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Chapter 6 – Enoshima – Part II
After that night, much was different between them. Often, on turning to catch a glimpse of her as she weeded the garden or hung up laundry to dry, he found her eyes already on him, watching him chop firewood or carry in a basket of radishes. She brushed his hair in the evenings; he learned to ask for tea, rather than simply accepting it when she would make it on her own impulse. They made dinner as a couple, the one chopping vegetables, the other seasoning or stirring, and sat beside each other to eat it. They slept together often, and discovered the joys of the tender wakening at dawn, of the turning to a beloved face, still composed in sleep or already awake and watching, of the first quiet smile of the day, of the shared stretching and rising in the slanting sunlight.
These tiny bursts of intimacy, strewn throughout their days and nights, carried him far from the world he had known. Enemies, blood, violence, loss, revenge—all faded and dropped away. There was only the present. And each other.
They didn't speak of the past, nor even—perhaps especially—of a future. They were merely grateful to be allowed to float for a time in a side-eddy of life's rushing river, equally having forgotten and forgotten by the world and its threats. Kenshin had never truly felt at home in the world, never had known pure safety in the presence of others. Always there had been dreaded demands, unnerving uncertainties, disastrous disconnects. He began to suspect they had this in common, too. Now they basked in their shared asylum. They breathed it in, took it in through their very pores.
He mused over the contrast: in Kyoto, he'd earnestly discouraged her attentions, even spurned her; he'd warned her not to get involved with someone so bloody. In Ōtsu, his every breath, his very heartbeat, depended on her nearness—no, more than nearness: she'd moved into his soul; he no longer existed without her.
Does she feel the same? He shook his head. Impossible. She knows who I am, what I've done, how I've lived. All the same, she does seem contented, even happy…
"This is the best sake I've ever tasted."
"You're right."
He's discovered where he is. His river had taken him down to the sea, and he'd followed the coast road south, carried along on the tide of merchant caravans taking goods destined for that other kingdom to ports along the coast. Now that he's begun to travel north, the returning merchant caravans, bringing goods back to the interior, provide work, and a ready source of cash and daily fare.
He finds that nearly every day he can earn a little something. This road had its share of merchant caravans, and they nearly all needed an extra hand, "just for a couple of hours; we can't pay much." So much the better. A couple of hours are about all either he or his temporary masters can take of each other, and his needs are small.
In the mornings, he usually joins a caravan and stays with it all day, keeping animals and children in line, re-tying loosened knots, hauling water at rest stops. Not much is said, but he can tell his help brings real relief to the harried travelers, even if they seem almost not to notice him in his quiet efficiency. They almost always settle up at evening; he's been cheated only once or twice.
In fact, his small purse has a noticeable weight hanging inside the ties of his hakama; he feels it as he walks.
At the back of his mind, he's returning to the City. He has not yet realized the profound indefensibility of this plan, has not accounted the scores of scores held over from the days of chaos.
Merchants speak of exchange rates, or desirable goods, or crop failures. They keep their books; feed their drays; repair their wagons. Merchants know little of, and are interested less in, the detritus of the revolution: the imperialists with nothing more to strive for; the swordsmen now banned from carrying their bodies' natural extensions; the vanquished, embittered Shogunate loyalists.
Merchants do not suffer the dark night of the soul.
However, now that he's paying attention, he, at least, becomes all too aware of the other wanderers on the road: rudderless souls all, bereft of mission or cause, finding only fading grudges in the bitter bottoms of their sake cups. He has used the presence of his sword and the power of his ki to intimidate subconsciously, to prevent misfortune befalling these new-era innocents under his care. As he moves closer to the City, the numbers of the disenfranchised increase; the significance is not lost on him.
He notices, too, the increase in the number of bodies floating down the river; many of them, children—scrawny, mere skeletons inside their ballooned clothing, bodies unable to even bloat properly. Famine is rife, and the children fare worst of all.
This shocks and disturbs him, and he cannot say why—children have never figured greatly in his life. His own early chronology placed him almost exclusively in the company of adults; the concept of 'playmates' is foreign to him, and, while he has watched children at play, that world has always been a mystery to him.
When have I watched children at play? There certainly had been none in the mountain cabin with Hiko, nor at the Kohagiya, and he'd been the only child in the slave train; his memories before that are too fuzzy.
Still, the small bodies drifting lightly, delicately, on the river's tide call to him, engrave themselves in his mind's eye, float constantly at the back of his mind.
He never sleeps within the caravans' campgrounds—he needs more distance than that. Instead he searches out a nearby shelter, close enough to listen and guard, but distant enough for privacy, for a break from the overwhelming presence of all that humanity. All that energy and life.
These days, he finds he can think again. Ideas come. His perceptions widen, and the world colors once more. He raises his eyes again to the distant, azure sky. The earth's breathing and the rustling of its creatures caress his ears. It is most fair. Hai, its beauty yet moves me. This is not altogether a comforting thought; he cannot shake the feeling of betrayal.
She is not sharing this with me.
Each day separates us further.
The caravans move slowly; he moves slowly. He doesn't cover much ground, at least not along the dusty road. This suits him—his spirit is busy.
A day like any other: He's been with this caravan for a week. It's a particularly disorganized affair—the merchants, a loose confederation of three, are distracted, and the head steward is inexperienced. There are innumerable stops to argue over routes, which markets to visit, pricing strategies. The querulous voices carry far, and the attentions of all are focused inward. It's a good thing I'm here—this group is begging for trouble.
All three merchants are older, and no longer up to the heavy work of hefting the heavy bolts of silk. Even harnessing the horses is more than they should be doing at their age. With the exception of the lead wagon driver, who is large and competent, there are no other males capable of handling the "back" work required in even so small a train as this.
The women seem to be granddaughters, or lost sons' widows, or hangers-on, and the number of children is simply staggering. The older girls chatter incessantly; one or two try out their fledgling flirting skills on him—his lack of response is impressively effective. The younger boys are a surging sea of energy, their boisterous shouts of joy, of irrepressible life, echo off the canyon walls. They race wildly up and down alongside the lumbering wagons, spooking the horses, and deviling the littlest girls, who respond with indignantly delighted squeals and shrieks. The heartbroken wails of the infants, grieving a broken toy or a dropped snack, float above the cacophony like the violin obbligato of some crazed symphony.
Kenshin is never quite able to match up child to mother with certainty. He is aware, however, of something moving within him as he watches these children at play. His heart is captivated by this unfamiliar world.
They remind me of her. And they are beautiful—their movements flow with natural grace, and life, unfettered and full, glows in their faces.
At today's midday meal stop, Kenshin sits, as is his habit, a little apart, surveying the group and evaluating their surroundings. His dried fish and the rice ball are gone in moments, and he leans back against his chosen tree's rough trunk, for the moment simply a bump in the cool breeze's stream, another surface for the sun to warm, a non-flower rejected by a passing bee.
The meal is beginning to wind down. Some of the men have succumbed to the heat, cat-napping, and the boys are at it again, chasing each other through the dozing forms. He rises and stretches, brushing leaves from the back of his gi and hakama. With this group, it's better if he simply takes over this part—he'd tried teaching a couple of the men some better knots, but the atmosphere of distraction and confusion prevented much improvement. In just a few minutes, he's doused the little fire, scattering its remnants, and stowed all the meal paraphernalia. Rounding up would-be escapees from a too-distant stand of trees takes a little longer, but the mothers are grateful. They, at least, are able to keep track of their own once Kenshin has brought them back into the group.
He re-hitches the horses, and drops the feedbags into the back of the lead wagon. They stamp, and toss their heads, blowing and whickering softly.
They are jumpy.
So, now that he comes to think of it, is he, and has been since they stopped. He stretches his senses, but can feel nothing. It's true that they are in rugged terrain, with small cliffs and overhangs, and this always puts him on higher alert. Still…
Finally, the group begins to move off. He stands back a bit from the road, allowing the bustle to move past him, waiting to take up his usual position at the rear.
Such a different technique from bodyguarding.
They've been walking about an hour when he senses it: ki, threatening and ominous. Not too far ahead, probably around that bend in the road.
How many? Three—iie, only two.
The horses are positively vibrating with tension, crab-stepping, champing their bits, swishing their tails in agitation. Somewhere inside, he marks to himself, again, man's arrogance on the subject of intelligence.
He makes his way forward through the caravan. One by one, as he passes them, the mothers notice his alertness and draw their children near, shush infants, hoist smaller ones up onto wagons. Silence descends behind him like a fog.
When he reaches the front wagon, he puts up a hand to touch the driver's knee. Startled, the man's eyes widen; he signals his team—they halt eagerly, already reluctant to continue forward. They stand, tense but quieter now that they have stopped, their nervousness betrayed only by swiveling ears and shaking heads.
The entire tableau—wanderer, horses, men, mothers, children—is frozen in time, breath bated, apprehensive hearts thudding in concert. Kenshin stands at the fore, listening, sensing. He glances up at the lead driver and, with a small jerk of his head, signals for the man to follow.
In obedient silence, the man climbs down from the wagon's seat. They leave the road, Kenshin searching for a route to the top of the low bluff forming the cliff around which he knows the bandits wait.
There is no time to waste—they must have seen us coming and will become suspicious if we delay. Ah, there they are…
Creeping toward the edge, Kenshin peeks over the line of boulders that form the top of the rocky cliff, one hand behind him motioning "keep down". The bandits are clearly visible below, hunched behind boulders of their own at ground level, their backs to the new ambushers. They have no weapons beyond a couple of stout sticks.
Kenshin pulls back and puts his mouth close to his companion's ear: "I will make our presence known and ask them to leave us alone. Please stand next to me so they will see that a struggle will not go their way." The man nods his understanding.
Soundlessly, they stand and step up onto the rocks. "If you leave now, this will end peacefully."
At the sound of his voice, the two bandits nearly fall over each other in their rush to turn around. Although they quickly recover their stance and sticks, their predicament is painfully obvious: Kenshin and his companion hold the high ground, the wagon driver's size is intimidating, and there is that sword... Tentative shuffles backward notwithstanding, Kenshin can tell that the taller one is still waffling. A thumb on his tsuba, and the soft click of the sword's habaki sliding out of the saya's grip settles the question.
Both bandits slowly stand erect and lower their weapons. "What now?" asks the stockier of the two, their eyes meeting his with calm acceptance, but no fear.
The driver starts forward, clearly planning some satisfaction of his own kind, but Kenshin puts out a restraining hand. As he climbs down the shallow embankment, he considers the two, sizing them up. Their general condition would indicate they are rather more desperate than dangerous.
They've never done this before, but they are strong and courageous.
"You two look hungry to me—are you willing to work for your keep?"
Kenshin watches as the caravan lumbers down the road away from him, dust clouds drifting lazily upward in the still summer heat.
Two guards, and both big and strong enough to handle the horses, the merchandise, and any threats they are likely to encounter: a good arrangement.
And I'm alone again—and free. As always, parting brings him a palpable sense of relief.
Hai! Very good—now you must think hard about this. She's surprised at how her heart aches for this one.
Notes:
"that other kingdom" : In Japanese literature, China is often referred to as the "other kingdom". China had a strong, defining influence on Japanese culture. In fact, Kenshin spends some time there according to acts 3 and 4 of the OVA (second disk in the set I have).
Review responses: lolo: Thanks for the encouragement! Mir: I hope the ending wasn't too vague! sweatdrops Chibi Binasu-chan: I do plan to have more Tomoe-related flashbacks, so keep those cookies coming! Omasu: I'm glad you liked the detail stuff—I like writing it, and just hope I don't do so much that it takes the story off track. In fact, I'm a little worried about that in this chapter 7! Wistful-Eyes: I'm so glad you liked this chapter. I hope you enjoy the next one, as well. Moeru Himura: I not only don't mind if you put this on your C2, I'm very flattered! IKnowNot: I'm glad you think the story is progressing better. Sirius: Your reviews threaten to turn my head! "True writer"? If only… Shirou Shinjin: I guess I didn't think of his reminiscences and his preference for solitude as contrasts—to me they seemed to be all of an emotional piece. No fundamental dichotomy there! grin I'm hoping you meant that how he dealt with the bandits-to-be was "typical" instead of "atypical". If not, I'm not sure how it wasn't typical; I certainly meant it to be non-Battousai-ish.