Dai-San - 03 (13 page)

It grew cooler. He began to ascend, the road continually doubling back upon itself as the incline became steeper. Large outcroppings of rock became frequent and at several points he felt certain that the Kisokaido had been cut through solid granite.

Gradually, he rose above the mist as the road wound up the slopes of a mountain. He broke out of it into the cool clear night, the sky above cloudy and restless. He turned, looking at the tall pines and cedars whose lower halves were still wrapped in its moist embrace.

It began to rain, a cleansing, drenching downpour, refreshing and invigorating, pattering and hissing along the rocks and earth and scrub brush of the mountain road.

He went on and ahead he could see, within a stand of dancing pine, a small three-sided wooden shelter, the stark, clean beauty of its construction illumined by a lone oiled paper lantern hanging within its interior. The torrent was already turning the narrow road to mud, as black soil washed downward and he was glad to find some sanctuary.

As he drew close, he saw that the lantern hung not from a beam of the shelter but rather from the side of a dappled mare which stood sleeping in one corner. By her side slumped a man in a wide straw hat, moisture beading its crown, rain still dripping off its brim.

Ronin entered the shelter. The horse’s tail flicked at a fly, her flank muscles jumping reflexively. The man did not move.

Ronin hunkered down in an opposite corner, inhaling the mingled scents of the cedar structure and the matted coat of the animal. There seemed no smell of human sweat.

He looked about him. The building was superbly constructed: clean, angular lines, simple, as befitted a mountain station; somehow regal in its austerity.

It was warmer in here despite the openness of one side, the architecture keeping out the damp chill of the downpour. Ronin turned his attention to the crouched figure but his lowered sedge hat concealed his face.

The rain hammered against the sloped wooden roof, the drumming lulling, hypnotic. Outside, the dark was alive with the obliquely falling rain, streaks of bouncing energy, silvered where the light from the lantern hit it.

The man in the dripping sedge hat stirred but his head did not lift.

The beat of the rain.

Ronin slept.

The man crouched before him, staring into his just-opened eyes. He resisted the impulse to jump up and draw his sword. He had glimpsed the man’s long blade as he had entered the shelter last night. Now he saw that he carried a shorter sword on his opposite hip. A warrior. Was he Bujun, then? He was dressed in a brown wrapped robe, embroidered with a green spoked wheel pattern, plain sandals. Lacquered reed greaves protected his legs from just under the knee to just above the ankle. On his back was strapped a small round shield, lacquered brown and green. His hair was shiny black, set in a queue. His features were flat. Ridges of muscle ran along the sides of his thick neck. Pouches of flesh hung beneath his eyes, which were almond-shaped but nevertheless rather peculiar. They reminded Ronin of someone else’s but he could not think of who.

‘Good morning to you, stranger.’ The man spoke softly. His eyes were unwavering.

‘Good morning.’

‘If one may be excused so rude a question: where are you from?’

Ronin said nothing, observing the other.

The man’s right hand drifted languidly to the slightly curved hilt of his long sword.

‘There are no strangers come to Ama-no-mori for many many years,’ said the man even more quietly. ‘Excuse me again, but I see that you are a warrior. I would know why one such as yourself would come to this island and how he came here.’

Ronin looked steadily into the black unfathomable eyes so close to his, keeping his gaze studiously away from the man’s hands.

‘I come to Ama-no-mori seeking the Bujun,’ he said slowly, ‘for I have been told by those who know that the Bujun, and only the Bujun, may aid me now.’ He allowed himself an unhurried breath. ‘It is on a quest of the greatest import that I have come to Ama-no-mori. I am here as a friend of the Bujun. I have spent much time and many lives have been lost so that I should be here now. A confrontation with you is the last thing I desire.’ His hands were motionless on his muscled thighs.

‘How came you to Ama-no-mori?’ said the man. ‘No ships were sighted.’

Ronin did not ask him how he could know this.

‘I did not come by ship,’ he said.

They were motionless. Outside, the rain had ceased sometime before dawn and the sun was already sparking along the granite and schist outcroppings. A rainbow arced in the air. Birds called sweetly from the high treetops behind them on the mountain slopes. Far away but quite clear in the still air, he heard the steady clop-clop of a horse’s hoofs along the path, ascending. The sky was white. The cedars were very green.

‘Someone comes,’ said Ronin.

The man grunted abruptly, a sound both incongruous and harmonious with the morning.

‘You may accompany me to Eido, if that is your wish.’

He stood up and turned away, went to his horse, and while the animal fed on dry grain, pulled a square tablet from his baggage.

‘Eat if you desire. This morning is too fine to pass up. I will paint for a time. Then will the journey resume.’

He strode to the edge of the enclosure, patting his mount’s withers, then went out and across the Kisokaido, squatting in the dappled sunlight at the far edge of the highway. He began to draw with a black brush in short, arcing strokes, sure and precise.

Ronin unwrapped the oiled paper Hoshi had given him, chewed on a piece of raw fish. It was still juicy. Wiping his mouth, he went out onto the road.

The air was clear and bright, the trees whispering behind him. The horse’s clop-clop was louder now and a small animal bounded out of the brush to his left, hopped down the road for several steps, then quickly disappeared behind a stand of thick cedars. The day was pungent with their fragrance.

The rider appeared, in sedge hat and deep gray riding cloak. He nodded to Ronin and, putting spurs to his steed’s flanks, went around a turning to their right.

Ronin went across the highway, stood beside the man.

‘What shall I call you?’

The man did not turn from his delicate, exacting work.

‘My name is Okami, stranger.’

Ronin squatted beside the man.

‘Does it have a meaning?’

Okami’s shoulders lifted, fell.

‘All Bujun names have a meaning. Mine means “snow-wolf” in the old tongue, though why my mother chose to call me that I cannot say. There were no okami within a hundred leagues of the village of my birth.’

Ronin listened to the cicadas for a time, absorbed in Okami’s drawing. Then he said: ‘Why is it, do you think, that we two, born in far distant lands, can yet speak to each other with little difficulty? One would think that—’

‘Why we are both men, of course,’ Okami said reasonably.

‘Are not the Bujun different?’

‘Many ages ago,’ said the other, ignoring him, ‘or so it is said by our fathers’ fathers, there were so many folk upon the face of the world, that they spoke a myriad of languages.’ He shrugged. ‘But that was a different time and it is known that these things change. When men spring from the same root, they can converse with one another without difficulty, though their birthplaces may differ.’ His hand moved deftly over the mulberry paper tablet. ‘Who knows, perhaps it is a shared destiny which makes it so.’

His skill was bringing to life the expanse of mountain, valley, and shelves of slopes which were before them. His rendering was delicate yet filled with a vitality proclaiming the vibrancy inherent in nature.

‘What is your name?’

Ronin told him.

His head turned from the scene on his lap. It was a strong, purposeful visage, the eyes intelligent and full of understanding. His high cheekbones and the firmness of his jaw gave him a stern appearance yet the flatness of his features helped to soften this effect.

‘Yes? Really.’ His eyes held a measure of surprise for only the briefest of instants. Then he returned to his painting. A swaying cedar blossomed under his brush point. ‘That is a Bujun word.’

It was Ronin’s turn to show surprise.

‘But—that cannot be.’

‘It is, stranger. Did I not say that all men come from the same root—’

‘But I am not Bujun.’

‘Well, you do not look Bujun—’

‘My people have never heard of Ama-no-mori—’

‘Is that so? In that case, how came you to know of this island?’

Ronin thought. The City of Ten Thousand Paths, where representatives of all lands had come together, dwelling beneath the surface of the world made uninhabitable by the sorcerous wars. Within that city had dwelt both his ancestors and the great Bujun mage, dor-Sefrith.

‘Perhaps,’ said Ronin, ‘it is possible.’

‘Of course,’ said Okami, seemingly satisfied.

‘What does it mean?’

‘A masterless warrior.’

Laughter burst forth from Ronin, and Okami turned, smiling quizzically, not understanding at all.

They left the station sometime before noon, ascending, then descending slightly as the will of the mountain road dictated. The gaunt crags slid by them in a solid wall on their right. Below them, to the left, the cliff fell gradually away, revealing tall copses of pine and, further down, flat wet fields of rice, shimmering in a heat haze.

‘I am Bujun, yes,’ said Okami.

‘Then you know of dor-Sefrith.’

‘Only myths survive from the old days, I am afraid.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘Very little.’ Okami put his arm along his horse’s mane. ‘Why is dor-Sefrith so important to you?’

‘I carry a piece of his writing that may save all of this world now.’

‘Ah,’ said Okami noncommittally. ‘Once the Bujun were the greatest warrior-mages in the history of this world and we lasted far into the new time, when virtually all other sorcery had vanished.’ He slapped the mare. ‘But that was many eons ago. Sorcery is no longer practiced here.’

‘But surely there are people here who can translate the old language.’

‘I am sure that in Eido we shall find such a one, Ronin.’ He smiled. ‘Until then, let us speak of pleasanter matters.’

At length they came upon a break in the inimical rock face to their right and were thus allowed a glimpse of a narrow defile, green, leafily shadowed, which opened onto a sunlit gorge down which tumbled an icy waterfall. Splayed rainbows danced at its base.

‘The day is hot,’ said Okami. ‘Shall we cool off in the water?’

‘I would reach Eido as swiftly as possible. Who knows how—’

‘You do not wish to reach the capital stinking like a simple farmer.’ He clapped Ronin on the back. ‘Come. One needs to break up any journey.’

The coolness of the defile was like a soothing balm. Okami, leading them through, tethered his horse beside a copse of pungent cedars and immediately stripped off his dusty clothes, dove into the frothy pool at the foot of the waterfall. With a brief glance around the gorge, Ronin joined him.

The water was icy and clear beneath the surface turbulence. Silver and blue fish darted away from Ronin’s arcing body. He turned upward before he hit bottom, breaking the skin of the pool and whipping his head around to clear his eyes of water. Then he bent his head and drank his fill, savoring the sweetness.

They dried off in the sun. The power of Okami’s heavily muscled frame did not escape Ronin’s notice.

‘May I see your other paintings?’

‘Certainly.’

Okami wrapped his robe about his still damp body and drew his pad from his saddlebags.

Ronin turned the pages slowly, fascinated by the economy of line which portrayed so stunningly the richness of the countryside and its inhabitants.

‘Each one is a station of the Kisokaido,’ said Okami.

Behind them, the water clattered busily down the rough-hewn walls of the gorge.

Ronin handed him the pad, began to get dressed.

‘Would you like to learn?’ said Okami.

Ronin looked up into the other’s face, perhaps to see if he were being mocked, but Okami’s eyes were serious.

‘Yes,’ he said, surprising himself. ‘I would like that very much.’

Three gray plovers left cover at the far end of the gorge, gusting into the sky.

‘Splendid! Let us return to the highway and we shall commence as we continue our journey.’ He turned to put the pad back into its case.

In that instant, Ronin heard the soft whistle and began to draw his sword. Apparently Okami heard it also, for he turned back. The arrow pierced his left shoulder.

Ronin’s blade was out; he was in a semicrouch, his eyes raking the dense foliage along the walls of the gorge. Okami grasped the shaft of the arrow and jerked powerfully. He threw the thing from him, simultaneously drawing his own long sword.

Down from the rocks, from behind their emerald cover, leapt five men. Long, slightly curved swords held before them in two-handed grips, they landed lightly beside the pool and advanced on the pair.

‘Resistance will be futile,’ said one, obviously the leader. ‘Surely you can see that you are outnumbered.’ The five moved closer, spreading out in a rough semi-circle. They were dressed similarly to Okami, in dark-colored robes and leather sandals. One carried a wooden bow obliquely across his back. Ronin saw no shields. ‘Please be good enough to hand us your money and your horse.’ When they did not move, the man said, somewhat harshly: ‘Drop your weapons.’

‘What you want from us,’ said Okami carefully, ‘you will have to get for yourselves.’

‘So be it,’ said the man. He gestured. ‘You two, take the tall one with the strange eyes.’

They leapt at once, howling, and he faced them with his right side, feeling the familiar jolt of power rushing through him at the onset of combat. His blade was held obliquely before him. Rock steady he stood as they hurled themselves at him. A strong pulse danced along the side of his neck and his lips broke involuntarily into a feral grin.

‘We take the other,’ called the leader as the remaining men advanced on Okami.

The two swung their swords high above them as they closed on Ronin and as they began their swift downward arcs, he bent his knees, feinted a slash to the right. The man on that side cut short his downswing to compensate for the expected attack. It did not come. Instead, Ronin veered his sword to the left and, having momentarily neutralized his first opponent, brought a vicious horizontal blow under the second man’s vertical strike. He caught the man squarely across the chest, the force cutting through cloth, skin, flesh, and cracking the breastbone. The man wailed and fell to the ground in a gush of blood.