Shinjū

Chapter 18

A sudden pounding of hoofbeats scattered the crowd in front of the noodle restaurant where Raiden sat finishing his midday meal. The sumo wrestler looked up from his bowl to see two horsemen in full battle regalia: richly decorated leather armor, metal helmets and face masks. Swords drawn, they brought their galloping mounts to a halt in front of him.

“You, there!” one of them called.

Raiden uttered a cry of dismay at the dust that the horse’s hooves had thrown onto his food. He glared up at the riders. Flinging the bowl aside, he stood, arms folded, legs apart.

“You mean me?” he growled at the lead rider.

“Yes. You.” The rider’s mask distorted his voice but did not disguise its implicit threat. Two cold eyes returned Raiden’s glare. “Are you Raiden, the wrestler?”

Raiden fell back a step. His anger subsided as the first prickings of fear started within him. He recognized the crests on the riders’ armor and the winged ornaments on their helmets. These were yoriki, whose rare appearances in the streets always meant big trouble for someone.

“What if I am?” Raiden said, trying to sound brave. But his voice quavered, and his heart began to thud.

Instead of answering, both yoriki jerked their horses’ reins. The horses pranced backward, clearing the street in front of Raiden. The yoriki who had spoken gave a piercing yell:

“Take him!”

At once a pack of men descended on Raiden. Two grabbed his arms and pulled him away from the restaurant. The others surrounded him, clubs raised. Beyond them, Raiden saw three doshin with jitte in hand, four other men who each carried a stout ladder, and a crowd of avid onlookers.

Raiden’s confusion and panic increased. He struggled to free himself. “Hey, let me go. What are you doing? What do you want with me?”

“You’re under arrest for the murders of Noriyoshi, artist, and Yukiko, daughter of Lord Niu,” the lead yoriki shouted from astride his rearing horse. To the others: “Take him to jail.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Raiden protested. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

But even as he spoke, he experienced an uncomfortable, familiar, and queasy sensation of doubt. The demon that lived in his mind sometimes affected his memory; people often told him he’d done things of which he had no recollection. He might have killed those people, then forgotten-he’d certainly hated Noriyoshi enough. But the thought of jail alarmed him. He must convince the police of his innocence.

“You’ve got the wrong man,” he said.

Suddenly a blinding rage boiled up inside Raiden, just as it had at frequent, unpredictable intervals since he’d injured his head. His demon surfaced. With a roar of fury, Raiden threw his massive weight right, then left. The men holding his arms let go. He heard one of them crash into the restaurant amid the excited cries of the diners. Raiden charged at his other attackers. He swept one aside with his arm and downed another with a punch in the jaw. He plowed over the fallen men, kicking and trampling. But the doshin’s men outnumbered him. Their clubs began to rain blows upon him. Still Raiden fought. Possessed by the demon, he felt no pain and cared not whether he lived or died.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the demon departed. Fear and panic returned. “No!” Raiden screamed.

He flung his hands up to protect his face-too late. Pain flared on his cheeks and mouth. He tasted blood, spat out one of his teeth. The clubs cracked against his arms, ribs, and back. He went down, sobbing in terror now. Pinioned beneath the doshins men, he lay gasping and whimpering like a wounded animal. The shouts of the crowd rang in his ears. Someone bound his wrists. The rope cut into his flesh. Hands dragged him to his feet. The ladders interlocked around him, forming a cage. A jitte prodded his back.

“Walk,” its owner shouted in his ear.

Still whimpering in pain and terror, Raiden staggered forward. He ducked his head to hide his shame. He knew what he would see if he raised his eyes.

He’d seen parades like this before. The proud mounted yoriki in the lead; the doshin marching behind them; and last, the assistants with their bound and corralled prisoner. He’d joined the crowds who flocked to see the spectacle; he’d jeered and hurled rocks at the prisoners. Now he was the victim of those taunts. The rocks were aimed at him.

“This is a mistake,” he cried as a rock struck his brow. He cowered within his ladder-cage, but more rocks flew between the rungs to pound his chest and back. “I’m not a murderer.” He must make everyone listen and believe, before they reached the jail. Then it would be too late. “Please, let me explain.”

He lifted pleading eyes to his tormenters. His spirits sank at the sight of the angry mob. The leering faces, merciless stares, flailing arms. The mouths crying out for his blood. “Please… ”

Again the jab in the back. “Shut up and keep moving!”

After a while, Raiden’s awareness of the crowd, his captors, and even his predicament faded. The simple act of walking required all his thought and energy. Finally the procession halted, and Raiden found himself outside the gate of Edo Jail with no clear memory of the route they’d taken. Fresh terror restored his wits.

“Please, no, don’t take me in there, I don’t want to go,” he babbled as his captors disassembled the ladder-cage. Like everyone else, he knew what went on in the jail. Once inside, he could forget about convincing the authorities of his innocence.

No one spoke to him. They dragged and pushed him down a foul-smelling corridor. He heard his own screams mingle with the inhuman howls of the other prisoners. Someone opened a door. A hard shove sent him stumbling into a dim room. He fell facedown in the corner. Rough hands bound his ankles. The door slammed.

Raiden rolled over. He was alone in a tiny cell with high, barred windows. Frantically he writhed on the floor, straining at his bonds.

“Let me out!” he shouted.

No answer came. At last, weakened to exhaustion, he gave up. He lay panting, bathed in sweat that soon turned icy in the draft that poured through the windows. He forced himself to think. Could he bribe the jailers? Failing that, his only hope of survival lay in enduring the torture that he knew would follow. No matter what they did to him, he must not confess to murder. Now he called upon all the self-discipline his twenty years of sumo training had instilled in him. With relief, he felt his mind grow quieter as fear receded. Courage flowed through him, the way it did when he stepped into the ring.

The door swung open. Two jailers entered the room. Each carried a long staff; each wore a spear and a whip at his waist. Raiden kept his eyes off the men and their weapons and concentrated his attention inward. Let them do their worst.

The shorter jailer closed the door and stood beside it, leaning on his staff. The other, a huge brute with one eye sealed shut by shriveled scar tissue, towered over Raiden.

“Ah, Raiden, the mighty warrior,” he mocked. “Lying on the floor like a trussed pig. Now tell me the truth: did you kill Niu

Yukiko?“

“No. I did not. And if you leave me unharmed, I will reward you handsomely.”

One-Eye laughed. “With what?” He leaned over, and with one vicious yank tore off Raiden’s threadbare kimono. He found the money pouch and emptied three zeni from it onto the floor. “This?” To his companion, he called, “Shall I prove that the great Raiden lies?” He flung aside his staff and drew his whip.

The whip whined through the air. It lashed against Raiden’s chest with a crack of fiery agony. Raiden gasped, but managed not to scream.

“I didn’t kill her,” he whispered.

“Yes, you did,” One-Eye said. “You killed her, and you killed Noriyoshi, and then you threw them both into the river. Admit it!”

“No.”

The whip whined again. “You killed them.”

“No.”

“Yes. Say it: I killed Niu Yukiko. I killed Noriyoshi.”

Over and over came the whip and the accusations. Raiden’s world shrank to a space that contained only his anguish and the jailer’s ugly face. He imagined that he was being punished for all the things his demon had done. Mauling other wrestlers, tearing up the practice room, wrecking teahouses and brothels. But none of it was his fault. He wasn’t a bad man, just an unfortunate one.

“No… wasn’t me… don’t deserve this. Good man… good samurai. No. No.” The words blubbered from his bloody, swollen mouth.

Then One-Eye went to work with his spear. Tears ran down Raiden’s face as it gouged his flesh. His muscles shrieked their agony; his bladder and bowels loosened. The floor beneath him grew slick with his blood, urine, and feces. Still he managed to repeat:

“No. I didn’t kill anyone.”

Finally One-Eye stepped back. “He’s a tough one,” he said to his companion. “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”

Raiden’s battered body untensed, savoring the respite from torture. Cautious hope stirred in his pain-befogged mind. Were they going to give up?

The short jailer mumbled something Raiden couldn’t understand. Then they both left the cell, slamming the door behind them.

“Merciful Buddha,” Raiden whispered thankfully.

Now his tears flowed in relief as he waited for someone to come and free him. But he grew uneasy as time passed and no one came. What was taking them so long? The ropes had numbed his hands and feet; he wanted them untied, now. He wanted to leave this terrible place. He wanted a bath, a drink, and medicine for his wounds.

“Hey,” he rasped. “Come back. Let me out.”

The door opened. Through it came his two torturers. One-Eye’s evil smile sent a thrill of fear through Raiden. A smoky metallic smell made his nostrils quiver. It came from the stone ewer that Short Man carried. Then Raiden understood.

“No!” he screamed. “Not neto-zeme! No!”

One-Eye was turning him onto his stomach. Without the strength to resist, Raiden pleaded for mercy. Facedown, he wept and slobbered against the filthy floor.

“No,” he gasped as a spear sliced a long cut down his back. Gritting his teeth against the blade’s sting, he said, “Please, I’ll pay you anything, I don’t have much, but I’ll get the money somehow-Oww!”

He stiffened as One-Eye’s hands stretched open the flesh on either side of the cut. He felt Short Man bending over him, tipping the ewer.

“Aiiiii!”

The molten copper trickled into Raiden’s wound. Pain seared his back, driving him to the brink of madness. As he screamed and sobbed, he could hear his flesh sizzle as it cooked. He imagined the wound’s edges curling and blackening.

“Did you kill Niu Yukiko and Noriyoshi?” One-Eye’s voice sounded distant, indistinct.

Still gripped by agony, Raiden couldn’t answer. He screamed again as more copper poured into him.

“Answer me, pig. Did you kill them?”

With the part of his mind that could still reason, Raiden knew that if he confessed, he was finished. But he couldn’t take any more neto-zeme. The suffering was unbearable, like nothing he’d ever experienced before, or wished to experience again.

“I don’t remember,” he wailed, hoping the truth would satisfy his torturers.

But One-Eye’s derisive laughter assaulted his pain-dazzled senses. “You killed them. Confess!”

Suddenly a flood of liquid fire cascaded onto Raiden’s back. His scream rose so high it caught in his throat. Short Man had dumped the ewer’s entire contents on him. The copper spread across his skin, burning as it went. Raiden’s arms and legs jerked in wild spasms. Involuntary sobs convulsed him. His courage and resolve dwindled to nothing.

He gulped and managed to choke out, “Yes. I killed them.”

Afterward, Raiden was barely conscious of being carried from the jail and transported to the Court of Justice on a litter. Through a cloud of pain and confusion, he heard the old, bald magistrate say in a reedy voice, “Raiden, you have confessed to the murders of Niu Yukiko and Noriyoshi. I sentence you to death.”

Then a cold, nightmarish journey by litter, during which he slipped in and out of delirium. He dreamed of wrestling a faceless opponent in a match that wouldn’t end. Somehow he knew that the opponent was his demon, the other self he’d fought and hated for the past three years. The audience jeered and stamped their feet. He was stumbling backward out of the ring…

Raiden awoke. He was lying on the ground, looking up at a pale, colorless sky. Wisps of fog swirled around him; the sun’s ghostly white globe floated near the horizon. Somewhere nearby, water lapped at the shore. The ring and his opponent had vanished, but Raiden still heard the audience stamping and jeering. He turned his head, wincing at the pain that his effort caused. Horror shocked him into alertness.

“Oh, no,” he murmured.

The jeering audience was a flock of ravens. They fluttered and squawked as their beaks tore at two rotting, headless corpses that lay on the ground near Raiden. Beyond them, men were assembling a rough wooden cross. Their hammers produced the stamping sounds he’d heard in his dream. This was the execution ground by the river. What a disgraceful place for a samurai to die!

Shame combined with his sorrow over losing his life, forming a huge, wordless ache that consumed Raiden. A sob rose in his throat; he swallowed it. As a last gesture to the samurai code of bravery, he waited with stoic resignation for an end to his suffering. At least the evil demon would die with him.

The men lifted him from the litter and bound him to the cross. Grunting with the effort, they raised it in a series of dizzying jerks.

Raiden found himself upright, facing the river. Severed heads on tall pikes dotted the bank. Corpses dangled from the two crosses beside his. Mist hung over the brown water, where a few fishermen watched silently from their boats. Raiden took one last look at the world. He closed his eyes and waited.

The executioner’s ear-shattering yell.

A spear thrust into his chest.

A wave of agony to end all agony.

Raiden screamed as it swept him away. He heard his blood pounding in his head, a great red pulse that quickly began to fade.

He saw the wrestling ring that had formed the boundaries of his life, and the faceless opponent. He was falling, falling out of the ring. At the last moment, he seized the demon and dragged it with him. He felt a burst of victorious joy. Then nothing.