Читать книгу Ronin - William Dale Jennings - Страница 11

The honor of being chosen….

The old monk’s grave was easy to find in the cemetery near the crossroad. The marker was a square post of wood so new that it was white, the color of death. Having paid their most careful respects to a man they’d never seen, the three youths went on to the village.

They were met by a quiet little crowd, given rice and directions, and gravely embarrassed by the awe and gratitude of these faded peasants. The village, too, had that terrible melancholy of a thousand others, a new melancholy just eight days old. They left as soon as decorum permitted.

Erect and silent, the three traveled to the next village south. Again they were expected. There was much rice and bowing, both of which they returned. Now there were detailed descriptions of the man they were seeking. The dimensions of his body, strength and evil far exceeded the excellence of heroes. They continued to the next village south and then to the next, and suspense immobilized the province as ice stills the surface of a river.

Each of the three tried desperately to be ignorant of the myriad prayers that followed them. Nor did they look directly at the hundreds of boys and young men who studied them with reverence. Still boys themselves, they felt a deep sadness at this universal envy of a man willing to work very hard. And the envy of their beautiful and terrible mission. The air shimmered with silent whispering: One day I shall be a kind, good warrior dedicated to righting wrongs! The first chance I get. Even mothers murmured: If he has to leave us, let him leave like this, a pure, strong man with a cause as sublimely righteous.

They went southward to another village, and then one more. It was here that they found him.

The countryside was terrorized. Offended at some imagined slight, the Ronin had set fire to the biggest house in the village and stood with drawn sword to prevent any attempts to put it out. Then he discovered a young farm girl working in the millet field after the others had fled. She was the most beautiful virgin in the province and had great expectations. Being a man who lived in a state of acceleration, the Ronin combined his initial greeting and an invitation to the horizontal in the same sentence. Instead of salivating, she spat in his face.

Laughing as if he were amused, he took her to the inn and tied her to a rafter by her long jet hair. Just the tips of her toes touched the earthen floor. her refusal to weep or beg took the enjoyment out of his morning saké. Familiar with peasant propriety, he stripped her naked. A tempest of outrage swept the village; both men and women came in droves to peek through the shutters and be horrified.

He announced his intentions to the unseen audience in a loud, clear voice. This rude girl who shamed the most hospitable empire on earth, would hang from that rafter until she begged him politely to relieve the natural tension of her maidenhead. Time, of course, meant absolutely nothing to him; he was quite willing to stay here just as long as she was. And should any fool be rash enough to attempt her rescue, that man would find himself hanging beside her by his balls. He’d learned how to do this from the pirates of the Three Han.

At the time of the arrival of the three youths, the maiden had hung there a day, a night and now half of a second day, without food, water, tears or begging. The peasants’ tension had stretched to the point of general irritation that she was detaining him in the village so long with her pointless stubbornness.

It should not be assumed that the Ronin enjoyed the situation. His vanity was deeply wounded that the girl should prefer torture to his offer of the Ultimate Gallantry. He longed to bathe but that would look like a gesture of compromise; she must take him as he was. His departure must signify to everyone in the region that she was no longer a virgin and, further, that she had asked him to change her condition.

But as her inert body turned slowly on the rope, and her large toes traced two circles in the dust, his astonishment rose like a reluctant sun. He found himself in the very uncomfortable position of understanding her pointless pride. There were times that he wanted to embrace her gently and whisper, “Just ask and I swear I’ll leave the village at a run. For I am burdened with this same pride.”

The fact was that he didn’t really need her body, and anyway maidenheads are always more or less annoying.

The three youths were hurried in the back door of the Temple with reverence reserved for princes. There the best calligrapher among them wrote a formal request to the Great Lord of the Castle for permission to carry out their vendetta within the village precincts. It was denied immediately and emphatically. The Great Lord’s reply expatiated at great length on the evils of private revenge and expressed the hope that they would do nothing dishonorable during his absence. Away for an indefinite stay at the Capital, he would be completely powerless to prevent them from disturbing the peace, casting reflections on his honor and ridding the realm of a vile beast. The letter ended with the wholly extraneous information that he and his entire court were departing this same day.

For weeks retainers would be hurrying back to the Castle for necessaries they hadn’t had time to pack.

The three sent a second note to the Ronin himself. It requested his presence at the Bridge of the Gentle River’s Passing at the Hour of the Tiger on the following day. The purpose of the meeting was to straighten out certain matters pertaining to the abrupt decease of an elderly monk in the fifth village north. They signed with the new Zen names given them by their teacher

The Ronin’s brows rose. He’d never heard of any of them. This could mean that they were all master swords-men traveling under assumed names or fine new talent that he’d missed hearing of in his travels. He seemed more interested than concerned. He breathed deeply and sifted the air with his nose. There was no danger.

On an impulse, he tucked the letter between the girl’s buttocks. A corner stuck out like an impudent little rabbit’s tail. For some reason, the sight amused him. He began laughing uncontrollably, ended red-faced and gasping. No danger, no danger. He left the inn detailing loudly what would happen if the girl were touched.

Long before the Hour of the Tiger, the three young swordsmen arrived at the bridge, undressed and waded into the cold water to bathe as a samurai must before each test of his skill. They had allowed plenty of time to scrub one another, dry well, to dress properly according to all the rules and even meditate briefly before the Ronin was due.

Then they were still. The three stood naked in the water looking up at the big man on the bank between them and their swords. He grunted: “But you’re just children! And as scared as a kid about to have his first piece!” At this implication of fear, one walked out of the water and straight up the bank to the Ronin, leaving glistening footprints on the rocks. The boy said, “When we have finished bathing and have dressed properly, you may choose your opponent from among us.”

The Ronin looked up and down the glistening boy and grunted again: “But didn’t your sensei ever tell you that courage and skill are not enough? Did he leave you to learn cunning from somebody like me?” There was a moment of stillness, then, his arms becoming a blur, he sliced the boy precisely in two. The blade went between the eyes, through the navel and finally separated one testicle from the other.

As the body divided and fell, the other two scrambled up the bank. The first to reach his sword stared in dismay as his hands vanished from his wrists. He sank into a sitting position and watched intensely as the third swept up his sword and fought in naked fury.

The Ronin was pleased at the boy’s skill and almost impatient when the young feet slipped in the mud and his own blade entered the exposed throat. A great gush of blood arced many feet through the air.

The sitting boy wept without shame and asked to die with odd words: “Please cut the harp strings. There is no more music.” The Ronin grimaced. The sword blurred. The head rolled yard after yard down the bank and into the water. Only after several moments did the eyelids cease quivering, and the mouth was still.

The big man walked back into the village very much annoyed. How could any swordsman be so bad a teacher as theirs! It degraded Bushido and it wasn’t really fair to the boys. As his irritation grew, he decided to have the girl when he got back—whether she asked him or not.

Of course, some fool had counted on the three boys winning and had cut her down. He’d expected that, but it came as a real surprise to see the girl still there. She was crouched naked in a corner with her long black hair covering pale flesh. He roared laughter when he saw that the little rabbit tail was still there.

It seemed he’d never known such joy as when he covered her on the earthen floor. His great body thudded down on hers through all the hours of the morning, and her nails dug into his arms and back.

In those hours he realized that he had infinite power in all things. He could do anything he wished and nothing could stop him. His would be an astonishing destiny.