Vengeance
16 December 2005
by Jason Postma

Ryoko Owari Toshi had seldom seen such crowds. The streets were rivers of bright color that flowed in an unending stream through the city.

The young samurai with the amber-hilted sword moved through these rivers with hardly a glance at the faces before him, as if he belonged to an entirely different world where the streets were still empty. Though he did not wear any clan or personal mon, his prominently-displayed katana caused the merchants and peasants to part before him, gliding smoothly together again after his passage. His unusual katana, or perhaps something in his manner. Merchants who would have attempted to sell some of their choicest trinkets to any other samurai seemed not to like the look of this young one. Their welcoming smile would loose some of its false cheer on seeing him, their glib sales pitch dying before it could escape their lips. They would quickly look for another buyer as if the young samurai were not there, perhaps muttering something under their breath about "the evil eye" and making a curious quick gesture with their hands to avert bad luck. In this manner, the young samurai passed unmolested to the higher streets of the temple quarter.

He paused only for a moment's glance at the gigantic pink statue of Daikoku, resting resplendently before his massive temple. Neither wealth nor prosperity were of any use to him now. Instead he quickly sought out the shining golden globe mounted on a spire high over the crowds (but not so high as the top of Daikoku's temple) before the temple of Lord Sun.

The temple was empty, in stark contrast to the pressing masses that surrounded plump Daikoku, straining for his blessing. Perhaps the people were uncertain how Lord Yakamo-sama would have felt about a festival honoring the children of the First Sun. In any case, the absence of any listening ear seemed to the young samurai's liking. He knelt before the altar and placed his offering upon it – three perfectly round rice balls. After a moment he began to pray in a low voice – almost a whisper.

"Lord Sun, thou who hatest the Shadowlands and the practicers of blood magic more than any other; look upon this humble offering with favor and grant me thy blessing."

He paused for a long moment after this, as if struggling with an internal debate.

"I know that it is the whisperings of the kansen that have guided me to this city. But in this at least they do not lie. My enemy is here. I have seen him! The moment I have prepared for since my gempukku is at hand. Vengeance for my father and all who Naganoi has killed is within my grasp, if my arm is strong enough to carry it out."

He looked up at the gold disk mounted over the altar. He could see his own face reflected and, dimly, the figure of his father standing behind him. He quickly dropped his eyes and rushed through the rest of his prayer.

"Lord Sun, you are the enemy of my enemy. Grant me the strength I need. Show me some sign that you hear my words, and... and I shall burn the scrolls. I shall no longer listen to the whispers. Grant me my vengeance, and I shall return to my daimyo to face whatever punishment he decrees. I am nothing so long as my father is avenged."

With a half-sob the young samurai leaned until his forehead rested on the floor before the altar. He waited in silence.

"What? Asleep before the altar of Lord Sun? Too much sake, I wager. Get up you..." The young samurai looked up to see an elderly monk looking down at him, one leg drawn back as if about to kick him. It had seemed only a moment since the end of his prayer, yet the sunlight was fast dwindling, to be replaced by the lanterns of the festival. The monk started at the look of fury that was turned on him, took a step back.

"He does not hear you, old fool!" The young samurai's voice was nearly a scream of anguish. His hand dropped to the amber hilt of his katana. "He hears no one. There is no one here but you and I!"

"Now, now. Don't be hasty young samurai-sama. I meant nothing by it..." The monk's eyes darted wildly, but aside from himself and this dangerous madman the temple was still empty.

The young samurai, seeing the fear on the monk's face, seemed to gain control of himself. His face slowly formed once more into a mask of impassivity, burying his fury deep below the unruffled surface. He bowed once, low, and strode from the temple with the puzzled monk breathing a sigh of relief in his wake.

Lord Sun had set and Lady Moon had yet to make her appearance when the young samurai came to a stop before a very different shrine, in very different surroundings. There was no point in polite metaphors – the leatherworker's quarter stank. The young samurai didn't seem to notice the smell, or the frightened heimin who pretended not to look at him. His attention was focused on the ramshackle walls before him – a leaning outhouse. After a moment's hesitation he stepped forward and opened the door.

A dark stone altar squatted in the tiny space – an altar that somehow gave the impression of a mute, leprous toad. A few small bowls of rice rested as offerings beside the image of a spiraling funnel cut into the top of the altar. Despite himself, the young samurai shivered. Then his face hardened, and he knelt before the altar. The heimin peasants were trying very hard to appear not to hear his prayer.

"I have prayed to Your enemy and he did not hear. Or he had no real power to aid me. I know that You have power – I have felt it. Will you aid me in fighting your own servant?"

The wind began to rise, and the heimin could hear, faintly, that it was whispering. Words that could not be understood, but words nonetheless.

The young samurai was silent for a long moment, as if listening. Finally he drew his wakizashi. He made two quick cuts, one on each wrist, then dropped the sword and pressed his wrists to the altar. His blood trickled in small rivulets down the stone, and the wind rose to a howl around him. The heimen cowered in fear – they could hear some of the words now – "death," "vengeance," and underneath them all, a senseless, maniacal laughter. They stumbled to their feet and ran.

No one was left to see Shaiyan rise from the altar, watching with childlike amusement as the wounds on his wrists closed themselves, leaving only a faint pink line. The rice in the bowls upon the altar had become squirming maggots. He closed the door of the shrine with reverence.

Shaiyan walked from the leatherworker's quarter back to the brightly-lit streets and its crushing humanity in a daze, with a smile on his lips. Now he could look at the revelers and even dance with them. For the first time in many years he felt a great weight removed – his burden seemed to have finally lightened.

Vengeance would be his!