Chapter 7 – Silent Night

Time to move.

The moon is new, a bare sliver. Even this feeble light is dimmed, filtered by stringy clouds slithering their way across the inky sky. A restlessness in the air stirs the forest canopy and sets on edge nocturnal creatures, hunter's glowing eyes and preys' cautious feet alike tending more intently to their respective tasks.

The dense darkness and the dry whisper of leaves served to further mask his already expert stealth. His nerves, too, were pricked, but by more than the night's disquiet. He felt the now-familiar tingle of impending betrayal. Not from the old man—curious that the old one, wiser though he seems, was the easier to deceive—but from the younger. Makoto had recognized, during that one visit, the sizing up, the mistrustful eye, the wait-and-see attitude that had been somehow missing, right from the start, in his old nurse.

He'd spent the next days calling on every reserve in his body, in his spirit, to speed his healing enough to leave. He was certain the younger one would take actions, if only to uncover his identity, and he couldn't risk that. Too many ears were still on alert regarding his disappearance, and questions about someone with his distinctive injuries would trigger alarms that would narrow his escape window.

During this morning's visit from the old man, Makoto had spelled out what he would need for his journey, watching for signs of hesitation, of reluctance. Watched for signs that he would need to take action on his own behalf.

"And I'll need a blade, too. Not a katana, something smaller, more concealable."

"Are you sure about this? You're hardly able to walk…"

"I'm the judge of that. Just get me what I need. By tomorrow."

Clearly unhappy with the speed of the schedule, the old man fidgeted, and fiddled with his sacks and bottles.

"Look, couldn't you wait at least another week? I could arrange to have one of the village boys travel with you for a few days. You could use someone to help you with your bandages and…"

He'd leaned in menacingly toward the man, could feel for himself his body temperature rising, radiating his determination. And the threat he presented was palpable between them: Gozaemon's eyes widened and, unconsciously, he shrank back.

"Don't push me, old man! I'm leaving, and alone. If you breathe so much as a word about me after I'm gone…"

He could smell the fear and defeat as Gozaemon shifted away from him a little. That was more like it—he was going to get what he wanted, and with a minimum of fuss.

"All right." The old man straightened his posture, trying to reclaim a shred of his dignity, to reassert a bit of control. "But I'm going to pack you plenty of food."

Makoto smirked to himself in the dark of the cave. 'Let the fool do what he wants, just so long as he comes across with that blade…'

But as the day wore on, he could no longer deny his unease about the younger companion. He'd guessed that the man was nervous about him, and, later, he'd felt him leave the village. This by itself, the returning strength of his sensing abilities, had told him he was well enough to travel.

Ever since his betrayal—as he recovered, had felt his foundation knitting itself back together—he'd noticed unusual changes in himself. His mind worked faster than it had before, spinning at a fantastic rate, and his muscles responded now to his wishes almost before he even had a chance to fully formulate then.

And his sensing, well, that was the most remarkable of all. He could track every person in the village far below his cave, could sense them clearly and individually. He knew not only where each one was and what each was feeling, but found that, without straining himself, could predict what was going to happen next in each house, on each street corner. In fact, he could hardly free himself of their presence in his head…

He felt in high gear, exhilarated—it put him in mind of that summer with chi-chi...

Once, in his youth, his father had taken him to the slopes of the mighty Tennozan-san, a summer spent hunting and training in the shadow of the mountain looming over the confluence of the three great rivers of his homeland: the Katsuragawa, the Ujigawa and the Kizugawa. The crashing roar as these waters battled for supremacy echoed through the surrounding canyons and hillsides, and could be heard for miles, the spray and mist thrown up from their roiling collision rising like steam high into the sky, marking the location like a warning sign. It made the hunt challenging because the native animals were attuned to it, their hearing modified to listen beyond it, and he and his father had had to work hard to overcome this handicap. They had barely kept themselves fed during the first few weeks, and it had been touch-and-go a couple of times—he still remembered that deer they had brought down together, working in concert on separate sides of a small canyon, senses crazily sharpened with hunger. Her eyes had not yet glazed over when they got to her—hooves trembling as the last of her life drained out of her—but they hadn't waited. They fell on her with their ken nata and slit her open from gullet to belly, their hunting knives slashing away chunks of steaming flesh and cramming it into their mouths, heedless of the hot blood dripping down their forearms, desperate and breathless and unthinking. That night, they slept as men pulled from the brink, and awakened as different creatures: just a little wilder, just a little less civilized.

Just a little stronger.

Yes, these new strengths were exhausting, but he was yet weak from his injuries—he had much healing to go, and he could feel his strength surging back almost hourly.

This will be useful.

In fact, it already had proved useful—he had detected in his spirit the argument far below him between the two friends the previous evening, and had guessed it was about him. The next morning, he had known exactly why the younger man took the road to Kyoto.

He's got to go by wagon—so much the better for me, he'd smirked to himself as he sat in the opening of the cave, fingering the long, thin shank of the pipe the old man had provided, enjoying the quite excellent tobacco and taking in the meadow's activities. It had been as good a backdrop as any for his thoughts, and the colors and the sunlight and the gentle comings and goings of the meadow's denizens, while perhaps unappreciated in the ordinary way for their beauty and testament to summer's life and force, had served to help him focus his scattered senses on his own needs: his immediate plans to get away, to get to safety.

To get home.

He'd decided he wouldn't wait for tomorrow's visit—he would go down the mountain himself under cover of night and take what he needed. He'd risen and knocked the pipe free of tobacco and stood, stretching in the noonday sun before turning back and ducking into the cave.

I'll sleep now—tonight will be long.

Gozaemon popped the rest of his rice ball into his mouth and absent-mindedly wiped his fingers on the hem of his gi. It had taken him the rest of the afternoon after coming back down off the mountain to gather and pack the supplies the man had requested—had ordered—and he was of half a mind to return to the cave now just to get them out of his hair. He was beginning to have vague misgivings about his rescued one, and he couldn't place them, and it made him queasy.

He kept thinking about his other rescue that had stayed so long in his heart—the young boy sent by Yoshi, scrawny, weak, so nearly at death's door that Gozemon had sat up over him all that first night, really expecting him to simply slip away before morning. He'd been almost surprised then when, with the dawn, his bleary eyes had met with such force from those queer violet ones, suddenly open and watching him from the still-inert body on the futon, awake how long he couldn't say, but awake and alive and… surviving.

He missed that one. There was something that lingered long after the boy himself had gone—a feeling of destiny and hardship and burden bravely borne. He hadn't felt anything like that since he'd sent Yoshi himself off to battles—had unwillingly sent him, but had seen that there was no stopping him.

He shook his head at the folly of youth—and those not so young, so what is their excuse?

When Yoshi had returned, he'd been disturbingly different, and Gozaemon had feared, for quite a long time, that his young friend was lost to him forever. Hardened, silent, unresponsive, Yoshi kept to himself, sleeping mostly out-of-doors and spending his days hunting or simply wandering in the surrounding countryside.

This was when Gozaemon developed the habit of taking his pipe outside for his evening smoke, spending the long evenings sitting where he knew the red glow could be seen in the dark night from deep within the forest and far over the slanting meadows, knew that he was being watched, even stalked, Yoshi waiting to see how long it would take before he gave up and went back inside, took his pipe and his acceptance and his hospitality with him and closed his back door for good.

Many weeks passed with only faith in his friend's good heart rewarding his patience. Many more weeks of small signs showing the young man's gradual nearness, a familiar footprint beside the well, the neighbor's damned dog's small whimper of welcome deep in the night. Many weeks until he heard, just barely, like the passing of a spirit, perhaps felt more than heard, a warmth at his side, a presence beside him in the dark.

No words passed between them, and he didn't come the next night, but Gozaemon had relaxed a bit, knowing that now it was just a matter of time. And that time had passed ever more quickly: Yoshi was naturally sunny and strong, and his spirit simply would not be held down so permanently. Not four moons had traversed the sky before he was back in Gozaemon's cottage, snoring through the night in his own inimical fashion, tromping in at eventide shedding dirt clods and leaves from the day's hunt, gambling with the men and wobbling home tipsy and happy and normal.

Would that were what awaited Kenshin…

But he had a feeling that Kenshin's path back to happiness would be long and rocky—he could only hope that there would be those along the way to pick up him when he faltered and feed his soul when he withered.

As for what awaited the man on the mountain—I still don't know his name! What's wrong with me?— He shuddered a little inside and turned back to the last of his evening meal. He picked up his bowl and hashi and teacup, took them over to the bowl he used for washing—washing dishes, washing gi, washing rice… washing himself—and cleaned them out.

No, I'll wait until tomorrow. It's late and I'm so tired…

He busied himself for a few minutes around the room: banking the fire in the stove, changing out of his day clothes into his heavy, quilted yukata, kneeling for a moment before the shrine in the corner.

He pulled out his futon and spread it on the floor near the iron stove, the much-appreciated, long-ago gift from a grateful Yoshi. Even though it was still summer, and the nights warm, Gozaemon was increasingly aware of his age, and of how even the gentle cool of summer nights crept into his joints and muscles. He tried not to think about that as he crept under the warm futon top, tried not to regret his inevitable leaving, tried not to be greedy—he'd had so much, so many years, so much love, so much adventure,

So much life.

It's a long time till next spring…

He blew out the candle near him and settled down into the night. The night breeze rustled the tree in the back yard—he'd always like that sound, found it comforting, homey.

Outside, the neighbor's damned dog whimpered, but not with welcome.