Ch 8
She was achy. Maybe achy wasn't the right word as she placed one leg in front of the other, breath coiling in the air. No, achy is an understatement. Her legs were on fire.
Twenty paces above Mitsunari halts. "I had thought you wanted to be here," he throws over his shoulder.
Indeed she had. But it had been Tschiyo-san who insisted she be accompanied. The older woman cautioned that these were not times for a woman to be traveling by herself, especially with civil unrest brewing in the north.
"Ah- Sakichi! Might you accompany Ran-dono?"
The older woman's request had seemed so benign, but to say Ran's blood froze at inoculate remark was nothing short of an exaggeration as she awaited the onslaught of his verbal lashings.
"…ii darou."
Ran adjusts the lacquered container hanging by the crook of her elbow. "Yes, I do wish to be here, Mitsunari-dono," though her voice rings as hollow and dry as the surrounding maples.
"Then make haste." He continues with his strides, calculated and measured despite the frosted steps.
She had been speechless then towards his reply. But of course, in all the months of knowing him, Ran should have suspected that it had been neither the benevolence nor magnanimity epitomizing warriors of his trade that spurred such odd acquiescence.
"…returning the debt," he had told her later that evening, concerning a recent affair with a certain sword smith that would have otherwise escalated to a grudging debacle.
An upturn of her lips that dies as soon as her feet remobilize. Ran pans upwards to the gray steps painted splotches of white and brown. Her knees complain against the pressure and repetition. She mildly muses about changing her prayer after completing the climb to include exercise tolerance for the new year before pushing on.
Mitsunari is about the throw a glance backwards when his periphery catches sight of her. He prefers hobble, but it's more of a frenzied stagger from the stubborn woman that surpasses him as the summit grows closer and closer.
She calls out to him bright eyes at the top of the stairs. "Mitsunari-dono, hurry!" An animated wave attached to heaving shoulders as he resumes his pace.
"This is it?" the Ishida general scoffs as the summit levels before him on the last few steps.
"There is more to see inside the temple," Ran adds with a grin in the backdrop of a bell toll, "I'm going to offer a prayer, would you like to join me?"
"Suit your yourself," he replies with crossed arms against the entrance gates.
Incessant chatter from a group of young ladies by the shrine stirs her curiosity as Ran reaches for a drink from the site's fountain. Fits of giggles and gossip she is apt to ignore, but…
"That man by the gates, he is handsome, no?" A hush whisper.
"And tall!" Another quips.
"I wonder what he is doing here?" A dreamy sigh.
"A sword…he must be a samurai! Ara, he must be so refined, calm and loyal to be escorting his master here, maybe even...princess!" A gasp.
"AWK!" Her hands fly to her chest as fluid enters the wrong pipe.
The group of females cast her a glance before Ran clears her throat. "Pardon me," she mutters, before scurrying away, unsure whether she would die from humiliation or laughter.
Had she hear right?
Samurai, yes, but Master? Princess? She shakes her head, lucky to qualify as a servant by the grumpy general's standards. Had he not called her a stubborn woman amongst other names in the past? Surely even servants were treated better.
Loyal, yes, but refined? Calm? Kami! Her lips curl at the irony, and laughter threatens to erupt from her insides. Yet, in the midst of all things farfetched, impossible, and downright untrue, Ran recollects another key word as Mitsunari crosses his arms at the entrance gates.
The Ishida general looked every bit out of his element with the purple and whites of his attire clashing with the red Torii gates that he leaned against in the backdrop of tolling bells, burning incense and spirited banter. Encased in metal, his stature, shoulders and limbs, stand unfazed in the cold, as if daring the weather to continue its frosty assault. Silver bangs veil a dispassionate gaze, and it isn't until the young samurai almost looks her way that Ran tears away with a speed unimaginable to conceal the warmth invading her features.
Ridiculous. That's what Mitsunari thought of this foolish excursion to the middle of nowhere during the coldest month of the year for virtually no concrete reason. To make matters worse, the mundane prattling from a group of females nearby peaks to vexatious proportions as another bell drones distantly. Crossing his arms again, he silently broods over how foolish people are to have ineffectual, superstitious principles influence their lives.
A sneers escapes him. Bells, charms and whistles did not win wars. Strategy, courage and resources did. Temples do not protect one's domain, castles do. A scowl mars his features as something foul catches in the air, prompting him to turn left, with edges of his bangs playing against the wind, just in time to catch his charge scampering away to frequent the business of temple vendors. He's about to mutter one of his trademark comments when a female civilian approaches him.
"Ano…" A female. Red-haired, in a thin, fluttering kimono he finds odd, stutters. She had deviated from her group of comrades by the shrine. The same group that squealed with laughter every moment he crossed and uncrossed his arms.
He tosses his odachi to the opposite hand with a deadpan expression.
"What?"
"Mitsunari-dono, might you want to offer a prayer?" Ran asks, picking her way through the snow over to him.
"A prayer…?" The word sounds foreign with his voice as they start their descent with the temple receding from view in the horizon
"A prayer for victory, strength, courage, things of that nature I suppose," she replies with that irritating smile again. "I prayed for health and peace."
"Hn, do not mock me. Such things require no prayer."
At first she was within arm's length behind Mitsunari, but halfway home the treacherous trail, barbaric brushes, slippery slopes and frigid temperatures slipped her several paces behind the Ishida general. On several occasions, he would throw her a precursory glance, reminding her to catch up, but by the time they reached the Sendai river, less 4 kilometers from the Tokugawa residence, it became impossible. Not only could Ran not catch up, but dropping temperatures practically froze her joints.
"We rest here," he said, arriving at the shallow riverbank, as if expecting her request to make a pit stop.
She makes her way over to the trees, dense vegetation wrapped in frost that provides some overhead cover, should it begin to snow. The lacquered basket comes off her elbow and she is about to offer its contents when-
"Mitsunari-dono, where are you going?" Her voice strung with trepidation. She clambers out of the natural alcove.
"To scout landmarks," came his curt reply, as if it were the most self-explanatory task in the world.
"Please I'll-"
"The trail will soon become difficult, it's best to know the way in advance," he elaborates, staring into the sinking horizon, "I shall not be far. Stay here."
Without another word Mitsunari sprints down the path, swallowed by the foliage and the grey skies, leaving her alone by the shale riverbank. Aside from the soft rippling, all is silent.
"He will be back soon," she tells no one in particular, shuffling towards the water to wash her hand. A quick survey of the river leads her to a plateau of shale extending from the bank that lies perched above rapids. The water is freezing as Ran extends a soiled hand in, but she has no intention of eating dirt. Her nostrils wrinkle at an evanescent odor, and Ran supposed all rivers have an inherent quirk to them. Her hands begin to rub vigorously, becoming entangled in seaweed as she regards the wilderness.
There's a damp, miniature oxbow on the opposite riverside, made barren by the harsh winter. Something grew there, and in her optimism she hoped it would be a fresh batch of irises in the spring.
Satisfied, Ran withdraws her hands, untangling the seaweed. She notes the seaweed is dark, very dark. Strange, but it doesn't stop her from pulling to extricate her fingers. A firm tug of the strands, followed by a gasp.
What she thought entrapped her hand is more complex than seaweed.
What she thought initially an elusive odor
...makes sense.
Hi there,
Decided on a short piece. Feels good to be back! Hope it was alright. For the longest time I had writer's block as rooted as the Tree of Souls (get reference? lol) but I went back, revisited Toni Morrison's works and found inspiration I wish to share with all writers:
"If there's a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it"
So back I am to stay for good, because I want to read the story as much as the next person. =)
yours truly,
Gravism