Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ VIII. The clouds give rest ( Chapter 8 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don’t own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos. Neither do I own the haiku of Matsuo Basho (translation by R.H. Blyth, this chapter).

A/N: Totally self-betaed, so I’m hoping the story ends up still set in Japan for next chapter. Eeee!

Nenju


It was still pleasant to be back at the Zen temple once more, even if they’d apparently traveled that quickly just so she could stand at a washing tub.

She gave the bubbling cauldron a critical look and gave it a stir. Their clothes had been so filthy, she was a little surprised that she hadn’t had to change the water yet again. As she pushed Mugen’s haori back down to the bottom of the tub, she wondered what had really happened last night. They were still moving stiffly this morning, nursing their cuts and bruises — Jin in particular had the most bizarre wound on his hand, a mark like a crescent moon sunk deep into the calloused skin between the thumb and first finger that he’d been very reluctant to show her — but they weren’t any more forthcoming. When she’d asked Mugen point blank, he’d looked away and mumbled something about too much to drink and yakuza that she hadn’t believed for a minute. Still . . . maybe they’d gone to the whorehouse together? Something was off — neither one of them was willing to tell her, and while she hadn’t seen them in two years, they hadn’t gotten any better at being able to lie to her. She was a little better at lying to them, but she still wouldn’t have bet any money on her ability to keep anything from them. She was better at distracting them, she knew.

Lying . . . it wasn’t lying to not talk about it. It was delaying the inevitable; she knew she’d have to tell them sooner or later. Telling Father Zuikou had been much easier, relatively speaking, though she suspected that had more to do with him as more of a stranger to her than either Mugen or Jin would have been. She was pleased she hadn’t cried when she’d told him. Actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure that she’d cried since she’d been in the field of sunflowers; but then she hadn’t been sleeping as much, and food hadn’t tasted the way it used to taste. Nothing was quite as important as it used to be — she’d not wanted to be in the brothel, even less had she wanted the first customer when he’d been brought to her, but not enough to do much of anything about it. She’d watched the man with his trembling hands curiously, as if his hands undoing her juban were moving over the body of some other woman; she’d been almost startled when his face was that close to hers, she could smell the soba he’d eaten earlier that day —

In the end, he’d been almost ridiculously happy with the woman who’d lain so passively underneath him. She’d accepted the extra coins he’d given her, as well as promises that he would ask for Himawari again. She didn’t remember as much about the second — she’d been distracted, thinking about Sara — and the third she didn’t remember at all, although she thought that his scalp had been oddly greasy. Hn. Just flesh, really. It wasn’t as if any of the men would care that in her mind, she was anywhere but there, or that she hated sunflowers these days.

The field of sunflowers — resolutely, she pushed all thought of the man with the eyepatch away, along with all thoughts about when or how she’d tell her yojimbo. Her yojimbo, now they were ripe for speculation: she wondered about Mugen’s trip to Matsumae, what Jin had been doing since leaving Nagasaki — not that they’d tell her enough without sufficient nagging.

Affectionately, she glanced over at them. They had been repairing some of the older shoji, until the monk had decided it would perhaps be a better idea to have Mugen work on replenishing the firewood supply instead. They hadn’t ventured far from her side all morning, which was normal, but the degree to which they were watchful over her was not, she thought. Jin looked up then, as if he’d felt her eyes on him — he probably had, she thought, the man was disturbingly perceptive about things like that. He gave her an enquiring look, and she shook her head.

He’d been odd last night, even odder than Mugen. Not only had Jin looked as if he’d been brawling, he’d almost been — no, now that was crazy. When she’d thought he was touching her hair last night, obviously he was doing something else, she was completely misunderstanding what he was doing and reading much too much into it. He had been tired, she knew, maybe he’d just wanted to rest his head for a very, very short catnap — um.

The object of her confusion was regarding her strangely, and she gave him a little wave: nothing to see here! No improper thoughts about ronin taking place, and definitely nothing involving ronin shoulders. Or the backs of ronin heads. Nope! He looked unconvinced, but went back to the delicate carpentry. Maybe they could tell she wasn’t quite herself; maybe she was less skilled at misdirection than she thought she was. Maybe her mind would stop going round and round in circles if she stuck her head in the laundry tub — ew. That blood stain did not want to come out, and how much of it had Mugen been rolling around in, anyway?

She resigned herself to spending the rest of the afternoon watching water boil. Mou. Maybe she was crazy, for agreeing to do the laundry.

“Have you given any thought to what you intend to do next?” Father Zuikou sipped appreciatively at his tea.

They were sitting with the older man, enjoying the warmth and light of the room. The remains of the evening meal — Fuu had been very pleased to find it wasn’t fish — had been cleared away, and she was pleasantly sleepy. She’d been absently mending Mugen’s gi, but paused in her needlework when the old monk spoke.

Jin set down the temple’s copy of The Tales of Genji, glancing over at Fuu before he answered. “Mugen and I have discussed it,” he said cautiously, as she wrinkled her nose at him but failed to launch herself at his shins. “We were not able to come to a decision, however.”

“Hm.”

“Matsumae domain’s out,” Mugen said, rolling onto his side to face them. “Satsuma, too.”

“I see. It’s a pity. It would be easier to hide the young lady in places where the shogun’s influence is not as strong.” The monk turned the cup in his hands. “Tell me, the foreign man you met, where was he from?”

Foreign — Fuu abandoned all pretense to paying attention to anything other than the conversation, dropping the haori to her lap.

Mugen frowned. “Some place called Holland — you think we should go there?”

“Nagasaki.” The book sat at Jin’s knee, forgotten, as he regarded the monk intently. “The foreign ships are only allowed into Nagasaki; the foreigners are restricted to Deshima,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes.” Father Zuikou paused, then looked directly at Fuu. “My dear, I know that your father has gone on to the afterlife, and you told me once that your mother had gone on ahead of him. Do you have any other family to help you?”

She shook her head. “Mugen and Jin are my family now.”

“I see.” The monk glanced at the two young men, who had gone very still. “I’m not familiar with this Holland, I must admit, but I would consider it as a last resort. As far as I know, the government keeps a very close eye on the ships the foreigners use to travel from our country to theirs, and from what you’ve told me, it does not sound as if — “ he shrugged “— it sounds rather unpleasant, actually. The Christians might be able to help you go there, but from my understanding, they may be a different sort of Christian.”

Mugen recovered first. “So, if not this Holland place, then where?”

“Different sort of Christians?” Jin asked, distractedly. She’d said family — “I was not aware there was more than one kind.”

The monk eyed them shrewdly.

“No way in hell!”

“Mugen — “

”Do you know how long I spent — that fucking hellhole — “

”Mugen!”

“Hn.”

“Don& #8217;t give me that crap! And you, fish face, you better not even be thinking about it, because we’re not taking her there. No way! That’s the absolute shittiest idea I have ever heard, octopus head. Did you lose your mind when you lost your hair?”

“Mugen!”

Thwack!
< br> “OW! Goddamnit, that hurt!”

“So. Now that’s over, I must admit I hadn’t thought of that as a possibility,” Jin said, eyeing Mugen.

The Ryukyuan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘asshole’ and prodded the new lump on his skull with a finger, hissing quietly in pain.

“I thought it was a prison colony,” Fuu said, frowning. “I don’t know if I want to — maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

“They’re not all prison islands,” Mugen told her, leaving his aching head alone and leaning back on his hands. “One I grew up on was, yeah, but it was closer to Satsuma and they started shipping their criminals down there after the daimyo annexed Amami Oshima. Not like it was official, anyway, we just got lucky that they had too many criminals to deal with. Bunch of pricks. I wouldn’t go anywhere near those Satsuma fuckers — you’d be better off staying here and taking your chances with the shogun.” His face was stubborn.

“Mm.” Father Zuikou collected his empty cup, and got to his feet. “Unless you plan to leave this evening, I believe I will say good night. A little sleep is sometimes the best way to solve a problem.” He smiled, and slipped noiselessly out the partially opened shoji, the three behind him stirring themselves to take his advice.

“Oi.” The voice was quiet behind her. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” She turned her face away from the river towards him. His face was obscured, clouds across the moon casting shadows that masked him.

“Shouldn’t come out here by yourself. What if something happened?” Mugen came to stand next to her, leaning over the edge of the railing.

She huffed at him softly. “Pretty sure the yakuza isn’t going to bother me, considering you and Jin apparently beat all of them up last night. And they don’t have anyone going around killing swordsmen since the last guy — even if they did, I’d be the one protecting you.”

He snorted.

“So what’re you doing out here?” She relaxed against the bridge, propping herself on her elbows.

“Woke up, you were gone.” He turned around, slouching back against the rail, in order to see her face.

What the —

“You were worried? About me?” She squinted, trying to make out his face a bit better. “Are you feeling all right? I didn’t think Father Zuikou hit you that hard — “

”Fuu.” He seemed to be giving her a lot of exasperated looks, recently. “Government guys probably won’t wait for you to come find us.”

“Why haven’t we seen any of them yet?” she asked. “I’d have thought they would have tried something by now if they really wanted to find me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Wish I did.”

She shivered a little, not entirely due to the cooler air coming off the river.

“You cold? Come on.” Mugen put his arm around her, drawing her in close and rubbing her shoulder as he steered her back toward the temple grounds. “Whole damn country’s only warm enough in summer.”

“Mm.” This, she decided, was nice. He was tall enough that his arm easily draped over her shoulders, the muscles of his chest playing under her cheek as he breathed, heat from his body soothing her —

“Hey.” He bumped her gently with his hip. “Don’t fall asleep on me, now. I’m not carrying you back.”

“Not sleepy,” she told him, and yawned.

“Liar.” She didn’t have to look up; she could hear the grin in his voice. “If you’re not going to tell the truth, at least make it believable.”

Fuu stuck her tongue out at him, as he gave her hair a playful tug. “Jerk.”

“Loser. You said I’m family now, so guess that means you should listen to me.”

“Um, no?”

They walked along companionably for a moment before he said, “Did you mean that?”

“Mean what?” He even smelled good, she thought, like ocean water and wet sand —

“We’re your family now.”

She nodded.

“Mm.”

“Unless you don’t — ?”

“Never been anyone’s family before, ‘s all.” The arm that had dropped back over her shoulders squeezed her lightly. “Didn’t say I mind.”

“Good.” She smiled. It was getting a little uncomfortable to walk along with his arm over her shoulder. The weight of the arm was welcome, but pulled her off balance just enough to make her conscious of the way she was moving; instinctively, she slipped her arm around his waist to balance herself, pressing her side against him.

She felt, rather than heard, him breathe in. “Fuu — “ He stopped, and pulled her around so that she was facing him. She could feel the bones of his hip under her hand, her mind idly commenting on how remarkably solid he was, how completely at variance with the taut lines and sinewy grace when she looked at him.

And then his hands were cupped at the base of her skull, drawing her in as he bent down and his mouth was —

She closed her eyes; the moon was too bright.

He tasted of the sesame tofu they’d had for the evening meal, his skin surprisingly tender, and, oh — she was conscious of nothing more than the feel of his hair gripped in her hand, thick rebellious strands threaded through her fingers, and how he was sucking her lower lip, stroking his tongue softly along the edge. Keeping one hand at the back of her head, he ran his fingers down the side of her neck, down along the edge of her kimono, down to cup her breast through the suddenly too-thick material, leaving a trail of conflagration in their wake. She opened her mouth, greedily wanting moremoremore, and he obliged her by making a thick, strangled sound that made her want to wrap her skin around him; she arched into him, drawing her leg up to pull him closer — he rewarded her with a groan, and pushed her away gently.

What — she was quivering with something she didn’t know, wanting only to pull him in again and kiss him back —

He put his hands (a part of her noticed with tremendous glee that his hands were trembling and she had done that) on her shoulders, breathing heavily.

“What — “ Her voice was scratchy and hoarse.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered to himself. Then: “You never did that before, did you?”

Oh, gods. It — she screwed her eyes shut; it had been amazing to her, but — she found that the thought that it had been awful for him, that she hadn’t been any good — she wanted to curl into a little ball and roll into the river where she could drown quietly and never think about this again. Erk. Maybe she could drown a couple of times, and why wasn’t there an earthquake when you wanted one? Stupid ground, refusing to open up and swallow her whole.

Embarrassed (and dammit, there went that stupid blushing), she said, “Mm, yeah, I’m sorry — “

He bent and leaned his forehead against hers. “No, it wasn’t that. It was — shit, I’m the one who’s sorry, Fuu. I shouldn’t — I’m sorry.”

She blinked at him. “Why?” Her voice was so surprised that he smiled, despite himself.

“Thought you would’ve had your first kiss by now, I guess,” he said, straightening up. “Come on. I want to get some sleep before baldy puts us to work.”

She hurried to catch up, as he strode off. “Why — but — you’re sorry? I mean, uh, not that I’d know, but — it was all right, wasn’t it?”
He nodded, looking everywhere but at her.

“So, um — because it would be okay,” she said, mentally smacking herself in the head. “I could probably use some practice?”

Very nice, Fuu, she told herself. Smooth! You have advanced to the level of master idiot. Extra points to you for trying to jump Mugen on the same day you were having very impure thoughts about Jin, you pervert.

He was looking at her now, though, and he looked as if he was trying not to smile. “No, I wouldn’t say that,” he said wryly. “I just shouldn’t, that’s all. Now, come on — unless you want Jin to wake up and figure out we’re gone, since he was so happy last time.”

She reluctantly nodded.

Crap.

Father Zuikou was sitting on the steps, waiting, by the time Mugen emerged in his usual clothes. “Good morning.” He nodded toward the other two occupants of the courtyard; a tall man dressed in a fresh gray kimono, and a small woman in pink who was nattering to the man as he finished packing up. She stopped talking for a moment, as the tall man gave her a sideways glance and said something that made her laugh. “I see you’ve decided not to renounce your worldly goods.”

The Ryukyuan sat down alongside him, biting his lip as if to stifle a grin. “Like you wouldn’t have run screaming like a girl, if I said I wanted to stay here.”

“I have been considering the Christians,” the monk said blandly. “Apparently they have something called a vow of silence that could help you in your meditations.”

Mugen chuckled.

“Hn. For the best, I suppose — I am too interested in the world whenever you bring your companions for a visit.” The older man sighed theatrically. “It is difficult to strive for one’s enlightenment in exciting times. Perhaps the dojo is still too much with me.”

“They’re exciting, all right.”

“Ah.” The monk nodded, the humor gone from his face. “Have you thought about it?”

Mugen scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Hard not to.”

“I would expect so.”
“It’s a good idea to go to Nagasaki, I won’t argue with you about that. But the Ryukyus — “ He shook his head. “I don’t ever want her to have to live like I did.”

“But the other islands are different?”

“Yeah, the ones to the south. Satsuma-han aren’t there, yet.” Mugen began to casually dig in his ear. “We’ll get her to the foreign guy, first. I don’t know that we could get her down there.”

“Good,” the monk said, satisfied. “She is a most remarkable young woman.”

“No kidding.”

“She loves you, you know.”

The hand froze, mid-ear.

“She loves him, as well.”

The hand began moving again, this time more slowly. “Yeah. I knew that.”

“He does not, however.”

“Yeah. He’s not that good with girls.” Thinking, Mugen amended, “Or guys — he’s just not good with people.”

“Mm.” Father Zuikou looked at him thoughtfully. “You will take good care of her,” he said, not making it a question.

“I won’t let anything happen to her,” the Ryukyuan said. “I’ve done enough to her already.”

“And who will protect her from you?” the monk asked.

Mugen shook his head. “It’s her choice. Even if it’s him, I’ll have to live with that.” He shrugged. “And if it’s not either of us, then we’ll deal with it. Not gonna like it, but it’s up to her.”

The monk nodded; that was acceptable. “Hn.”


They had been gone several hours, by the time the monk went in from where he had been watching the sun set. He rinsed out the cup he’d used for his evening tea, and left it to dry in the kitchen where he knew the cook’s helper would find it in the morning; then he went into the shrine to meditate, and wait.

He did not have to wait long — the shrine had been full dark for a short time, when he heard the soft voice.

“Where did they go, priest?”

“Where did who go?” he asked, calmly, moving his prayer beads through his hands. He’d had them restrung, after Ukon —

There was an amused chuckle, then: “I’d heard you had a sense of humor. Was that why they came back?”

“You confuse the pointing finger with the moon,” he said, regretfully.

The chuckling stopped, as the monk felt a thin sharp pressure against his side. “The traitor has already gone on to the afterlife, and it’s a matter of time before his daughter goes as well. Are you in such a hurry to be there to greet her?”

He smiled. “I’m surprised the government would send someone so young.”

The sharp pressure blossomed, became a fire in his flesh, as the knife slid in slowly. How odd, he thought, that the body clung so to life; the flesh fought Buddha nature — his breathing hitched. Foolish. He should have known, from the dojo alone — he hadn’t remembered pain being quite so painful; he would have laughed, but for the steel blade piercing his lung.

“I can make it stop,” the voice soothed. “Tell me.”

My dear, I am so sorry — “Matsumae,” he gasped, before the knife slipped in like a soft good night, and he knew nothing more, as the string snapped and the beads scattered —

The dark figure pulled the blade out, as the monk’s body fell to the floor, wiping the steel off carefully before putting it away. The shoji slid open, and closed again; the body would not be disturbed until morning. The first figure moved silently to join another shadow outside the temple wall.

“Well?”

The first figure nodded. “They’re gone. About a day ahead of us, I’d think.”

“Which way?”

“He told me Matsumae.”

“How hard did you have to ask?”
“Not very hard. He was happy enough to lie to me — I’d assume they went south,” the first figure said quietly.

“Yes. We’ll have to check it out anyway — waste of time, I suppose, but can’t be helped.”

“Mm.”

Shadows flickered, and were gone, their only marker a spreading pool of crimson.