Chapter 3 – There Is None So Blind
He should have had no way to keep track of time. Purposely, he'd moved further back into the inky depths, cutting the already dim light to virtually nothing, but he felt safer, and his stinging eyes and raw skin thanked him for the even cooler, damper air.
He should have had no way to keep track of time, but he did. Life had offered him opportunity and reasons enough to refine his inner clock, to perfect it to such a degree that no external cue revealed to him more precisely the sun's position and path; his own body's cycles were not more familiar to him than the phases of the moon.
My own body's cycles…
He smirked bitterly at the irony of the comparison. For days, the shell he now inhabited might as well have been a stranger's, it was that alien to him: wild temperature swings, careening between gripping chills that tensed his body until he couldn't move and surges of heat that suffocated him, seared the backs of his eyeballs, made his ears bleed and his heart feel as though it would burst; wilder nightmares and deliriums that were indistinguishable from reality, nearly driving him the rest of the way toward madness with panic, hate, heartbreak; unendurable agony that, even so, was endured.
Thanks to the care of the two old men, his mind was clearing and his memories were returning. Returning shuffled, to be sure, and hardly less nightmarish than his hallucinations, but stronger each time he woke from uneasy sleep. His brain struggled to put them in sequence, to assign meaning to the appalling scenes, to divine their import.
That night: called to a meeting where he expected to hear the formal announcement of his promised appointment to an eagerly-anticipated position of respect and responsibility; a meeting where instead, shocked, he'd found himself ambushed, overpowered and bound, then manhandled into the back of a cart. A disjointed, jarring trip—in an unaccustomed fog of shock and disbelief—and he was dumped out onto the cold, damp ground, still ignobly bound hand and foot. He lay, refusing to struggle or cry out, surrounded by the vile cowards who had betrayed him; he could hear them muttering to each other, could actually smell their fear of him.
What despicable, contemptible dogs!
In the black of the moonless night—even the stars had seemed cloaked—he felt, more than saw, the gathering of soldiers, could hear their numbers in the shuffling of their feet, could read their unease in their nervous coughs. That, at least, he understood; he knew what he was to them: a demon, a wraith that appeared, struck down, and then vanished into the night.
But what he was, what he thought he had been, to the clan leaders, to Katsura especially, his own commander—how could he have been so mistaken, so blind? Had he never understood their view of him? Had his savvy and clever mind, his very ambition, betrayed him as well?
Some part of him desperately wanted to shrink from remembering the events that followed, wanted only to hide and heal.
No, not my way!
It was a foundation stone of his honor to face all that came to him, never to seek an easier path or a softer way.
So he remembered:
First, he'd been kicked onto his back, and held in place by several boots planted heavily on his limbs. A single, shouted command broke the stillness, shrill and hoarse with jumpy tension. Then, blinding light, light that faded into pain that surpassed pain; pain that blanked out his mind, but, cruelly, only briefly. Pain that dragged him down into hell and held him there in its iron grip, crushed his skull, exploded behind his eyes, between his ears, contorted his limbs, seared in his gut.
Pain so overpowering that the sensation of alcohol sluicing over his body and soaking his clothes registered only faintly, a rumor from another world. By the time the heat of the flames intruded on his screaming consciousness, his mind, his very soul had retreated from his body: he looked down from above on the writhing creature and the enveloping flames that provided the night's only light.
Hours later, the sky still black as the night's earlier deeds, he came back to himself. The smell of his own burnt flesh filled his nostrils, turning his stomach and gagging him. His head felt empty, vacated. Incapable of thought, driven by instinct and willpower alone, he staggered up, one outstretched hand serendipitously landing on a tree trunk. He tried a step and fell. Staggered up again, tried again, fell again. Over and over, all through the night, the macabre dance was repeated under the pitiless gaze of the denizens of the surrounding forest.
When morning broke, he discovered he could still see a little; his eyes worked, at least to that extent. He fell less often, and he made decent time, widening the distance between his damaged self and his abusers.
The last time he fell, he felt the little wavering brook beneath him.
"I don't understand you. What do you mean? I felt his clothes myself!"
"Gozaemon, didn't you pay attention? Nothing extends beyond the line of his body. There are no sleeves, no flow of fabric. Nor even of leather, come to that. Think back on how it actually felt when we helped him onto the blankets."
"Well, it had to be something! Skin doesn't feel like that."
Gozaemon had stopped stock still at Yoshi's first pronouncement, and Yoshi now stood, turned back to face him, several paces further along the path.
"Normal skin doesn't. I don't have an explanation, but I'm sure something awful has happened to him."
"You mean, besides the bullets through his head and body?"
Yoshi smirked to himself at this flip remark, then turned and continued downhill, pacing his steps to allow his old friend to catch up.
"Well, if you want to know the truth…"
"Yes, please."
"…I really think he was burned."
"What, burned all over? So you think he was torched, then riddled with bullets? And then what? He just picked himself up and strolled to my meadow?"
He's actually peeved at me, Yoshi thought with some amusement.
"Look, all I'm saying is that I'm pretty sure he's worse off than we first thought. I'll be amazed if we can actually pull him through."
"Hmph."
I'm so uneasy about him. Just who is he hiding from? Who did this to him? And why?
Even as a child, he'd been a cipher to his family and his friends: such a serious boy, truly interested only in his swordsmanship, his martial arts, his studies.
And his own peculiar ways of sensing.
He knew things he had no way of knowing: this one was cheating his business partner; that betrayed lover plotted revenge; a respected community leader took base liberties with young household members.
This ability, in particular, set him awkwardly apart. Most adults, and even some children, fidgeted when subjected to his piercingly perceptive gaze. His dark, smoky eyes seemed to search the very core of one's soul, leaving no corner private, no thought secret, no lie unrevealed. People avoided him.
This did not perturb him. He preferred his own company and his own activities. His devotion to his studies consumed him, and he looked on social duties as intrusions that he nevertheless fulfilled with grace and a dignified competence, as befitted his station. He prized his unique abilities, considered them heaven's touch and himself under holy obligation to further their growth.
Physically, he was imposing as well: tall and lean, naturally muscular and graceful. Both by wont and by discipline, he met the world with a stoic, severe visage that brooked no frivolity. Childish play had never brought him pleasure; from early on, he preferred the weighty satisfaction that came from mastery of a skill or completion of an arduous task.
A cipher to all, all except his father.
Shishio Mareo, the daimyo's right-hand. Shishio Mareo, a hard man, a strict disciplinarian, and, unusual for a samurai of the period, with a passion for learning in all its forms. Shishio Mareo, almost what the gaijin termed a "Renaissance man". Mareo understood that phrase and strove to embody it; to instill in his young son, as well, a dedication to developing all his abilities. He required that Makoto study and excel in the ways of Western thought and Western science along with the profundities of his Japanese heritage.
"Makoto, our empire is under great pressure from outside forces. Other countries are beginning to cast greedy and rapacious eyes on our land and our resources. We are a strong, undefeated people, and our existence is a challenge to the restless Western spirit.
"Change is brewing in our country, son; change that will bring unintended and uncontrolled consequences to us all. Our people will need strong leaders who can chart a safe and meaningful course through this change. Much that is old will pass away, and there is nothing to be done about that. But hidden in the new will be much that is fine and good; only men of courage and wisdom will be able to discern the gold in the dross and craft a successful future. Unfortunately, many men in power are neither courageous nor wise, and something will have to be done about them: they cannot be allowed to destroy, by their weakness and their greed, our glorious and holy destiny.
"You, my son, are heir to a long line of strong, influential men; men who sacrificed the pleasures of life to shoulder their obligation of duty and power. Their legacy passes to you; you must fulfill it with all that you are and have."
Makoto listened raptly to these sermons, and remembered. His father was one of the few men he deemed worthy of his respect, and he admired him freely, openly. Father and son shared not only their imposing physical presence but quick, powerful minds that thirsted after challenge and knowledge, and stalwart, independent spirits.
He flowered under this regimen of discipline, severity, and high expectation, feeling, as he grew to manhood, the weight of the cloak of responsibility and duty; accepted it, welcomed it even, as it settled around his young shoulders. He always acted with his whole being, nothing held back, admitted no niggle of doubt or uncertainty.
He was equal to the burden of his inheritance, was eager for it.
Mareo took pride in his son, knew he had chosen his name well: Makoto, one who is sincere. And good.
A soft drizzle began to fall just as the dim silhouette of the little house rose in the night before them. The evening was warm, their fatigue great, and they welcomed the cooling mist.
"A good day's work, ne?" In spite of the effects of the day's demands on his body, Gozaemon was still galvanized by his new project. All the way down the mountain he had bent Yoshi's ear with his plans for this one's recovery, had fretted over how he would find enough bandages, had worked out, aloud and at great length, the formula for a better salve, now that he knew he was treating serious burns.
Standing under the engawa's sheltering roof, they shook off their cloaks, the shower of water droplets spotting the paper of the shoji. Sliding it open and stepping inside, the old man said, "I'll get dinner started. See if those hens have laid anything today; just one for me, but you'd better have two."
"You're as bad as a mother hen yourself, you know."
The evenings' brief summer shower had stopped, and bright moonlight bathed the world in silvery light. Yoshi picked his way across the tiny yard, and stooped down into the coop's close, humid darkness.
I like eggs, but I sure hate the smell of a coop!
He felt around in the nests in the dark, his stealthy touch hardly disturbing the sleeping hens. They ruffled their feathers, but only one even bothered to lift her head to blink stupidly at him before ducking it back under her wing.
He re-emerged, three still-warm ovoids nestling in the front of his gi, and stood musing in the cool night, eyes raised to the starry canopy above.
He's too caught up in this to see what I see. It's up to me to find out what I can about this man. Maybe I'm overreacting but…
He took in a long, deep breath, and blew it out, releasing the tension of his inner debate.
He's not going to like this…
He turned and crossed the yard. Stepping resolutely over the threshold, into the warmth and light of his friend's house, he prepared himself for the difficult task of convincing Gozaemon to allow an investigation into his new ward.
A/N: I should probably mention that Mareo's name means "uncommon". He is really not your run-of-the-mill samurai of that era, and I wanted his name to reflect that.
Review responses: Conspirator: I'm so flattered you are reading this! I love your work, and hope you will have some good advice and guidance for me! I'm amazed that people didn't know immediately from the prologue who this was about, but apparently, they didn't. I guess that's fine, but I wasn't really trying to be "sneaky" about it. In fact, I purposely wrote very obliquely because I thought it WOULD be obvious! Omasuoniwabanshi: "energizer bunny on steroids"—that made me laugh out loud! Spot-on description of this guy, for sure. I'm glad you liked the background; there will be more—it's one of the reasons I'm even writing this thing. Skenshingumi: I have somehow managed to disgust almost everybody with that "leather thing"! Oh, well… Foreshadowing, eh? I guess we'll just have to see; even I am not quite sure what's coming up on that score. Much depends on Yoshi's data-gathering, I think.