Shike by Robert J. Shea (the reading list txt) 📕

Sliding back down the hillside, Jebu stopped at the body of one of the tsuibushi. He rolled it over and studied the young face, tough and stupid-looking even in death. Yet this commonplace countenance had been in life a marvel of intricately co-ordinated parts. The most skilful artist in the world could not create a statue that could duplicate the delicate and complex movements of that mouth, now slack. And the miracle of beauty that had been this country ne’er-do-well was now ended by a single crude blow from a feathered stick with a metal point. That exquisite structure, its movements ceased, was now already beginning to turn back into slime. Jebu squatted beside the body, his hands hanging limply between his knees. I did this.

In his mind he recited the Prayer to a Fallen Enemy. I am heartily sorry for having killed you. I apologize to you a thousand times and ask your forgiveness a hundred thousand times. I declare to all the kami of this place who witnessed our encounter that I alone am to blame for your death, and I take upon myself all the karma stemming from killing you. May your spirit not be angry with me. May you find happiness in your next life and may we meet again as friends.

He said the same prayer to the other tsuibushi and then to the headless, leather-and-steel-clad body of Nakane Ikeno, the first man he had ever killed.

The safest thing to do with the bodies, Jebu decided, was to dump them into the sea. If the waves cast them up on shore again, it might be days or weeks from now, by which time Taniko and he would be far away from this part of the country. And with luck the bodies would be eaten by fish and never seen again.

As if reading his thoughts, Moko came to stand beside him and said, “I make bold to tell the shik��, this oryoshi stood well with the Muratomo. If it became known who killed Ikeno, the shik�� would have powerful enemies.”

“You give me a reason to kill you.”

“You already have reasons, and you have decided not to kill me. My life is in your hands at all times.”

Jebu led Moko and the porter in prayers over each body. Then they rolled the bodies down the hill and dropped them into the white foam.

Ikeno was the last. The porter protested. “This armour is worth a lot.”

“It was worthless to him,” said Jebu, even as he admired the pattern of orange silk lacings that lashed together the leather and steel strips of armour. “And it is easily recognized. If we were found carrying Ikeno’s armour, it might be embarrassing for us.”

“At least keep the sword, shik��,” said Moko. “A sword is a thing of beauty. It has a soul. The art of a master swordsmith has gone into forging it, and the Fox Spirit has presided over its creation. It would be a shame, a blasphemy, to throw it into the sea to rust.”

“You are almost a poet, Moko. Very well, I’ll keep the sword.” Moko unbelted the scabbard and gingerly picked up the shining weapon that lay where Ikeno had dropped it. Jebu took the sword from Moko and examined it.

A shadowy temper line ran along the blade where the hard steel of the edge met the flexible steel of the core. The swordsmith had worked the temper line into a decorative pattern reminiscent of bamboo leaves. There was writing engraved on the blade as well.

“There is nothing between heaven and earth that man need fear who carries at his side this magnificent blade.”

Jebu shook his head. Foolish. Such words taught the samurai to rely on his sword and throw away his life. Far wiser was the Zinja maxim: rely on nothing under heaven. He handed the sword to Moko. He might send it, he thought, to his mother and Taitaro.

“I’ll pack it in the baggage for you and no one will see it till you want it again,” said Moko.

And so Ikeno, his armour, his bow and his head, but not his sword, all went into the sea. Jebu slapped Ikeno’s black roan on the rump and sent it galloping up the Tokaido Road to the north-east, away from Ikeno’s village.

The three men and three women hurried down the coast, riding as rapidly as they could, avoiding houses and villages and hiding in the forest whenever there was a chance of meeting someone on the road. Still not sure whether Moko might betray them, Jebu did not give him a watch to stand, but divided the night between himself and the Shima porter.

The day after the fight with Nakane, they were riding over grassy hills when Taniko drew alongside him.

“The company of those women has become such a trial. They have been my servants all my life, and there is nothing they can say that I have not heard a hundred times before.”

“You have mentioned that I, too, can be boring.”

“At least you say things I haven’t heard before.”

Jebu smiled at her. “I sympathize. I’ve had no one to talk to but myself since we began this journey. And I know myself better than you know your maids. I find myself even more tiresome company.” He and Taniko had warmed towards each other. It was obviously the killing of the samurai that had won her over to him. Well, what of that? Some good must come from every act that harmed someone.

He recalled that moment in the heat of battle when their eyes met. He doubted that he would ever forget it. Today she looked more beautiful than ever, and knowing her better, he now saw that the seeming ruthlessness in her eyes was simply a candid intelligence coupled with a clear certainty about how she felt and what she wanted.

She said, “You are reminding me of my rudeness to you on the first part of this journey. I’ll make amends. We’ll keep each other company. What bores you in yourself might intrigue me. And you might find me interesting, though I believe myself to be quite ordinary. Just as the bodies of men are of no interest to other men, but are quite fascinating to women.”

How bold of her! “I am sure that you are too young and too modest to know anything about the bodies of men, my lady.”

“Even so, I can talk to you about such things without fear of seeming foolish. You are young also, and a monk.”

“The Zinja take no vow of celibacy.” Jebu looked her in the eye. Just because I may not touch her, I need not hide from her that I am a man.

Taniko turned pink. “Oh, I see that I am in great danger. I’d better ride back to the protection of my ladies.” Her laughter tinkling in the warm air, she rode off through the high, yellowing grass. He felt such an ache of desire for her that his stomach knotted itself. Was there, perhaps, some way he could manage to lie with her without shaming her, endangering himself and dishonouring the Order?

Next day, after their midday meal of rice cakes, seaweed and dried fish, she was back again, riding beside him.

“How old are you, Jebu?”

“Seventeen. I was born in the Year of the Pig of the previous cycle.”

“And I was born in the Year of the Hare. You are four years older than I. That isn’t a great difference. I am old enough to be married, it seems.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that there was anything childish about you, my lady.”

“Quite right. There is nothing childish about me.” The secretive smile and the sidelong look left him in no doubt of what she meant. “And since you Zinja are such lusty men, at what age do you marry?”

“Usually not until we are over thirty. If a Zinja can stay alive until he is thirty, he is considered a safe prospect to take a wife. Monks over thirty are given the less dangerous work to do. They are inducted into one of the inner circles of the Order, the teachers or the abbots.” Jebu smiled and met her eyes. “But when I said the Zinja are not celibate, I wasn’t talking about the fact that we eventually marry.”

Her wide mouth, the lips carefully painted a bright red, parted momentarily, and she turned pink again under the light dusting of white face powder. This one had a real problem with blushing. She gave herself away. Then that hard, intelligent look was back, the look that had surprised him the first day he met her.

“In your case I should think paying for a woman’s services-if she were that sort-would be the only way you’d get to lie with her.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you are the ugliest man I’ve ever seen. You’re not deformed, but you are strange-looking. Like a demon mask. Everything is the wrong colour. For instance, your skin is like the belly of a fish.”

“The very colour you try to make yourself with your face powder, my lady.”

“Yes, but my face powder is beautiful because my skin is not that colour, do you see?” Jebu did not, but let her continue. “Your hair looks as if your head is on fire, and your eyes are the colour of the sky on a rainy day. The whole effect is grotesque and frightening. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like you. And then, you’re so big-you’re huge, a monster. If you came anywhere near me, I would run away screaming.”

There was a time, a few years ago, when what she said would have hurt him. But Zinja training had taken hold, and he was able to respond with amusement. “All men are the same colour in the dark. And as for my size, some women have found it pleasant.”

“You’re vulgar, too. There is nothing more repulsive than a lecherous monk. What riff-raff the Zinja must be, if you’re any example. I declare, I would sooner make love to Moko the carpenter than to you.” It did not escape Jebu that it was she who brought up the subject of lovemaking.

“Doubtless Moko could construct a tower tall enough to please you.”

“You disgust me.” She rode away.

A moment later Jebu heard Taniko telling something to the maids, and all of them broke into peals of laughter.

Riding alone and in silence, he thought about Shima Taniko. Her small face with its mobile, expressive mouth attracted him. She was not really beautiful, but then, all beautiful women looked exactly alike. Hers was the beauty of a crooked tree, of an earthenware teacup, of an oddly shaped cloud. A sudden thought flashed through his mind: might he not possess, for some beholders at least, the same sort of rough, strange beauty? He wondered if this were a genuine Zinja insight.

He thought about the look that passed through Taniko’s eyes from time to time, a look that suggested something strong and sharp and flexible as a sword blade. Her position might be that of third daughter in a provincial house, but in her own right her strength and wit might rank her first in the empire. He entertained himself with visions of making love to her. His daydreams became so vivid he could feel her small hands scratching his back, her slim legs twined around his hips.

Moko, drawing up beside him, interrupted his thoughts, which somewhat relieved him because the fantasies had begun to cause distinct discomfort. Moko grinned at him, and Jebu