Shike by Robert J. Shea (the reading list txt) đź“•
" 'A Zinja who kills a brother of the Order will die a thousand deaths.' "Jebu quoted The Zinja Manual, the Order's book of wisdom.
Fudo snorted. "That book is a collection of old women's tales. You are wrong, Jebu. The Father Abbot foolishly appointed us to guard you. We have only to say we killed you because you were trying to escape from the crypt."
"I don't know any Saying."
"Kill the dog and be done with it, Weicho."
The instant Jebu felt the point of the naginata press harder against his skin, he swung his hand over and struck the weapon aside. With a quick chop of his other hand he broke the long staff into which the blade was set. The curved steel blade splashed into the water, and Jebu felt around for it. He grabbed the broken wooden end and held the naginata blade like a sword. But he still dared not climb out of the crypt.
"Come and get me," he said.
"Come and get us," said Weicho.
"He won't," s
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The blunt tip of an armour-piercing arrow struck the statue squarely. With a ringing sound the porcelain goddess vanished. His arms were empty and a thousand white shards lay at his feet. She was gone, irrevocably, just as Yukio was gone for ever. The devastating realization of the loss of Yukio struck him with the force of a spear thrust. He staggered backwards. Ignoring the arrows that bounced off or stuck in his armour, moving neither slowly nor hastily, he turned and went back into the burning building. His naginata was leaning against a wall where he had left it. As soon as he held it, he felt a sensation of enormous power coursing into his hands, through his arms and shoulders, spreading throughout his entire body, as if a superior being were taking him over. Not Kwannon, but Hachiman, the god revered by all the Muratomo. He came out of the house at a run, swinging the naginata in a circle, feeling it bite through leather armour and flesh and bone, hearing screams.
He gave himself over to the forms and movements of battle that he had been practising from the time he was old enough to stand upright. The warriors surrounding him fell back before the whirling blade. They were veterans enough to read the face of the giant advancing upon them; they had seen men possessed by battle madness before. They knew that no ordinary soldiers, no ordinary weapons, could bring down a man in that state. They were cautious, because this was the last enemy they had to finish. None wanted to die this close to victory.
A lucky blow of a battle-axe cut through the staff of Jebu’s naginata, and the Mongols shrieked in triumph as the blade clanged to the ground. Jebu drew the sword that had killed Yukio and rushed his opponents. They tripped over one another, trying to escape, and many fell to the sword that looked so small in the hands of the huge man who wielded it. Steadily, sword in one hand, naginata staff in the other, Jebu drove them back past the ruined palisade to the narrow path where their numbers were useless to them, forced as they were to come at him one at a time. One at a time, they died.
Jebu was aware that some had slipped past him and were behind him in the ruins of the fort. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them hurrying in and out of the blazing building where Yukio had died. They’re after Yukio’s head, he thought. He wanted to return to the fort and stop them, but he could not turn his back. What happened to Yukio’s head no longer mattered, anyway. Nothing mattered now. Jebu was beyond wanting or not wanting. He felt a peace and a bliss beyond comprehension. His mind was filled with a pure, endless white light that blotted out every individual thought or feeling. At the same time, the world around him, its sights and sounds, its feel and its smells, was more vivid than it had ever been at any time in his life. In the midst of the howling Mongols he was perfectly happy, incredibly happy. There would never be a better time for him to die.
He had become the Self. In battle he could make no mistake. He was his opponents, and he was the sword in his hand. Time stretched towards infinity. The Mongols attacked him ever so slowly, as if wading through water. It was no trouble at all to drive his sword past their clumsy defences. There was even time for him to say the Prayer to a Eallen Enemy for each opponent who joined the pile of bodies in the ravine. This was the state Jebu’s masters in the Order called ultimate insight, that ecstatic condition in which the individual achieved complete union with the Self and could see the universe through the eyes of the Self. A single instant of ultimate insight, he had been taught, was worth a hundred lifetimes of ordinary consciousness.
The Mongols were backing away from him now, not attacking, and only their restricted position prevented them from running in panic. Each knew this superhuman being was going to kill him. Jebu was almost to the bend in the path now. It was growing darker. In winter, night fell in these mountains at about the hour of the ape. If he lasted until darkness was total, there was actually a chance of his escaping. At night, in these mountains, it would be nearly impossible to track down a single man. The thought disappointed him. He no longer wanted to live.
The intrusion of desire into his mind was enough to bring him down from the peak of ultimate insight. It was an ordinary warrior, sad, wounded, tired, who rounded the outcropping shielding the main body of Arghun’s troops from him. Beyond the rock the path was empty. The roadway curved in a long, concave arc, and at the other end of that arc, shadowy in the twilight, a line of mounted bowmen stood up in their stirrups, eyes narrowed, arrows unwaveringly pointed at him. At the head of the line sat Arghun on a stocky black Mongol pony, his deep red cloak rippling in the wind.
“Kill me!” Jebu roared, and held his arms out wide.
His face hard and immobile, Arghun raised a gauntleted hand and brought it down in a sweeping motion. Bowstrings thrummed in unison, a deep musical note that echoed from the rock walls. Arrows whistled and shrieked across the ravine. His arms still outstretched as if to gather the arrows in, Jebu felt their impact all over his body. There was no pain, only uncountable numbing shocks. He saw Taniko looking at him with her bright eyes, just as he had seen her in the heart of the Jewel earlier today. His last thought was: the Jewel. I should have thrown it away. Now Arghun will get it. Then he lost consciousness as he began the long fall into darkness.
OF TANIKO
Those who hold rank and power claim that the gods have set them up to rule over the people. In truth, rulers become rulers by tricking the people with just such stories as this, and by using force to make them submit. Whoever says the gods are responsible for the privilege of the few and the oppression of the many, slanders the gods.
THE ZINJA MANUAL
From the pillow book of Shima Taniko:
The wisteria blooms cluster like purple clouds among the pines. The cherry blossoms on the grounds of the Shogun’s castle are a delight. The sweet songs of the bush warbler beguile the ear. In the hills the creeks have become rivers, and the frozen silence of the waterfalls has turned to thunder. The roads to the northwest are open again. Already parties of samurai have set out in the direction of the land of Oshu. All this winter I have buried my dread under a calm exterior, even as the land lay buried under snow.
There has been much to occupy me and help me to keep calm. Continuously, I work on my kung-an. Driven by fear of Eisen’s mockery and scolding, I try to become the face I had before I was born, for I dread going to him without an answer. The chapel Eisen built himself in the woods above Kamakura has become part of the landscape. Pine seedlings grow from the roof tiles, and moss is spreading over the walls. Sametono, who is now officially my foster son, always goes with me to see Eisen. These two have a way of talking to each other that has nothing to do with speech. It is all winks and growls and gestures and strange cries. They greet each other with shouts of “Kwatz!”
My cousin Munetoki has become Sametono’s kenjutsu master. Hideyori’s suspicion is like a drawn bow pointed relentlessly at our hearts, and I fear for Sametono’s life, should he show that he has his father and grandfather’s proficiency with the sword. Still, he must learn the way of the warrior, unless he is to end up as a monk.
Hideyori has said nothing to me at all about Oshu. He busies himself with his two favourite occupations, statecraft and religion. The Bakufu is now as highly organized and has as many officials as the court of Kublai Khan. Whenever weather permits, Hideyori rides to the temple of Hachiman Dai-Bosatsu, where he is building a stupa, a holy tower, dedicated to his mother. I never met the lady, who died in exile after Domei’s insurrection, but Hideyori insists that she was a saint. I am sure his hatred of Yukio must arise, in part, from the rivalry between his mother and Yukio’s mother, my friend Lady Akimi.
Third Month, twentieth day
YEAR OF THE DOG
Visiting Taniko in the women’s hall of the Shogun’s palace, Ryuichi and his burly eldest son, Munetoki, accepted ch’ai from her with courteous compliments. When, she asked herself, had she seen that uneasy expression, a strange mixture of sorrow, shame and apology, on Uncle Ryuichi’s face? Long ago she had seen it, so long that she could not place it, even though the sight of it filled her with terror.
Where was Sametono? She wanted to draw him close to her.
“That is very handsome handwriting,” said Ryuichi politely, gesturing with his cup towards the alcove where Taniko had hung a large sheet of pale green paper. On it, Sametono had written a verse of the Diamond sutra, suggested by Eisen as a calligraphic exercise:
Though we speak of goodness, the Tathagata declares that there is no goodness. Such is merely a name.
Taniko lowered her eyes modestly. “It is the poor work of my unworthy son.”
“Sametono, madame, may grow up to be one of the finest swordsmen the Sunrise Land has ever seen,” said Munetoki fiercely. The epicene Ryuichi could hardly have produced a son more unlike him than Munetoki. Munetoki’s voice was always on the verge of a parade-ground shout. He sounded angry even when he was at his most benevolent. His eyes blazed and his thick moustache bristled. Seated on cushions in Taniko’s chambers, he had the air of a resting tiger. Since Taniko’s father, Bokuden, had no sons of his own, Munetoki was heir apparent to the chieftainship of the Shima clan. Sametono adored him.
“I am happy that my son’s efforts please his sensei,” said Taniko softly. Then she looked up quickly and fixed Munetoki’s piercing brown eyes with her own. “I would prefer that you not praise the boy too highly or too publicly, Munetokisan. It might prove embarrassing.”
Munetoki glowered at her as if she had said something outrageous. “Madame does not realize that there are samurai in the western provinces who would cheerfully give their lives for her. There are such men all over the Sunrise Land.” Taniko remembered the old samurai in the capital, years earlier, who had died defending her and Atsue from Motofusa’s retainers.
She dropped her eyes. “The first loyalty of all samurai is to the Shogun and the Bakufu. The Shogun in his vigilance against threats to the peace of the realm finds it hard to forget that Sametono is the last of Sogamori’s line, or that we Shima are a branch of the Takashi. I do not wish the Shogun to be unnecessarily vexed.”
“Concerning the peace, Lord Hideyori has less to fear now,” said Ryuichi with that
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