simply march up to the temple and shout at Dorinbo for even making such an offer. He would have to bear this sickly sense of shame and burden alone, and he knew the right thing to do would be to address it now before it festered any further.
But he was just a boy. It was easier to distance the world, to closeyour eyes and pretend nothing existed outside that, and so he took the coward’s route, shook his head and let it go. Dorinbo was talking of lives, he told himself, and a night or a week would make no difference to that. Bennosuke could see the relief in Tasumi’s eyes at the vanishing of a troubling conversation.
INSTEAD OF BEING honest, they went and speared fish in the river together. They stripped down to their loincloths and waded in, trying to learn the angle of the water’s warping. It was a hard knack to find, and Bennosuke lost himself to the challenge until the light began to fade and the cicadas were humming and the swallows began to return to their nests.
He had caught a single, fat fish to Tasumi’s three, and they made a sack of their kimonos and put the silver bodies inside. This they hung over the end of their spears and marched home, letting the cooling air dry their bodies. They laughed and talked, alone now that the peasants had retired from the fields for the day. The paddy waters had settled into shimmering orange mirrors for the dying sun, glowing where the rest of the valley had faded into shadow.
As they headed down to the dojo, they became aware of a gathering of the peasants. They were still muddy from their work, and they stood in small huddles looking at the hall apprehensively from a distance. They muttered to one another, and suddenly fell silent when they became aware of Tasumi and Bennosuke coming from behind them.
A pale horse had been tethered by the hall. It was a samurai mount, a tall, strong beast bred for wearing armor and kicking savagely. Livery hung from the saddle, the light blue of Lord Shinmen. Tasumi’s eyes hardened in curiosity, but the peasants melted away in obsequious bobs when he looked to them for answers. This was not their realm.
Tasumi hesitated for a moment on the steps of the dojo, Bennosuke hovering with him. The samurai had not been expecting anyone. Greeting whoever it was in his underclothes did not appeal, and his kimono was sodden and stank of fish. But then, if whoever it was was expecting hospitality, they would have sent word ahead. The man shrugged, and then slid open the heavy door as though he were unconcerned.
A man sat cross-legged before the ancestral shrine. He turned, one arm bound tight to his chest.
“Oh,” said Tasumi, “it’s been some time.”
Bennosuke peered into the hall beyond the bulk of his uncle. There he saw the face that belonged beneath the brow of the helmet the boy had cleaned fastidiously since his childhood, the face that he had dreaded and longed to see more than anything else. Of course it had to be him; the specter was finally summoned. There for the first time in eight years, Bennosuke saw the face of his father.
CHAPTER THREE
Night had fallen. Munisai stood in the gloom of his house in front of his suit of armor, looking at it in silence. It had been kept immaculately, as had all the treasures of his youth, and all he wanted to do was laugh in disgust.
The shade of blue was gaudy and effeminate, the perfect lacquer chest plate spoke of time diverted from training to polishing, and the helmet … Where to begin? The needless embossing weakened the structure, there was no protection of the face at all, and the crest above the brow was practically begging enemies to grab and twist the thing from his head.
But above all there was the name threaded in brilliant white with such galling arrogance upon the armor.
Munisai Hirata .
The name that he had tried so hard to forget woke things that ached in his heart. He began to feel his chest well as though it might burst with sickness.
Hirata .
The name that he
But he was just a boy. It was easier to distance the world, to closeyour eyes and pretend nothing existed outside that, and so he took the coward’s route, shook his head and let it go. Dorinbo was talking of lives, he told himself, and a night or a week would make no difference to that. Bennosuke could see the relief in Tasumi’s eyes at the vanishing of a troubling conversation.
INSTEAD OF BEING honest, they went and speared fish in the river together. They stripped down to their loincloths and waded in, trying to learn the angle of the water’s warping. It was a hard knack to find, and Bennosuke lost himself to the challenge until the light began to fade and the cicadas were humming and the swallows began to return to their nests.
He had caught a single, fat fish to Tasumi’s three, and they made a sack of their kimonos and put the silver bodies inside. This they hung over the end of their spears and marched home, letting the cooling air dry their bodies. They laughed and talked, alone now that the peasants had retired from the fields for the day. The paddy waters had settled into shimmering orange mirrors for the dying sun, glowing where the rest of the valley had faded into shadow.
As they headed down to the dojo, they became aware of a gathering of the peasants. They were still muddy from their work, and they stood in small huddles looking at the hall apprehensively from a distance. They muttered to one another, and suddenly fell silent when they became aware of Tasumi and Bennosuke coming from behind them.
A pale horse had been tethered by the hall. It was a samurai mount, a tall, strong beast bred for wearing armor and kicking savagely. Livery hung from the saddle, the light blue of Lord Shinmen. Tasumi’s eyes hardened in curiosity, but the peasants melted away in obsequious bobs when he looked to them for answers. This was not their realm.
Tasumi hesitated for a moment on the steps of the dojo, Bennosuke hovering with him. The samurai had not been expecting anyone. Greeting whoever it was in his underclothes did not appeal, and his kimono was sodden and stank of fish. But then, if whoever it was was expecting hospitality, they would have sent word ahead. The man shrugged, and then slid open the heavy door as though he were unconcerned.
A man sat cross-legged before the ancestral shrine. He turned, one arm bound tight to his chest.
“Oh,” said Tasumi, “it’s been some time.”
Bennosuke peered into the hall beyond the bulk of his uncle. There he saw the face that belonged beneath the brow of the helmet the boy had cleaned fastidiously since his childhood, the face that he had dreaded and longed to see more than anything else. Of course it had to be him; the specter was finally summoned. There for the first time in eight years, Bennosuke saw the face of his father.
CHAPTER THREE
Night had fallen. Munisai stood in the gloom of his house in front of his suit of armor, looking at it in silence. It had been kept immaculately, as had all the treasures of his youth, and all he wanted to do was laugh in disgust.
The shade of blue was gaudy and effeminate, the perfect lacquer chest plate spoke of time diverted from training to polishing, and the helmet … Where to begin? The needless embossing weakened the structure, there was no protection of the face at all, and the crest above the brow was practically begging enemies to grab and twist the thing from his head.
But above all there was the name threaded in brilliant white with such galling arrogance upon the armor.
Munisai Hirata .
The name that he had tried so hard to forget woke things that ached in his heart. He began to feel his chest well as though it might burst with sickness.
Hirata .
The name that he
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