Child of Vengeance (28 page)

Instead, silent tears streamed down the boy’s face.

Why does he cry for you, murderer?

Bennosuke was still, no racking sobs escaping him. The tears simply had nowhere else to go. Munisai’s face hardened. He wanted the boy to be angry, because anger was easier, but Bennosuke simply started cuffing at his eyes ashamedly. Munisai pushed him to no response. “Look at you—I give you a golden chance to prove yourself and you weep.

“Let me tell you of vengeance. Gods are vain and fickle, but vengeance is an honest thing born of man alone. It is as natural as breathing
and as old as time, and it overrides all—even duty to your lord. It does so because it is itself a duty, a holy moral duty, and anything can be forgiven in its name—so long as you are prepared to give everything for it. This is being samurai. Do you understand?

“Your mother did—Yoshiko knew what being samurai meant. I wronged her and became her enemy, and instead of crying and wailing, because she was samurai she committed herself to revenge. She debased herself and humiliated herself, bore all manner of shame, all to ruin me utterly. And she succeeded. Even I … Regardless of what I did, even I, the one she wronged, can respect the purity of that. She was a good woman, and you ought to be proud to be her son.

“Now tell me, does her blood run in you? You are a child born of vengeance—will you live up to what made you?”

Bennosuke said nothing. He had dried his eyes, but his face remained red as he looked at the floor. Munisai snarled wordlessly, pushed him again, grabbed his chin, and forced his face up. Again he saw himself in Bennosuke’s eyes, his own little more than furious narrow slits.

“Do you intend to recite sniveling prayers for the rest of your life? Or are you, as you say, a samurai?”

“Samurai.”

“Then you must uphold the sanctity of vengeance,” said Munisai. “It is that simple. You have an enemy in the Nakata and they must die. Take the sword from my dead hands. Live like a dog. Do what you must, endure whatever shame and humiliation will be thrown at you, commit your life to it—just make sure Hayato Nakata dies. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

“This is no small promise, boy,” said Munisai. “This is what will define you. This is what will define the fate of your soul. So tell me—what are you?”

“Samurai.”

“What will you uphold?”

“The sanctity of vengeance.”

“Good,” said Munisai, and let the boy go.

“But why … why do you have to die?” said Bennosuke after a
few moments. “Why can’t you come with me, and together we can get revenge?”

“I’m teaching you,” said Munisai, and a grim smile came across his face. “You are not a weakling or an idiot, boy. I know you can succeed. And when I said commit your life to this I meant it, for death will be the only thing that proves your vindication and removes all shame—death by your hand or theirs.”

He held his hand out for the longsword, still smiling. He was surprised how much effort it took to hold it steady. Bennosuke looked uncertainly at the weapon, and then handed it over. Munisai slid it into the sash around his waist.

“Quite a burden it must seem,” said Munisai. “But now you are coming to see the way the world is—peasants tend the fields, and they live. Artisans entertain, and they live. Merchants handle money, and they live. Samurai serve, and fight, and then they die. But only the names of samurai live on afterward, and we have the great gift to choose the stories that will be told about us.”

“I …” said Bennosuke. Confusion was written upon him.

“Watch this afternoon. You will see that seppuku carves a finer testament to a man than anything that could be set in stone. You will see the way men speak of me when it is done, and you will understand,” said Munisai.

“But …”

“You must not interfere, Bennosuke,” said Munisai, seeing a change behind the boy’s eyes. “Promise me that you will only watch, and that you will learn.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Good.”

Across the valley, a large palanquin breached the ridge. It was burgundy, and shimmered like a peacock. It was far too wide to be carried down the winding paddy field paths, and so the two dozen men carrying it began the ritual of setting it down.

His time with Bennosuke was ended. Munisai had to go present himself, and then prepare for death. It was so fleeting—this afternoon, thirteen years, forever. Then what difference did these last seconds make? A lot, he knew. He looked at the boy.

“Bennosuke,” he said, and the boy looked up. “You are a fine son. Regardless.”

It was not enough, but it was all he had.

LORD SHINMEN MET
Munisai halfway up the slopes of the valley. Behind him the many men the Nakata had invited along with them were being marshaled to their proper places. Munisai was not surprised at the number of them. The Nakata thrived on ostentation, and what better pomp than the end of an enemy?

In truth he was pleased. Many eyes watching meant that many mouths would bear testimony of his immaculate death.

They talked for a short while of nothing. Before Munisai excused himself, Shinmen presented him with a small cask. It was wet and smelled of seawater. Inside were four large oysters still alive in their shells, a favorite of Munisai’s, a rare delicacy. He had told no one of this, but Shinmen had known nonetheless.

He bowed to his smiling lord, speechless at the gift.

Back within his house, he stoked coals under a cast-iron grill, prised the oysters open with a knife, and then placed them over the heat to cook in their half shells. The gray flesh slowly began to sizzle. He watched them, savoring the smell, listening to the pop and hiss of seawater as though hearing it for the first and not the last time.

They were soon ready. Normally, even as he enjoyed them, at the back of his mind he would worry about them turning his stomach. But what fear had he of that today? Perhaps because of that absence, the four oysters tasted perfect.

His last meal done, he bathed with scented oils and soaps, shaved the pate of his head and his face, and bound his long hair up into the top knot. Then came time to dress.

The ceremonial kimono he would wear was a beautiful, perfect white. Donning it was a ritual and a challenge; the garment was designed to stop his body thrashing and spasming obscenely once his head left his shoulders, and so it contained many hidden constricting belts and binds. He found that tying them with his enfeebled left hand was nearly impossible. Munisai resorted to trying to use his mouth, but found that he simply ended up contorting himself into progressively stranger poses.

Sighing in resignation, he spat a cord out of his mouth and let the kimono slump around his feet. He realized how ridiculous he must look, half naked and half trussed for death. Suddenly he felt like laughing.

“Autumn, they say, is the best season to die,” said a voice behind him. He turned to find that Dorinbo had entered the house quietly and was standing in the doorway. “You see neither the death of the world in winter, and neither are you robbed of the promise of life that spring offers. The perfect cusp.

“Of course, these are the same men who describe what you are to perform this afternoon as the bloodflower. Quite how much faith I put in the words of men who see petals blooming instead of red blood being soaked up by a white kimono, I don’t know.”

“You’ve come,” said Munisai, “brother.”

“I’ve come, brother,” said Dorinbo, and he gestured at the garment on the floor. “Would you like some help?”

There was no enmity in the monk’s eyes. Munisai nodded assent silently, and his brother entered the room, picked the kimono from around his feet, and began to arrange it. Dorinbo’s binding of the prayer boughs had been good practice. He worked quickly, tying the knots with a surprising strength.

“I came to say thank you,” said Dorinbo as he worked. “It is brave of you to do this for Bennosuke.”

After a moment Munisai forced himself to say, “It’s not just for him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dorinbo. Munisai could feel his brother’s expression, even though the monk was behind him. He looked at the floor as the words slowly and awkwardly crept out.

“Today, I cross the Sanzu River. Yoshiko will be waiting for me there, upon the far banks of the dead. I wronged her. She did not deserve to die. But what I will do today: dying for Bennosuke—dying for
her
son. She’ll forgive me, won’t she?”

“I’m not in the habit of giving blind absolution, Munisai,” said Dorinbo quietly.

“But she has to,” said Munisai. “A death for a death—the karma balanced.”

“This is no simple mathematics, brother,” said Dorinbo, and he
let out a slight sigh that was half irritated and half pitying. “Let me ask you—are you really sacrificing yourself in atonement? Or are you merely saying that, and killing yourself because deep down within your soul it pleases your pride?”

“What are you talking about?” said Munisai. “That is not it at all.”

“Your soul is yours alone, and only you know the depths of it. But I’ve seen you wandering around last night and today with this wistful smile on your face, like a great poem is ending itself around you. Like things are so very … 
proper
. And I can’t tell which this is—sacrifice or vainglory.”

“I am certain of myself,” said Munisai.

“Well then, tell me, if so certain are you that this
is
sacrifice,” said Dorinbo. “In all the years since that night, have you ever once felt shame or a need to atone for all the peasants you murdered alongside Yoshiko?”

“I …” began Munisai, and faltered.

He hadn’t. It left him reeling for a moment. The monk had spoken so casually, never breaking pace in his work. Part of Munisai wondered if this was what it felt like in the final moments of all the men he had killed—a helpless gaping at a masterful, fateful blow that appeared to have been struck with the utmost ease.

“Yoshiko will forgive me,” said Munisai, shaking his head. He could not be distracted, and so he forced the monk’s thoughts from his mind. “She has to.”

“I truly hope so,” said Dorinbo. “It is not my role to pass that kind of judgment—I leave that to higher things than us, and those you must face this day. They will be far harsher than I, so do so honestly, brother.”

He finished tying the final binding. The monk stepped around from behind Munisai, and took a few paces backward to cast a critical eye over the finished appearance. He nodded approvingly, and then picked up the large overkimono.

“Regardless—thank you, Munisai,” he said. “Bennosuke will be raised well.”

“He already has,” said Munisai. “Thank you for that—for everything.”

Dorinbo held the overkimono open, and Munisai slid into it. It was pure white too, with large, bamboo-wired shoulders that arched out and hid his true shape. Dorinbo tied the thick white sash around his waist, and then came the swords upon the left hip as always. It was finished. There was nothing left to do but die.

They both knew this. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then Dorinbo bowed. He went to the door and slid it open. The afternoon sun poured in, and the monk took a deep breath as he let it wash over him, motes of dust caught in the light dancing around him.

“Would my arm ever have healed?” asked Munisai, if only for something to say in the silence. The monk turned to look at him through the corner of his eye.

“No,” he said, “not without a blessing from the gods.”

It was not funny, but they laughed anyway, for it was better to remember each other like that than the coldness between them. Munisai felt sudden regret wash through him for that, and all the years of separation before it. But it was forlorn and fleeting. When the smiles had died on their lips, Dorinbo lifted one hand in a gesture to the high sun.

“Amaterasu is watching,” he said. “Die well, Munisai.”

“I shall,” said Munisai.

They bowed to each other, and then the monk left. Dorinbo would not be attending the seppuku. The next time he saw Munisai, his body would be cold and his soul gone to face whatever judgment that he could not give.

K
azuteru approached Munisai’s house with trepidation. A great burden had been placed upon him. He stopped, checked his kimono, checked his hands for dirt, checked even if his breath smelled the slightest bit rotten. Nothing had deteriorated since the last time he had stopped thirty paces before.

The gate of the wall that surrounded the estate was open. He saw
no need to knock; Munisai would be expecting someone, if not him. Silently he entered the courtyard, and found his commander standing with his back to him, staring at the minutest details of a tree.

“My Lord Munisai,” he said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Munisai turned to him, the white shoulders of his kimono wide like two turtle shells, a dry purple leaf in his hand.

“Kazuteru?” he said after a moment.

“Yes, my lord,” Kazuteru said, whatever small amount of pride he felt at being remembered dwarfed by worry. He licked his lips. “Our Lord Shinmen has nominated me to be your second.”