SAMURAI

Story by “one of the staff at Onpoint”

The night was wrapped in a chill.  The chill promised misfortune, ominous and foreboding.  Streaks of thin clouds interrupted the harmony of the deep dark night sky.  The moon was bright, silhouetting only the demon’s breath and illuminating the dusting of snow on the trees and ground.  Snow had come early this year.  From an outcropping overlooking the village the demon calculated a series of actions to come.

Intuition had led the search here.  The demon would find it’s prey, it always did.  Revenge, a dish best served cold, was the motivation.  Past transgression, betrayal and abandonment was the reasoning.  Here the Oni sat.  The actions to come would serve the demon’s purpose.  The demon would draw him out with violence.  Leverage his sense of honor against him.    

The demon’s body did not shiver with the chill or anticipation of the events to come.  Its armor, mute red in color, worn but sturdy, made no sound as the demon moved.  The armor’s condition betrayed it’s tailored and rich origins.  The demon’s weapons were pristine, deadly sharp and well tended.  Instruments of demonic will and unyielding malice.  The mind of the demon was focused, precise, without hesitation.  Fluid and smooth were its movements, reflecting a horrifying elegance.

Movement in the shadows would conceal the demon’s path and intention.  The mountain village homes were neatly aligned, orderly and clean.  The roofs of varying pitch formed the appearance of a tortoise shell.  The night, being cold, the  village was quiet, cook fires and candles illuminating the windows and cracks around the door frames.  Enough light to ward off the demons of legend, but not the one descending now.  A soon to be disrupted peace lay on the village like a warm blanket.

An old man walked the dirt paths between small houses, a self assigned keeper of the peace.  He plodded his course, a small torch in one hand and Ono tucked in his belt.  The light from his torch threatened the veiled corners holding the mundane objects ignored by day.  As the old man turned the final corner in his circuit around the village, the light exposed the position and unleashed the action of the demon.

No sound. No mercy.  A swift and precise stroke.  The torch and the old man fell, the Ono still in his belt.  The old man’s last breath escaped into the cold night air as the demon stepped over him.  Unsatiated, the demon unleashed a hungry wrath on the village.  Like a cold wind the demon moved in and out of the houses.  The spaces in between were filled with just as much violence.  The fury of the attack chased away the stillness and replaced the silence with screams, dread and woe…

Kenshi woke from his slumber with a start.  The ditch he found himself in was shallow, but water logged from the melting snow.  He was naked and covered in mud, or at least he hoped it was mud.  It was always this way.  He had not known healthy sleep in what felt like years.  His over indulgence of alcohol played into this, but demons were the true culprits.

He hurt.  He did not remember how he received the cuts and bruises now on his body.  They were not there the night before.  Somewhere a scrap had transpired and he wondered if he had hurt someone as they had hurt him. To the west he could see smoke lazily drifting up.  From what, he did not know.

Doshi appeared out of the ether, as he was apt to do.  Lumbering up to Kenshi he inspected the sad state before him.  He sighed, scratching at his scalp then placed a tattered blanket around the shoulders of his dirty and beleaguered master.  He had always been a sensitive and caring boy and he deserved prospects, a better life, a better master.

“I wondered where you had gone this time, master”, said Doshi.

“I too am wondering where I have been, Doshi.”, returned the Samurai.

“Here are your pants, but where are the remainder of your clothes, master?  Please tell me you have even the simplest idea of the direction I should start looking.  You remember it took me two days searching to find your effects last time.”, Doshi said with ample respect and far more worry.

The samurai rubbed his head, shivered and stared into the dirt as if the answer to the question was somehow buried in the ditch with him.  “I…I faintly remember Saki, a village tavern, a village tavern owner and some vigorous discussion about unpaid debts.”

“Master”, Doshi hesitated.  He pawed the ground with his foot, looking down at the same dirt as his master, possibly looking for buried solace like his master.  “It has happened again.”

“Where? When? How many?”.  The samurai pressed, desperate for answers.

“Could this be Mongols?”, asked Doshi.

“You did not answer my questions, squire.”, replied the samurai, sharply but gently reminding the boy of his station and service.

Doshi, while shorter than most boys of 15, was thick and sturdy.  He had come to serve his master at the age of seven and loved him as a father.  His own father surrendered Doshi in partial repayment for debts owed to the local lord.  The next spring his father died and his mother was lost to raiders a month later.

Doshi had witnessed his master, a once highly revered samurai, slowly descend into self pity and subsequently obscurity.  The misplaced blame of a defeat at the hands of Mongol raiders had taken its toll on his master’s soul and reputation.  General Takeda, once Kenshi’s immediate superior, had engaged in a public campaign blaming Kenshi for the defeat. This campaign had since evolved into the direct pursuit of Kenshi, hoping to capture or kill him. 

Kenshi glanced towards the boy as he pressed himself up and onto his feet.  His aches began to loosen as he stretched his arms to the sky.  The arch in his back, let the blanket fall from his shoulders, revealing more than what was appropriate.  His naked body, lean and chiseled possessed many scars.  Scars that told the story of his time in battle and his time on the run.

Kenshi began to put on his leggings.  Doshi instinctually moved to cover his master’s nakedness and block the view of the public.  To his relief, there was no one around to be offended.  Feeling weary again, Kenshi slumped into the muddy ditch hoping a few more minutes would refill his strength and will to begin the day.

“The rumors are of demons, my lord.  Or I should say, a demon, to be precise.”  Doshi uttered, a sense of familiarity and urgency in his voice.

“The village…the people…my lord, it all burns.”  The boy was battling his fear. 

“My lord, we should really continue on our journey.  We are still leagues away from the promised city and General Takeda’s men are closer than comfort allows.  We have been evading them for two and a half years and I would hate for that record to come to an end.”

“We will not go further until I have seen what was done at the village.  Now go and find my clothes.”

General Takeda paced.  It was the kind of movement that reflected distinct purpose.  His left arm was wrapped about this mid section, while his right hand stroked his thin devil-like beard.  His irritation had evolved into full blown anger.  He needed a target for his ire.  Someone to blame for his failure.

The general was once a great warrior and leader, but time and hubris had greatly diminished his prowess.  He once held his shogun’s admiration and was considered an honorable man.  While not a large man, he was formidable both physically and mentally.  His short and portly appearance coupled with his ferocious disposition resulted in his men bestowing him with the nickname “The Badger”.  This was not a name any dared to call him in public.  It was well known he did not like the depiction of his character and stature. 

“Commander Kenshi!” bellowed the general.

“Yes, my lord” replied Kenshi, bowing and daring not to make eye contact.

“How could you fail so miserably, Kenshi?  You have brought shame to me. You should have stayed and died with honor.”  His accusation both surprised and cut Kenshi to the quick.  This was a man who Kenshi admired.  A man who Kenshi had demonstrated loyalty to many times.  Kenshi felt the obligatory sense of embarrassment expected from a junior commander to his senior.  But most of all, Kenshi felt his heart sink with the betrayal.

The battle against the Mongol raiders was swift and decisive, but not in favor of the samurai.  The Mongols had come ashore on the island of Iki.  Kenshi was stationed on the island on loan to the local governor, Kagetaka.  Kenshi along with approximately 100 samurai mounted a defense of the beach, but were driven back to the castle by nightfall.  

Kagetaka ordered Kenshi, along with another Samurai named Sozaburo, to escort his daughter to the safety of Hakata Bay on the mainland.  They moved in secrecy to a waiting ship on the shore.  Kenshi instructed Sozaburo they must move quickly under the cover of darkness to avoid being seen by the Mongol archers.  Sozaburo, young and smitten with Kagetaka’s daughter, argued she could not move in the pitch black and demanded they move at dawn to the ship.  Kenshi’s instincts screamed, warning of the error in this decision, but the governor’s daughter complained of exhaustion.  Dawn would be on them in minutes as Kenshi could see the glow begin to frame the horizon.  He gave into the demands of both.

As dawn broke, the trio moved down a sandy path towards a hidden cove.  A small boat was beached there.  They were to take the small boat to a smaller ship anchored off the eastern coast.  As soon as they cleared the tree line near the beach, a band of Mongols spotted them and sent a volley of arrows down on them from the cliff above.  Sozaburo was struck in the calf by an arrow, Kenshi scooped him from the ground and began to carry him toward the small boat.  The governor’s daughter ran in front of them, screaming and crying.  

Reaching the small boat Kenshi dumped the young samurai into one side while the daughter climbed in the other.  He began to push with what strength he had left as the retreat down the path and through the thick sand carrying the wounded young man had sapped him of his energy.  Fear pumped through him as he looked back seeing the Mongols now streaming down the path toward their once hidden cove and the boat it contained.  With a final heave the boat broke free of the sand and shallow water and was adrift.  Kenshi quickly manned the oar, standing to violently push it back and forth to set them to sea.

Arrows pierced the waters around them as Kenshi strained to row.  The arrows made a whipping sound as they cut the air and a snapping sound as they pierced the water.  Suddenly two, nearly at the same time, buried themselves in the bow, just missing the governor’s daughter.  She recoiled her hand from the bow beam near where one of the two arrows found its rest.  So many arrows, he thought.  So far to the ship.  

The larger ship lay anchored in a deep channel not 75 paces from the shore.  Seemingly against the tide and all luck the small boat reached the larger ship  The crew, seeing the peril of the incoming row boat, threw a knotted line over the side in order for the three to climb aboard.  Arrows were now being loosed in haste toward them and falling near them, but missing the mark.  Kenshi could watch the Mongols’ attempts as he was facing the stern.  He recognized the short bows the raiders were armed with and knew their range was reaching their limit.

As the bow of the row boat touched the larger ships side, all felt relief as the arrows were not able to accurately reach them.  The winds on and above the water were catching the arrows mid flight and forcing them well off course or short into the sea.  The chivalry the young samurai directed towards the governor’s daughter was quickly abated by his newly acquired wound.  He demanded he be hauled up first as he was injured and claimed he needed immediate attention.

Kenshi let out a snort of disdain, but was quickly reminded of the danger when an arrow struck the side of the ship.  He spun around to find its source.  Was it a lucky shot?  Were the Mongols pursuing via a boat and had closed the distance from shore?  It was worse.  He shielded his squinted eyes from the morning sun with his hand desperate to find the reason.

“Go go go!” he screamed.  The crew were just now hauling the young samurai over the rail and unleashing him from the rope.

“They have their longbows! Get her aboard now!” Kenshi felt helpless.  He had no weapon to return fire.  The crew on the ship above were not warriors, they were merchants.  No help would come from them.  The rope dropped into the small boat with a thud, returned in haste from above.  Kenshi snatched it from the water logged hull and began to tie it to the young lady.

He picked her up to start her vertical journey.  She was light.  She was beautiful.  He had not thought of her that way until now.  In the middle of the chaos his mind was drifting, he understood now how the young wounded man had felt.  His mind was jerked back to the present as another arrow snapped past his head and buried itself in the side of the ship.

“Pull!” he screamed at the crewmen.  Up the young lady went at a startling pace.  Far quicker than the wounded man.  Kenshi then turned his attention to the attackers on the shore.  There were three with longbows now.  Their shots had the required distance, but the wind still presented a significant challenge to accuracy.  The rope hit the hull of the small boat again.  Kenshi turned to tie himself off and begin his climb.

His journey up the side of the ship seemed like an eternity.  His muscles now burned and he felt as if he were weighted down.  The crew pulled as if they were hauling a whale out of the water.  The arrow’s sting had reached him at least twice, maybe more.  His armor had deflected one, but two had found their home, one in his back and one in his hip.  Blood appeared to be leaking from his left boot and it spattered on the small boat below.  He would blackout soon, that was fine.  He got her to safety.

He breached the small gap in the rail assisted by two crew members each grabbing one side of his blood smeared armor.  The world was spinning as he was out of breath.  He came to rest on his back looking up at the beautiful morning sky, sea birds making sounds above him as though there was no war in the world and no arrow in his back.  As the crew flopped him on the deck the arrow shaft had snapped, leaving the broadhead and a small length of shaft in him.  

Kenshi rolled to his side, his head facing the stern.  The young samurai lay there gritting his teeth as to ward off the pain of the arrow protruding from his leg.  The ship’s doctor was attending him.  He would be fine.  A clean war wound to brag about to those that would listen.  A scar with a story to impress a young lady.

“Drop the sails, we must make haste to Hakata Bay” barked the captain.  

The anchors had been lifted so quickly, Kenshi wondered if they were ever anchored at all.  As his breath caught up with him, he let out a small chuckle of reflective amazement.  The deck was oddly quiet, less the noises from the young wounded samurai.  Kenshi rolled to face the bow in an attempt to check on the beautiful young woman.

She was beautiful.  She lay there on her back, staring at the same morning sky and sea birds as Kenshi.  A broadhead and front shaft of an arrow protruding from her breast, the broken back half with the fletchings lay on the deck between them.  Her eyes were wide open, she had a look of amazement on her face, both terror and acceptance.  She was the daughter of a very powerful man.  There would be consequences and Kenshi would be among those who suffered them.

Check back for part four!