Traditions of Dead Generations

Round Three - The Widow of Assha Yokuda, Pt. 3

Whoever else this Nakamura was, he was obviously a man with a grudge against Akechi Mitsuhide which began shortly after the general's attack on Honnō-ji. Yokui was sure he would be able to shed more light on the events of that night, perhaps even tell him what had become of the young Niwa Takegi. If Takegi had escaped and turned bandit seeking vengeance, his grave would be unmarked and known only to these outlaws. 

The road to the village Ogurusu was rough and ill-travelled, the kind of winding, narrow place surrounded on all sides by hills like knobbly knees, an ideal place to spy from, or to set an ambush. Yokui approached warily, following his ears rather than his eyes, and shielding Kazu with his body. He hoped their obvious poverty would prevent them from being attacked outright - and that Nakamura was a more honourable man than your average desperate bandit. But even if he were, the "gang" the man led was made up of the more ordinary sort of bandits, and these were as dangerous as they ever were.

Rounding a bend, they came upon a forested valley thick with bamboo still clinging tenaciously to the last of their leaves as they joined twiggy hands with their neighbours astride the road. The canopy limited what Yokui could see of the surrounding hills, and the rustling of wind in the branches mimicked the sound of a careful climber, making Yokui even more nervous about continuing. He wondered for the first time if this was perhaps an ill-advised venture.

"We should turn back." Kazu blurted, having been uncharacteristically quiet for the previous leg of the journey, "We should turn back. I don't want to die here."

"This is a beautiful place to die," Yokui observed, remembering the widow's grief and the awful treachery which had killed her sons. The comparison was not, apparently, what was passing through Kazu's mind, and the heimin gaped at him as if he were a madman. "But we will not die here," he quickly amended, "Hold still." They stopped walking and Yokui listened.

Yokui allowed himself to relax at the regular sound of the breeze rustling through the bamboo, breathing deeply and finding his balance, inside and out. The waves of leaves trickled to and fro with gay regularity, betraying the person who crept among them. Yokui turned towards the irregularity and shook his sleeves back from his shakujo with a clanking of the rings that could have been birdsong.

With a series of sweeping, wide steps, Yokui skated forward and jabbed his shakujo into the weeping bamboo cover, catching an ankle in the crook of the staff's head and pulling it loose of its hiding-spot. The figure that dropped out of the canopy was not what he expected: instead of a dirty, bedraggled bandit, the boy was clean, well-dressed in a grey and blue kimono, and coiffed. Armed, too - though ceremonially, with a wakizashi sheathed in at his side.

Yokui stepped back, but kept his eyes trained on the young man. He put on his best "stern master" frown and folded his arms over his chest.

"Young lord," he greeted the boy, "Why are you following us?"

"I - I-" the boy looked back and forth, as if for allies. Yokui wondered if he didn't have any. "I wasn't following you. My business is my own! You attacked me!"

"I did not attack you, young man," Yokui said gruffly, "And you know better than to spy on honourable travellers without revealing yourself." he offered the boy his hand and helped pull him to his feet. The lad was tall, but gangly: a young man of perhaps fifteen seasons.  Old enough to be a lord in his own right, or a samurai. Could this be Niwa Takegi? He was the right age, but this one had not yet been through his genpuku. Odd, Yokui frowned. In times of war, they put these boys through the ceremony earlier, not later. "I am Yokui of Eihei-ji." he bowed, introducing himself.