Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Nenju ❯ XVIII. The cuckoo cries ( Chapter 18 )

[ 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: Oh, the halfway mark! Only another eighteen chapters to go, unless the characters start exploding from ze UST. I’m celebrating by adding some original characters (the plot demanded them, honest to Pete), and twisty plot; also, one of the OCs does something a bit interesting. All will be explained, I promise.

Bizen is notable for its beautiful pottery (v. suitable for use with sake!) and finely worked swords.

And I love all my readers, full stop; you’re amazing. My gratitude to you, kids.


Nenju


Mugen paused to wipe the sweat away from his eyes before bending over the ronin once again. “You know, it feels weird to do this while you’re watching,” he called out. “You have some kind of thing for watching two guys get it on?”

Fuu threw a small clump of dirt at him. “You know, if I had a ryu for every time I’ve seen you two fighting, I’d be a rich woman.” She had found a comfortable hollow in the grass, sitting contentedly with her knees drawn up under her chin.

“What’re you talking about? You got a ryu for every time you’ve seen us fighting.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“‘Get it on’?” Jin repeated, taking the Ryukyuan’s outstretched hand to pull himself off the ground. “A martial art is your idea of courtship?”

“Maybe. Depends on the woman,” Mugen said thoughtfully. Yatsuha probably would be into that, and then there was that broad down by the docks when I first got here — he smiled to himself.

Fuu looked vaguely alarmed, as Jin frowned. “Ah,” the ronin said, slowly. “I see.”

“How long before we get to Hiroshima?” Mugen stretched his arms back, easing the slight soreness that had come after the other man had shown him (with more enthusiasm than had been absolutely necessary, he thought) that throw he’d learned at that freaky dojo of his. The shoulder joint cracked satisfyingly, and he let his arms fall loose to his sides with a grunt of pleasure.

“Two or three days, at most. We’re almost in Bizen already. Why?” Jin asked.

The Ryukyuan shrugged. “Like to see Bundai,” he said. “Doubt it’ll take long. Stupid bastard’s probably dead by now anyway, the way he drank.”

They stopped for steamed tofu buns, instead of fish, at a place by the side of the road that sold sake as well as food that could be eaten at some tables outside; Mugen had suggested fish and been overruled — if he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought they didn’t like fish. Ridiculous idea, he knew.

The man who was clearing tables looked up as they were served, eyes widening as he caught sight of the katana at Jin’s hip. He went up to the cook, as Mugen watched; the two men bore a resemblance to each other, and he wondered if they were brothers. The cook looked over at them as the Ryukyuan ate his bun — the two men were talking, the cook shaking his head as the busboy walked back to the table he’d been clearing.

Mugen kept an eye on him. The last thing they needed was trouble, which sort of put him in the mood for it. Still . . . maybe the guy liked samurai, or swords; who knew?

The man finished stacking bowls on his tray; casually, he sketched an arc in the dirt with his foot as he puttered with cups, giving them an expectant look.

The Ryukyuan poked Jin, and pointed at the dirt. The ronin raised his eyebrows, as Fuu craned her neck to see around Mugen.

The man frowned; this, apparently, was not what he’d been expecting. He traced another arc in the dirt and looked up at them, giving them an encouraging smile as he stepped back.

Mugen exchanged a glance with Jin. What the hell is that about?

The ronin quirked an elegant eyebrow at him. Don’t ask me.

The Ryukyuan sighed. Keeping tabs on the man out of the corner of his eye, Mugen leaned back on the bench and stretched his leg out in front of him; the man looked at him, and gave him a pleased nod — yes, yes, go on! That’s it! — as the toe of Mugen’s geta dug into the dirt.

The encouraging smile slipped from the man’s face as Mugen drew an identical arc next to the bench with his geta, a small distance away from the man’s lines.

Both Fuu and Jin had dropped any pretense of doing anything except watching the exchange between Mugen and the man who had been bussing tables. The man had abandoned his job as well and stood, thinking, over the curved lines he had drawn in the dirt; he looked searchingly at the ronin, before making his decision. Scuffing the lines in the dirt away with his foot, the man approached their table. “You’re here from Seizo, aren’t you?” he murmured.

The quiet man brought them to a small house flanked by a pair of maple trees, not far from the sake stand. It was obviously someone’s home; the building looked well cared for, with a neat vegetable garden that lay a few steps to the south, bathed in late afternoon sun. Mugen could imagine few places that looked less like an outpost of the shogunate, but kept his fingers resting lightly against the hilt of the longsword. Jin’s hands were loose and relaxed at his sides, but there was no missing the look of appraisal in his eyes — the Ryukyuan gave a barely audible grunt and the ronin nodded once.

Fuu ignored them both, following the man who went into the house; they trailed in after her.

The dim room was as plain inside as Kasumi Seizo’s house had been. There was a little chest that stood to one side, a table, and assorted bits and pieces that the Ryukyuan recognized as used for cookery; more importantly, the room had no back door. Jin hn-ed, low in his throat, and he knew the ronin had seen that too. There was a pair of windows that they could make work, if they needed to get out quick . . .

He turned his attention to the rather stocky figure of a woman that had risen to her feet as they came in. She looked at them with interest, as the man went to her, saying, “Mother — “

The woman looked at her son, amusement in her face, as Mugen’s eyes adjusted to the room’s level of light; her hair was iron-gray, pulled into an uncompromising knot, and as she turned to look at her son, the Ryukyuan saw the delicate webbing of wrinkles around her eyes. “Sometimes, I wish you could be more like your brother,” the woman told her son. “He never brings me fugitives. You couldn’t find some nice chrysanthemums?”

What the f— The tip of the longsword was at the old woman’s throat, before the sibilant noise it made as it was drawn from the scabbard reached their ears; movement at the corner of his eye told him the ronin had the son — there was a wasp’s nest of questions in his head, and Mugen was feeling less than patient. “The hell’s going on here?”

The woman was remarkably calm, considering a thin trickle of blood was seeping from her skin where the point had scratched her; she studied Mugen a moment, before saying, “You’ll be missed — go back to work, Matthew. I’ll stay here with our guests.”

The man drew in a breath, his eyes wide —

“I’ll be fine. Go,” she told him.

Reluctantly, the man left. Jin sheathed the katana, as Fuu made a questioning noise — the ronin put his hand out to touch the girl’s arm, and she subsided; she was unhappy, but kept quiet. Good girl, Mugen thought.

“Gonna ask you again,” he told the woman. “What the hell is going on? ‘M not gonna ask you a third time.”

The look the woman gave him could have shriveled the balls off a corpse, he decided. “It should be obvious,” she said. “My son thought you might be Christians, too.”

Mugen jerked in surprise, as he heard a very strange sound that he realized was the ronin choking — “What? Look, I’m not letting some broad trick me,” he bit out. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

The woman laughed. “Do what you like,” she said. “My husband was beheaded at Shimabara. I was his wife for three years, and his widow for forty-two. Please — sit, all of you. I’m developing a pain in my neck from looking up at you.” She gestured at the neatly swept floor, as Fuu sat obediently. Jin followed suit, prudently facing the door and laying his swords at his side.

“Better,” the woman said, with satisfaction. “Now. My name is Maria, not ‘some broad’; you’ve met Matthew. I believe I know who you are, or who you must be.” Her eyes went to Fuu. “I knew your father, I think. Your eyes look like his.”

Slowly, Mugen drew the longsword away but kept it ready, the weight a comfort to his hand.

“You knew my father?” The girl’s voice was unfaltering.

The woman nodded. “Kasumi Seizo. A good man — many flaws, but he meant well.”

“A man may mean well, but still do wrong,” Jin said, joining the tense conversation at last. “You are taking a risk in telling us who you are.” He looked up at Mugen, then flicked a glance toward the floor: sit.

Mugen put the longsword back in its scabbard — he figured he could take the old woman easy, if she tried anything — but remained standing, folding his arms over his chest. He raised an eyebrow at the ronin: not gonna happen, fish face.

Another glance at the floor: sit.

The Ryukyuan let a smile ghost across his face. Nuh-uh.

The ronin’s eyebrows twitched. You are willing to show the extent of your poor manners with a pointless squabble? Please attempt to rein in your foolish behavior.

Mugen frowned. What the hell did you just say?

Jin gave a slight roll of his eyes and let his hand rest unobtrusively near the mismatched daisho that lay on the floor. Sit.

Mugen grinned, gently rocking back on his heels.

Fuu lifted her eyes from the old woman’s face, her mouth thinning as she took in the two men; she gave them The Look.

The Ryukyuan grunted as he sat next to the ronin, sticking a finger up his nose to emphasize to the girl he was sitting only because he felt like it.

She rolled her eyes and looked back at Maria.

The old woman had continued talking, as if she had noticed nothing between the two men. “— not so fortunate as we were.”

“My apologies, Maria-sama,” the ronin said. “We are — meeting someone who knew Kasumi Seizo is very surprising to us.”

She pursed her mouth. “I was baptized Maria, not Maria-sama, young man. I’m no fine lady,” she told him, but softened her words with a smile. “You’re well-mannered, at least. Your mother must be proud.”

“No.”

Maria gave him a strange look, but left it at that. “I know that katana,” she told him instead, and turned to Fuu, who sat watching her intently. “Matthew saw it, that’s how he knew who you must be. Your father carried it. I remember it very well.”

“Please, what can you tell me about him?” the girl asked. “I’m sorry, I — he’s dead.”

“I am, too.” The woman looked down a moment before beginning, the knot of hair at the nape of her neck bobbing gently. “When did he die?”

“About three years ago.”

“Did he die well?”

Mugen’s eyes went from the wall to Fuu, whose hands were curled loosely on her thighs, her face steady. “Yes.” She wasn’t giving anything away, he realized with a rush of approval.

Maria nodded. “You must be careful. They’re looking for you.”

“I know,” the girl said.

The old woman looked up fiercely, her eyes resting on the men. “Do they?”

“Better than I do,” Fuu told her. “Please. We’ve come a long way.”

“Hm. It was when we were living in a Christian settlement outside Nagasaki — a little place, an island one of the men knew; he said we wouldn’t be bothered by the government there, we would be far enough away that no one would know about us. And for a while, he was right. No one bothered us — we kept to ourselves, so no one guessed we were anything other than a fishing village. We even built a church.” She paused, smiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was still standing — we built it to be strong.”

Fuu shook her head. “It’s gone,” she said only.

“Ah,” Maria said. “Shame. Appropriate, though, considering what happened. We thought we knew what was going on in the rest of the world; there were always other Christians who came to us on Ikitsuki, who told us what was happening. Your father was one of them — he arrived a couple years after the shogun ordered the daimyo to appoint inquisitors to find us.

“Very capable man, your father. Handsome, too.” She smiled at Jin. “Not unlike you, young man. It wasn’t long before Seizo organized us much better than we had been — that’s what saved us, really. As good as he was, he couldn’t stop us from becoming complacent. We sinned in our pride, thinking that we were hidden too well for the shogun’s men to find us; we were hidden just well enough that it took them years to find us, rather than months.

“They set on us at night, without warning. They fired the buildings first, and their archers picked us off as we tried to escape. I remember Seizo was shouting, trying to get us down to the beach — it was rocky enough down there that we could hide, but there were so many of them.” She shook her head. “I got out with my sons, and we made our way here to the mountains. We never saw him again.”

Mugen frowned. Something sounded — her story was off, somehow. He couldn’t put his finger on it —

“You’re traveling?” the woman asked, briskly.

Fuu opened her mouth, but was cut off. “Yes,” Jin said. “We are.”

“I see. My sons will be home soon; it’s late — please. My house is yours. I would be very happy if you would stay here.”

“That is very kind,” the ronin told her firmly. “Unfortunately, we’ve already made arrangements.”

“You’ll need to eat this evening, why not stay for dinner?” Maria insisted. “Please. I can’t let Seizo’s daughter go on a journey without a good meal.”

Jin hesitated briefly, then nodded. “Thank you, we will. If you’ll excuse us . . . ? We’re unfamiliar with the area, and I would like to find the way to our inn from here in daylight.”

She smiled broadly. “Of course.”

Mugen cocked an eyebrow, as the ronin hurried them through their goodbyes and promises to return, herding them out the door as quickly as he could without causing offense to the woman behind them. When they were out of earshot, he dropped back beside Jin, Fuu walking slightly ahead where they could keep her in view; if she was far enough ahead that he could look at her ass, it was only a side benefit, he told himself as they followed.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” he murmured.

The ronin frowned. “That story bothers me,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“That escape in particular. How did they manage to get past archers?” Jin shook his head. “I don’t like this.”

“So why are we going back there? Why aren’t we just getting out?”

“We aren’t,” the ronin said. “I’m going back there with Fuu, you’re not.”

He — what? Mugen sputtered. “Fuck no, asshole! There’s no way in hell you’re doing that!”

The other man gave him a look. “What do you object to, in particular? Missing a meal with a group of people who may wish you harm, or missing a meal with an old woman who will demand Fuu’s attention the whole time?”

Fucking ronin fish face bastard — “Yes?” Mugen offered.

Jin’s eyebrow twitched. “Bundai spent a great deal of time on logic, I see.”

“Yeah, and you had lessons in stick-up-my-ass at that stupid dojo. ‘S your point here?”

“My point is that if two of us go, there’s another in reserve if something goes wrong,” Jin said patiently. “Fuu has to be one of the two; it would be suspicious if she wasn’t, as in theory at least she’s the reason we were asked. I should be the second, because I want to see these sons for myself and hear their version of the story.”

“I could do that.”

“I’m also the only one of the two of us who has not drawn a sword on the old woman.”

“ . . . fine. So what am I supposed to be doing? You’ve figured everything else out,” Mugen said, lacing his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Since you’re cutting my nuts off and all. Flower arranging lessons? Tea ceremony?”

The ronin paused, wincing. “No,” he said slowly, obviously fighting off the mental image of the Ryukyuan with a vase of blossoms. “I think you need a drink.”

Mugen stumbled. Jin had — what, now?


He leaned his elbows on the table. The rough wood prickled against his skin, a pleasant counterpoint to the burn as the sake went down. “Just passing through, huh?”

“Yeah. Just passing through,” she said, pouring him a refill. “How about you?”

Mugen gave her a lazy smile, shrugging. “Heard some about this town, thought I’d see it for myself. Funny coincidence that it happened to be when you were on your way through.”

“Small world.” She drank her sake like Fuu, both hands wrapped around the cup, but there the similarities ended. Yatsuha sat, relaxed, looking at him confidently; the half-formed thought that it would be a strange man who felt the need to protect the shogun’s soldier bobbed to the surface of his mind, and he dismissed it out of hand.

It wasn’t the desire to protect her that worried Mugen when he was around her; it was another desire entirely. He drained his cup again. “You still kick a guy’s ass for him?” he asked.

She looked speculatively at him over her drink, then smiled. “You weren’t the last.”

He raised his eyebrows and shifted in his seat. “You had to trick me to do it.”

“Far as I know, there aren’t any rules, and tricking you worked,” she said. “Actually, it worked twice.”

She had a point, he admitted — Mugen smiled back at her, resolutely squashing that part of his mind that complained at the unfairness (“How’m I supposed to turn down seeing a naked woman? She’s naked!”); he wanted information, not to set Yatsuha straight about whether she had kicked his ass.

“We’ll make camp outside of town,” Jin decided. “We shouldn’t take the chance of being boxed in.”

“Yeah, all right,” Mugen agreed. “Go back a little bit, though, to where I need a drink.”

“Hn.” The ronin folded his hands into his sleeves. “If you want advice on fishing, ask a fisherman.”

“What? No, you said drinking. Not fishing,” the Ryukyuan said, receiving a frown for his question.

“If you want to know about the shogun’s men . . . “

”Ask one of them?” Mugen shrugged. “Fine, I get that. But — ah,” he said, suddenly understanding.

“Ah.” Jin nodded. “Find out more. Even better if you can distract the shogun’s men. We need information we don’t have — learn something we don’t know already.”His mouth twitched, in what for him was an enormous grin. “It’s Bizen, after all. It would be odd if you didn’t try the sake.”

Mugen snickered.

“Hn?”

“Nothing. Just thinkin’ — we send you to the sake stand, only thing anyone’d learn would be what you look like when you’re asleep.”

“You are aware that you aren’t funny?”

“Right,” he told her. “It wasn’t twice, and that last was a lucky shot.”

Yatsuha laughed. “I have to remember that naked women are your weak point.”

He grinned and poured her another. If even Jin thought he should be drinking — “Give any more thought to when you’re keeping your promise?” he asked idly.

She leaned closer. “Is that an offer?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” He leaned back — and almost catapulted off his seat, when a smooth leg brushed against his.

“Maybe it is,” she said.

He took a deep breath; well, that certainly fit into the distraction part of the drinking, he thought.