Ken’ishi cried.

“I have returned to see you fulfill our bargain, samurai,” the man said.

“What do you want?”

“Very simple. The stroke that you promised me.”

Ice-water dashed through Ken’ishi.

The man drew his massive greatsword from the scabbard across his back. With thick-muscled arms, he handled it as if it weighed no more than a dagger. “Honor demands that you fulfill our bargain.” His voice darkened with promise and threat.

He saw now that this man’s eyes flickered with emerald-green, something he had not noticed before.

His mind swirled with questions about this bizarre turn of events, but there would be no denying this man. Ken’ishi had made a bargain; honor demanded that he fulfill it. This was never the end he had envisioned for himself. He had always fantasized about dying in battle for a lord, not here on some wilderness mountainside, at the hands of some nameless warrior. Nevertheless, ultimate death was the culmination of the Warrior’s Path.

Ken’ishi nodded and sheathed his sword. “Take your stroke.”

Without hesitation, the great blade swept up and slashed toward him. He imagined that he would be cleft from shoulder to waist to fall in two neatly severed pieces. But instead, he felt only a brushing whisper against his breast. His
kusode
fell open.

The warrior sheathed his blade.

Warm wetness flowed and spread down his chest, soaking the lips of the slice in his
kusode
. He tried to swallow the lump of surprise in his throat. “Thank you for my life.”