Death at the Crossroads

CHAPTER 2

The parade was more like a comic scroll painting than a military procession.

In the lead was Ichiro, the village headman. He was a loose collection of lanky bones and oversize joints covered by yellowing skin. He carried a naginata, a type of spear with a broad sword blade for a point. He handled the weapon as if it were an alien device rather than something he had been drilled in. Ichiro was naked except for a loincloth and leather cuffs on his wrist, which were supposed to act as armor. Across his forehead he had a plate of metal strapped on by thin leather thongs. It would take a skilled swordsman, consciously trying to hit this headband, for it to provide any protection.

Behind Ichiro came Nagato Takamasu, the District Magistrate. His corpulent body strained at the cloth of his blue kimono, and the two swords that marked him as a samurai stuck out from his body like the spines of a blowfish. Nagato’s enormous belly jiggled as he waddled along. In an age when food was precious, Nagato’s fat marked him as someone of relative wealth and privilege.

Following Nagato were two guardsmen. Only one had a metal tipped spear; the other had a locally made spear of sharpened bamboo. One man wore a breastplate of chain mail as armor, but aside from this flimsy shield they both had only loincloths.

At the tail of the procession was Jiro. Jiro was supposed to lead the party, but he was put at the end as a matter of rank. As a result, every time Nagato wanted to ask how far it was to the body, the message had to be passed up and down the line by the two guardsmen. Jiro silently cursed the stupidity of the military as the conversation turned to farce.

“How far to the body?” Nagato asked.

“How far to the body?” the first guardsman repeated.

“How far to the what?” the second asked.

“The body, the body, baka!”

“Magistrate Nagato wants to know something,” the second guardsman said to Jiro.

Jiro, who couldn’t hear the telegraphed conversation, said, “Hai! Yes!”

“Where’s the body?”

“The crossroads,” Jiro answered, bewildered at why Nagato couldn’t remember what Jiro had reported when he first came to the village.

“It’s at the crossroads,” the second guardsman said.

“What’s at the crossroads?” the first asked.

“The body, the body, stupid,” the second said, mimicking the first.

The first guardsman looked over his shoulder and glared at the second. Then he turned to Nagato and said, “It’s at the crossroads, sir.”

“Of course it’s at the crossroads,” Nagato snapped. “Ask him how far from here.”

“How far from here?” the first relayed.

“How far is the body from the crossroads?” the second relayed.

Puzzled, Jiro answered, “It’s right at the crossroads.”

“To the right at the crossroads,” the second said.

The first said to Nagato, “We go to the right at the crossroads, sir.”

“To the right?” Nagato said, puzzled. “I thought he said the body was right at the crossroads. Ask him how far to the right.”

“How far to the right of the crossroads is it?”

“How far to the right?”

“How far to the right?” Jiro said perplexed. “How far to the right is what?”

“The body, stupid!”

“The body isn’t to the right of the crossroads.”

“It isn’t right.”

“He says it isn’t to the right, sir. Perhaps it’s to the left. These stupid farmers can’t tell right from left!”

“The body’s to the left at the crossroads?” Nagato said. “I thought he said it was right at the crossroads.”

The scrambled conversation would have continued for some time, except that Ichiro turned a bend and saw the body lying in the middle of the crossroads. Ichiro jerked to a halt, his naginata at the ready, as if the body would spring back to life and attack him.

Nagato almost walked into the butt of Ichiro’s naginata and came to a sudden halt himself. This unexpected stop echoed down the line as the first guardsman stopped short to avoid running into Magistrate Nagato, and the second guardsmen hit the first, bumping the first into Nagato’s back, despite the best efforts of the first guardsman not to hit the Magistrate.

At the bump of the first guardsman Nagato turned and roared in anger, “Baka! Fool! What do you think you’re doing!”

The guardsman fell to his knees in a deep bow of apology. “Excuse me, sir! Excuse me! It’s that stupid fool behind me. He pushed me! It was not my fault!”

Jiro, who had witnessed the entire sequence from his vantage point at the end of the procession, suppressed a laugh at the discomfort of the Magistrate and the guardsmen.

Nagato pointed at the body and yelled, “Don’t just sit there banging your miserable head on the ground! Get up and investigate the body!”

“Yes, sir!” The guardsman got to his feet and ran to the body, with the second guardsman nipping at his heels. When the first guardsman tried to stop as he reached the body, the second guardsman ran into him again. That tumbled both men down on top of the body, knocking over Jiro’s large basket of charcoal for good measure. The guards and body formed a wriggling bundle of hands, legs, and feet. The first guardsman, out of frustration and anger, started punching the second in the face.

As Nagato and Ichiro ran to sort out the squabbling guardsmen, a deep, ringing laugh came rolling down from the steep hillside by the crossroads. Jiro looked up the slope and was surprised to see the samurai who had startled him.

He was sitting on the supine trunk of a low-lying, windswept pine. The trunk was growing parallel to the ground, and the samurai was on it in the lotus position, his sword laying across his lap. In his hands he had a small knife and a piece of wood. His laughter was so hearty that he had to drop the wood into the lap of his kimono and place a hand down on the branch to steady himself, lest he fall off.

Nagato looked up the slope, scowling at the samurai. “What are you laughing at?” he bellowed.

The samurai’s laughter continued. Nagato, expecting an answer, demanded “Well? Well?”

The samurai’s laughter gradually died down. When it did, he grinned down at the outraged Magistrate and said, “Snow monkeys are always a source of amusement.”

The Magistrate was puzzled. “Why do you …” The meaning became clear. “Who are you to call us monkeys!” he shouted.

“You’re men who act like monkeys, so I’m just a man confused by what manner of creatures are before me: men or monkeys.”

The Magistrate, his face red with anger, kicked at the two guardsmen who were still tangled on the ground with the body. “Get up and arrest that man!” he screamed.

It took several moments for the guards to get themselves back on their feet with their weapons at the ready. They looked up the slope, then at each other. Then, with Nagato’s screams urging them on, they took a few tentative steps up the hillside toward the samurai.

As they scrambled up the hillside, all semblance of martial readiness disintegrated. Instead of holding their spears as weapons, they used them as hiking sticks. Neither guard seemed willing to lead the other, and both kept a wary eye on the samurai. When they were halfway to the samurai, he put the small piece of wood on the branch. Then he took the small knife, a ko-gatana, and slipped it into its niche in the side of his sword scabbard. He unfolded his legs and put them on the ground, standing up and shoving his sword into his sash. All this was done with an economy of movement and swiftness that mesmerized Jiro. The troops advancing up the hill were not entranced, however. This activity by the samurai was the signal for a pell-mell retreat by the guardsmen, who tumbled and slid down the slope back to the road.

Seeing his forces in disarray, Nagato’s shouts ended, although his purple face looked like it was about to explode.

“If you ask me politely, I’ll come down to talk to you,” the samurai said.

Looking at the cowering Ichiro and the two disheveled guards, Nagato swallowed his anger and stood in the road looking up at the samurai. He bowed slightly and said, “Please come down so we can talk to you.”

Showing an agility and balance that amazed Jiro, the samurai nimbly made his way down the hillside to the road. When he arrived at the crossroads, the two guards actually took a step back from him, as if to make sure they were out of his reach.

Seeing that the apoplectic Nagato was in no shape to talk, Ichiro presumed to address the samurai.

“I’m Ichiro, the village headman for Suzaka,” he said. “This is Magistrate Nagato and two of his men. As you can see, we are here to investigate what happened to this murdered man.”

The samurai gestured in Jiro’s direction with his chin. “And who is he?”

Surprised, Jiro stammered his name. He was used to being treated as part of the background and not acknowledged or recognized by those who were clearly his betters. The samurai was obviously a ronin. But even a masterless samurai was still a samurai. If he cared to, he could cut down Jiro or any peasant with his sword with no fear of penalty by the law.

Introductions handled to the samurai’s satisfaction, he asked, “Now, what do you want to know?”

“What’s your name?” Nagato Takamasu inquired, finally regaining enough control to talk. At the tone of Nagato’s voice, the samurai gave the Magistrate a hard stare. “I, ah, I need your name for my report to the District Lord,” Nagato stammered, giving his head a quick bow to show there was no disrespect intended in the question. “I’m the Magistrate of this District.”

The samurai stopped and looked up the hillside. Jiro followed his gaze but could see nothing except the wind rustling through the pine trees that covered the mountain’s slope. “I am Matsuyama Kaze,” the samurai said.

Jiro thought it unusual that the samurai’s name should be “Pine Mountain Wind,” when that was just what he was looking at. Jiro wondered if the Magistrate would notice the coincidence and decided that Nagato Takamasu was a man who didn’t notice much, despite his two names. Anyone with two names was either from a samurai or noble family. If they became a District Lord, they became a “great name,” or Daimyo. For the mass of peasants, merchants, and others who made up the rest of Japanese society, only one name was deemed sufficient. If this caused confusion, they were commonly given some kind of identifying tag, such as Jiro the charcoal seller.

“And what do you know of this?” the Magistrate said, pointing at the now-disturbed body lying at their feet.

“He’s dead.” Jiro thought the samurai had a hint of a smile when he replied, although his face remained serious.

“Yes, yes, of course he’s dead,” Nagato said, “but do you know how he died?”

“An arrow.” Although Matsuyama Kaze kept a serious visage, Jiro was now sure there was a twinkle in his eye. He’s playing with the Magistrate, Jiro thought. The Magistrate literally had the power of life or death, and the idea of manipulating him for sport seemed inconceivable.

“Of course, of course. I can see that. An arrow killed him. But do you know how he was killed?”

“Only what my eyes tell me. I didn’t see the murder. When I came up the path, I saw Jiro squatting over the body, examining it. He saw me and got frightened, leaving his charcoal basket behind and running away. I decided to stop for awhile to see what would happen next. I thought it might be interesting. It was.”

“Yes, yes, I understand all that. But do you know anything except what you saw?”

Kaze smiled. “Apparently some men can’t even understand what they do see. It’s foolish to ask me about things I did not see.”

The Magistrate wasn’t sure if he had been insulted or not, and paused for a few moments to see if he could figure it out. He couldn’t, so he turned his attention back to the body. He circled it several times, mumbling, “Yes, yes,” to himself as he looked things over. Finally, he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and announced, “Well, of course, it’s obvious.”

No one, including Kaze, encouraged the Magistrate to explain what was so obvious. He did so anyway. “This man is a stranger. Certainly not from our village. He was obviously walking along the path and bandits shot him in the back and robbed him. Yes, yes, it’s all very clear.”

Kaze started laughing. Irritated, the Magistrate turned to him and said, “I am the Magistrate.”

“Yes, you are,” Kaze said, “and one of your functions is to assure that justice is done. That won’t happen if you can’t even see where a man was killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How many men walk around with only one sandal?”

“None! What a ridiculous question!”

“Then why does this man have only one sandal? Men wear two sandals or go barefoot, like Jiro.”

Peering down at the body, the Magistrate said, “Yes, yes. I see what you mean.” Looking at the guardsmen, he said, “Find the other sandal.”

“Don’t bother,” Kaze said. “It isn’t here. It was lost where the man was killed.”

“He probably lost it running to this spot. Just because the sandal isn’t here, that doesn’t mean that he wasn’t killed here.”

“Your circling of the body erased any footprints, but before you came I looked at the path. There were prints from a horse and prints of bare feet and sandals from people who have walked through this crossroads. There are no prints of one bare foot and one sandaled foot. This man was not killed here.”

“But it’s ridiculous to think he was killed elsewhere. Why would a bandit kill a man and go to the trouble of moving him to this crossroads?” the Magistrate asked.

“Why would a bandit leave the man’s money?”

“What? He still has his money?”

“Check his money pouch.”

The Magistrate pointed to Ichiro to execute Kaze’s command. The village headman bent down and found the dead man’s money pouch, held to his kimono sash by a short cord ending in a wooden toggle, designed to prevent the cord from slipping out of the sash. Instead of the usual carved ivory netsuke, this toggle was just a plain square of wood with a hole drilled in it.

Ichiro hefted the pouch, then looked inside. “It’s true, Magistrate-sama, there is money in here. Several copper pieces and even one silver piece.”

“Yes, yes, very strange. How did you know that, samurai?”

“I looked,” Kaze said.

“You seem to know a lot about this for a man who said he came upon the body after the charcoal seller here discovered it.”

“You would also know a lot more if you looked. For instance, see the man’s sash? How it’s wound around him?”

The Magistrate stared at the body for several minutes. Jiro also looked. A long sash was wrapped several times around the body. Despite its length, it seemed to be a little loose. Jiro wasn’t sure what the samurai was talking about. The Magistrate echoed Jiro’s bafflement. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

The samurai sighed. “You can hold a lighted candle to a man’s face, but even if he feels the heat, you can’t make him open his eyes to look at the flame.”

“Here, here,” the Magistrate said. “I’m getting tired of these remarks of yours. They don’t make sense, and I think they might be disrespectful.”

The samurai gave a short bow. “I have the deepest respect for the position of Magistrate,” he said. “It is an important function and vital to keeping order in a district. If any of my remarks have offended you, I am sorry. They are simply reflective of the caliber of the actions and words I’ve seen before me.”

The Magistrate blinked a few times, not sure if he had been apologized to or insulted again. Finally he said, “Yes, yes, well, I’ll have to report this to the District Lord to see what he thinks. His manor is next to Suzaka village. This is all very unusual, very unusual. Samurai, I’ll require you to stay until our Lord decides what to do about this whole situation.”

“Is there a teahouse in Suzaka?”

“No, but you can stay with the charcoal seller.”

Jiro didn’t want the Magistrate extending an invitation to this ronin. He didn’t want a guest imposed on him, especially a strange ronin. “Excuse me, Magistrate-sama, but my house is too meager for a samurai.”

“Nonsense,” the Magistrate said. “He has to stay someplace. He certainly can’t stay with me or at the Lord’s manor. Your farmhouse is as good as any.”

“But perhaps the samurai would object to staying at such a lowly dwelling?”

“Oh no,” Kaze said with a smile. “Two nights ago I slept in the bottom of a boat I was in, and last night I slept in an open field. I’m sure your house will be quite adequate.”

“But-”

Jiro’s last try at an indirect protest was cut off by the Magistrate, who said, “Good, good. It’s all settled then. Let’s go into the village. I have to report this to the Lord. You two men stay here and bury the corpse,” the Magistrate said to the guards.

“You’re not going to take the body into Suzaka? Maybe someone in the village will know this man. Just because he’s a stranger to you, that doesn’t mean others won’t know him,” Kaze said.

“What for? It’s a needless effort. Here we just bury dead strangers by the side of the road. That’s our custom. Yes, yes, that’s the proper thing to do.” The Magistrate started waddling off toward the village.

The samurai didn’t immediately follow, and both Jiro and Ichiro were torn between trailing after the Magistrate and making sure the samurai would go.

Almost to himself, the samurai said, “What kind of place is this, where the bodies of strange men are so common that you have a custom for how you bury them?”

He stuck his sword into his sash, adjusting it carefully, then started down the path toward the village with the headman Ichiro trailing. Curious, Jiro looked up the hillside, then down the path at the retreating figures of the Magistrate, the ronin, and the village headman. He decided to satisfy his curiosity and started scrambling up the hillside to the place where the samurai had been sitting.

When he got to the tree trunk, he picked up the piece of wood the samurai had been carving. It was a piece of a limb as tall as a hand and as big around as a spear butt. From this hunk of wood, the samurai had carved a statue of Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy. The statue wasn’t finished. Only her face and shoulders were emerging from the rough bark, but Jiro marveled at the delicate beauty and serene expression staring up at him.

Kannon’s eyes were lidded slits, and her smooth cheekbones framed a tiny mouth with perfectly formed lips. As always, she was patient and inviting, ready to extend her mercy to any supplicant sincere enough to ask for it. That the hands of a man could evoke a living representation of the Goddess from a common piece of wood was a source of wonder for Jiro, who was used to much cruder representations of the Gods and Goddesses that inhabit the Land of the Gods.

Jiro looked down the slope and saw the two soldiers scraping out a shallow grave by the side of the road. From his vantage point the crossroads and all that occurred there was spread before him like a scene framed by tree trunks and branches. Where the samurai had placed the Kannon, the Goddess could look down on the slain man and all who traveled this place, extending her mercy to weary travelers on dangerous roads. Jiro placed the half-formed statue back on the branch, just where the samurai had left her. He clapped his hands together and bowed, asking the Goddess to extend her benevolence to him, too.

The men digging the grave looked up at Jiro’s clap, but didn’t have enough curiosity to see what the charcoal seller was doing. Slipping and sliding, Jiro made his way down the slope that the samurai had so nimbly navigated just a few minutes before. After loading the spilled charcoal into his basket and hoisting the basket on his back, Jiro scurried down the path that led to Suzaka village.