Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ XVI. Moonlight slants through ( Chapter 16 )

[ 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), nor the Tale of Genji (translation by Edward Seidensticker).


Nenju


When she went over the side, Jin’s heart stopped.

For the rest of his life, he would be able to describe that moment exactly: the man he had just killed, falling to his knees with the most surprised look on his grimy face; the reek of blood and salt and the voided bladder of the man Mugen had run through; the way the ferry pitched, as it took on water; her face, frowning slightly as if she wasn’t sure if she should believe this, like she did when things weren’t quite right — ocean swallowing her in one terrible bite as she slipped under the surface.

Mugen had seen her, too, as she fell, his face tightening when she failed to come back up again.

The Ryukyuan moved then, shouting to him to take his sword and finish the bitch, before he hit the water like an arrow —

Kohza looked at him steadily, ignoring the thin trail of bubbles that marked where Mugen had gone into the water, stepping lightly off the prow of the pirate ship into the ferry. The amount of water coming into the ferry went from a stream to a river, the shift in weight pressing the boat’s mortal wound deeper into the sea, water creeping around his toes.

“Thank you for killing Mukuro,” she said conversationally. “I knew you would, but I never got to tell you.” She climbed over the body of one of her men, making her way toward him.

Jin remained silent. She held no sword, no knife, her empty hands held palms out toward him.

“He was an evil man. The things he did — you were right to do it. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.” She stopped in front of him. “I asked Mugen, but he wouldn’t.”

“To kill Mukuro?” he asked.

She shook her head, dark eyes on his face almost pityingly. “No, to kill me.”
He blinked.

“He never told you, did he? Sounds like him.” She made a grim noise that might have been a chuckle, or a sob, or both; he would never know. “I can’t swim. Mukuro wouldn’t teach me.”

“I see.” The ronin glanced at the shore. He was a strong swimmer, but to swim with their packs, the ryu sewn into their clothes, and the girl —

She saw him looking from her to the beach, and smiled. “I don’t want to be saved,” she told him. “I’m asking you what I asked Mugen.”

He breathed in sharply. “I can’t.”

Kohza put her hand out past the still-outstretched sword, her fingers settling on his wrist. “But that’s what you’re for.”

“No. Not that.” The water was lapping around his ankles, the ferry listing to one side.

He had forgotten how very reasonable the Ryukyuan girl could sound —

Those dark eyes looked through him, unreadable. “You never killed anyone who really wanted to die? No one?”

(why do you keep running from me)

“It would be a mercy,” she told him, her hand coming up to rest on his chest as she came closer. “I’ll drag us both down, otherwise. You’d never see her again.”

He wanted to move away from that hand as quickly as he could, the fine hair on his arms prickling in something that went deeper far than any patina of civilization his shishou had ever given him — desperately, he shook his head.

Her hand slipped down — the wakizashi at his hip sliding from the sheath smooth as whispers, as water on skin — the point coming to settle under his chin. “It’ll happen whether you want it to or not, but you could make it quick.”

(I will never, ever let you get away)

Jin closed his eyes, as the blade slid in.


His legs were shaking, when he reached the shore and hauled himself onto dry land. Ahead of him, Mugen held a still figure in pink, shouting as —

Jin scrambled up the rocks and over to them. She was (not moving not moving oh gods please not anything not that anything I will I will) lying on her side, the Ryukyuan frantically rubbing her back, her outstretched hand fallen away from her. Irrationally, his mind fastened on the way her small fingers were curled and how unbelievably tiny the fingernails were, like a child’s.

His feet went out from under him, then, as he saw how blue her lips were, the moment before the other man pinched her nose shut and blew into her mouth —

He almost missed it, unbelieving, as her chest hitched once, twice — seawater spattered alongside her, as she drew in an enormous sobbing breath; he could have kissed Mugen in his relief.

He gently took her hand when she held it out to him, mindful of those fragile little bones.

After very little discussion (“— one more word about how that many baths are bad for you, and this dead fish is going down your gi— “), they found an inn built around a large hot spring, and an innkeeper who raised his eyebrows at their appearance but said nothing as they paid in gold.

Prudently, the spring had been divided in two by a large wooden partition, men and women bathing separately. Mugen cast a wistful eye toward the women’s side, but sank into the steaming water next to Jin without a word.

The ronin closed his eyes, the warmth welcome as it seeped into his bones. He leaned back, his hair floating around him — as a finger poked him squarely in the temple; he opened his eyes tiredly.

“Oi.” Mugen frowned at him. “Don’t fall asleep, because I’m not saving your ass.” The Ryukyuan blithely dunked his head under the water, rinsing the salt from his hair. “You’d look stupid if you lived through your ship sinking, just to drown while taking a bath.”

“Hn,” Jin agreed, glancing over at the wooden partition.

The Ryukyuan sat up, scrubbing his hands through the unruly strands, which cooperated by standing on end. “She’s all right. Probably better than you are,” he said. “Did you — “

”She’s dead, yes.” Jin closed his eyes again.

The other man sighed. “Fucking mess.”
“Mm.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the occasional splash of water from the women’s half as Fuu moved in the water.

“Thank you,” Jin said.

Mugen shrugged. “Didn’t do it for you,” he said gruffly.

“I know.”

The Ryukyuan grunted and changed the subject. “We going through Hiroshima, this time?”

“I’d hoped to, yes,” Jin said. “I have one last duty in the mountains, then I’d thought to go there. It’s doubtful they’ll be in Hiroshima, but I gave my word.”

“Good.”

“What do you mean, that was the only ferry?” Really, could this be going any less well, she asked herself.

The villager gave the pretty woman a questioning look. “Uh, I mean that that was the only ferry.”

“Yatsuha,” Hankichi said, putting a hand of restraint on her arm and smiling at the man before his colleague clouted him over the head with a chunk of wood. “We’re, ah, very eager to make the crossing. My . . . wife’s mother is very ill.”

“Oh!” The man looked at her with sympathy, as she choked. “I’d try the fishermen. You might find someone willing to take you across.”

Hankichi thanked him, and steered her in the direction of the beach. To her credit, she waited until they were out of earshot. “Wife?” she hissed.

“I didn’t think he would believe you were my mother,” he answered. “Anyway, what do you care? Whatever gets us there, right?”

She glared at him. “But you’re always telling people we’re married. I couldn’t be your sister for once?”

He grinned. “Because we look so much alike?”

“I hate you, I really do.”

“But your mother likes me,” he said smugly.

“Too bad she’s so ill,” she shot back, and groaned. “You know, if we have to wait here another day, that’s a day closer to where they’re going.”

“Maybe not. Look.” Hankichi pointed, as the first of the fishermen began moving into the harbor.

She sighed. Finally.


This time, the tree-lined road into the mountains had been clear, and they’d managed to reach this point without separating; with some surprise, he realized they’d hardly even argued, this time.

He missed it, a little. Funny, he couldn’t remember what they’d even argued about. Where they were going, yes, but — had they really fought over that, as much as he remembered?

Remarkably, the stone cairn was still there. The sword was gone, of course — he hadn’t really expected it to be there after all this time, but the sight made something small and battered in him fracture all over again.

He could hear the hum of voices rising and falling in the background, Fuu and Mugen as they looked around Okuru’s cave. Her voice drifted out to him, clear and fluting, as she said something to the Ryukyuan, who chuckled. Without looking, he knew they were setting up camp for the night, and he took comfort from the familiar noise.

Jin crouched down, resting his fingertips against the stones. They were still warm from the sun; Yuki would have liked that, he thought. Unbidden, memory came — the boy, sitting on the steps of the dojo after a lesson, the collar of his white training kimono pulled away from his skin so that he could enjoy the last of the afternoon sun. He’d been happy with the smallest things, like the first of the pickled plums or the rare journey into Edo, as long as he’d been with Jin.

(I won’t always be the same little boy I used to be)

“Yukimaru,” he whispered.

(your time in the sun is over)

He rocked back on his heels, feeling suddenly very tired. So much death; he had nothing to show for his life but hands full of ash and bone. He wondered what the boy would have been like, if he had lived — the thought of him as a dull little official in some seaside town in Izu, with a suitable, partridge-plump wife, and children, and a home — the thought was bitter and sweet at once. Yuki’s life would have had meaning to it, meaning and honor in living a life for those people, who would have loved him, because how could they not have done? Instead, the boy was dead, his life thrown away like a piece of broken pottery, and for nothing.

Nothing.

He was quiet during their meal (fish, yet again; even Fuu, as kind as she was, was having difficulty in mustering enthusiasm when Mugen brought it to her), even more so than usual, and the looks they gave each other when they thought he wasn’t paying attention told him they’d noticed. If Yuki had had nothing to live for but love, then what he had was — what, exactly? Once Fuu was safe, he would have less than nothing, and any meaning to his life would be over before he was twenty-five. But he had brought honor and luster to his clan — oh, wait, he’d failed at that, too. Miserably.

Mentally, he ticked off everything he’d failed at.

He had failed to keep from killing his master (even the worst student in the lowest dojo could manage that much), he’d failed to keep Fuu safe when they’d journeyed with her to Nagasaki the first time, he’d failed to keep her from nearly drowning, he’d failed to defeat the Ryukyuan who hadn’t — with a complete lack of any formal training, as far as he knew — failed to save the girl. He’d even failed to keep from killing a woman. He’d even failed to keep safe a sword that had been with his family for centuries — it had survived Nagashino, and the loss of ten thousand men, but not three years with him.

Was there anything he would not fail completely, he wondered.

He felt a prickle along his skin and looked up to see Fuu. She was watching him, he realized, studying him —

(Yukimaru, poring over a history text, looking up at him and grinning — you broke the peace treaty, he said. Crazy Takeda, don’t know who your friends are —

Are you my friend, then?

You know I am, you know I would do anything for you — let me — )

Mugen stood abruptly. “Gotta take a leak,” he announced, to no one in particular, before walking off downriver. Fuu smiled faintly as the man passed out of sight, as she turned her attention back to Jin.

He waited, watching the cheerful small blaze.

(let me)

“Jin?”

Ah, there it was —

“Tell me a story.”

Or, perhaps, not. “Mm?” He lifted his eyes from the fire and the things he hadn’t done.

She raised her eyebrows at him quizzically. “You know, telling stories by the campfire? I thought you’d probably have some good ones, well, better than mine, anyway.”

“You want another story?”

She scoffed. “‘Another’? You didn’t even tell me a first story!”

The ronin hn’ed in polite, but definite, disagreement. “I believe I did.”

“You told me you were born in Kai.”

“Mm. Yes.”

“That’s not a story, that’s a — “

”You said anything, if I remember correctly, which I do.” He tucked his hands into his sleeves, smothering an almost-smile.

“That was right after you almost started telling me the Tale of Genji!”

“You don’t like the Tale of Genji?” He paused, one eyebrow rising gently.

She made a small growling noise of frustration, low in her throat. “Are you in it?” she asked. “Because then, yes, please tell me the Tale of Genji.”

Ah. He sat and considered, feeling absurdly light, somehow. “The storyteller is always in his own stories,” he said.

She wrinkled her nose. “Come here — I think you hurt your head when the boat sank.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up before he could stop it. “No. Fuu-chan, what sort of story do you want to hear?”

She sighed. “One about you, but somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re being such a — “

”No, not that. Why do you want a story about me?”

Fuu gave him an impatient look, her mouth pursed. “Because you’re in it?”she asked, enunciating clearly as if she was speaking to a small child.

“So if you were interested in bamboo cutters —“

She thought a moment. “ — I would want to hear a story about them?”

Jin nodded, pleased. “Or tell a story about them.”

“Oh.” She drew her knees up under her chin, the firelight casting warmth in her skin. His eyes traveled to her face, and the way her hair fell forward over her cheek —

“That means the listener is in the story as well, doesn’t it?” she observed.

“Hn,” he agreed.

“So what sort of story would you tell? Or listen to?”

He considered. “There would be three travelers, on their way to Nagasaki.”

She laughed. “I think I know that one. There’s a girl, a ronin, and an ex-pirate, right?”

“A beautiful girl,” he corrected. “And the ex-pirate is also a lunatic.”

“Hm?” Gravel crunching underfoot, Mugen ambled up. “I miss something?”

“A beautiful girl,” Fuu repeated, smiling.

“Eh?” The Ryukyuan craned his neck to look around the little beach, before stretching out in front of the fire.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Jin’s not talking, again.”

Jin gave them an indignant look and so did not fail to see the significant glance the girl gave the Ryukyuan, who nodded back at her. That — ah. The ronin contented himself with frowning at them both, unsure if he should be pleased that she seemed to like that he thought her beautiful, or dying from mortification that he’d let that slip. Or that the two of them had managed to coordinate Mugen’s absence from the fireside so that she could talk him out of his gloom (the two of them plotting together worried him especially). Well, courage was one of the great virtues of bushido, and if even a monk had seen it —

“Fuu,” he said.

She lifted her head from the pillow of her arms. “Mm?”

“I do know a story I can tell, if you’re not too tired?”

Mugen looked up from where he was fiddling with some pebbles; slowly, the smile warmed her face. “No. Not at all,” she told him.

“In the reign of a certain emperor, there was a lady whom he loved,” the ronin began. “She was neither of the first rank nor of the last . . . “



A/N: Oh, Jin’s chewy, chewy angst. Like caramels! Mm. Too bad this chapter was like pulling teeth — sorry for the delay, kids.

The peace treaty Yuki refers to is the Takeda-Hojo peace treaty that was broken in 1578, when Takeda Katsuyori allied with the Uesugi. The Takeda and Hojo fought off and on for the next four years, until the Oda and the Tokugawa invaded Takeda lands in 1582, and Takeda Katsuyori took his own life. Ironically, this defeat for the Takeda turned out to be not such a wonderful thing for the Hojo, considering the loss of the Takeda buffer lands played an important role in the Hojo loss at Odawara in 1590, in one of pre-Edo Japan’s greatest moments of “Oops!”.