Dorinbo, trying to put himself between them.
“Strike me! Cut me!” continued Munisai, ignoring his brother. “Kill me!”
Behind Dorinbo, Munisai’s hand grew in size. Bennosuke couldall but see it pulsing with the beat of the heart. It was there and open. But he could not attack it. He knew he should, that it was proper to, but … His mind was working now, beneath the surface of outrage.
What he saw was the two swords at the man’s waist, so very close to his good, right hand.
Bennosuke knew little of pride himself, but he had read enough stories to know how it drove some men. Munisai’s armor, that magnificent suit he had cleaned all these years, was the armor of such a man. What would a peasant’s bastard, a symbol of his cuckolding written in flesh, mean to such a man? He thought of how easily Munisai had bested him in the dojo, and then it became clear:
Munisai was goading him into attacking so that he had an excuse to kill him, to rid himself of the shame.
“Do you not want to avenge your mother?” said Munisai. “Kill me!”
There was the spur, and Bennosuke felt his body tense. The shortsword seemed to sing from his side. His mother, whom he had never had a chance to say good-bye to, whose very death had been hidden from him. He remembered the few memories he had of her, the echoes of her voice as she hummed songs to him, or how she laughed and smiled at him just for his simple virtue of being.
“Attack me!” barked Munisai, and it would be right and proper to do so. “Strike me! Cut me! Kill me!”
But he hesitated. Still those two long, slender weapons right there. The boy imagined the edge of the sword flashing toward him, imagined the cut that would follow as a cold line drawn across him from which his life would seep, and he quailed. He knew that he was afraid to die, and that was not the way of samurai. Shame coursed through him. His head dropped.
“Kill me!” said Munisai a final desperate time as the boy broke from his eyes, his voice hollowing. “Kill me!”
“Enough, Munisai,” said Dorinbo.
The monk’s voice had hardened from pleading into somber command. But it was unnecessary. Whatever terrible thing might have come to be, the moment for it had passed when Bennosuke had lowered his gaze. There would be no bloodshed today, and they all sensedit. The monk straightened and looked from one to the other. Bennosuke kept his eyes to the floor. Munisai let his arm drop, his body wilted.
“What is wrong with you?” said Munisai to Bennosuke.
“There is nothing wrong with him,” said Dorinbo. “He has a chance to be something higher.”
Munisai laughed in disgust. But something was different now, something in his eyes and his voice had changed; a wall had been put back up.
“This is not what you came back for, Munisai,” said Dorinbo levelly. “Do not punish the boy for our mistakes.”
Munisai glared at his brother, seeking a new challenge, but the monk held his eyes with a coldness. It surprised Bennosuke to see such harshness in his uncle, but even more so to see Munisai relent to it.
“Very well,” Munisai could only manage. “Very well.”
He looked Dorinbo in the eye one last time and then stalked off into the night, right hand clenched around his swords and his wounded left strapped tightly to his body. The darkness swallowed him, and he was gone.
Then it was just the boy and the monk. They stood for a long time.
“He was right,” said Bennosuke. “I should have killed him.”
“It was a lure, Bennosuke. He would have killed you,” said Dorinbo. “He was goading you. His honor—”
“I know!” snapped Bennosuke. “I know—but I shouldn’t care about that! I should have tried! That’s what’s right! That’s what a samurai would do!”
“But you’d be dead.”
“It doesn’t matter—what kind of a person couldn’t attack the man who killed his mother? What’s wrong with me?” said the boy, and at that moment he truly loathed
“Strike me! Cut me!” continued Munisai, ignoring his brother. “Kill me!”
Behind Dorinbo, Munisai’s hand grew in size. Bennosuke couldall but see it pulsing with the beat of the heart. It was there and open. But he could not attack it. He knew he should, that it was proper to, but … His mind was working now, beneath the surface of outrage.
What he saw was the two swords at the man’s waist, so very close to his good, right hand.
Bennosuke knew little of pride himself, but he had read enough stories to know how it drove some men. Munisai’s armor, that magnificent suit he had cleaned all these years, was the armor of such a man. What would a peasant’s bastard, a symbol of his cuckolding written in flesh, mean to such a man? He thought of how easily Munisai had bested him in the dojo, and then it became clear:
Munisai was goading him into attacking so that he had an excuse to kill him, to rid himself of the shame.
“Do you not want to avenge your mother?” said Munisai. “Kill me!”
There was the spur, and Bennosuke felt his body tense. The shortsword seemed to sing from his side. His mother, whom he had never had a chance to say good-bye to, whose very death had been hidden from him. He remembered the few memories he had of her, the echoes of her voice as she hummed songs to him, or how she laughed and smiled at him just for his simple virtue of being.
“Attack me!” barked Munisai, and it would be right and proper to do so. “Strike me! Cut me! Kill me!”
But he hesitated. Still those two long, slender weapons right there. The boy imagined the edge of the sword flashing toward him, imagined the cut that would follow as a cold line drawn across him from which his life would seep, and he quailed. He knew that he was afraid to die, and that was not the way of samurai. Shame coursed through him. His head dropped.
“Kill me!” said Munisai a final desperate time as the boy broke from his eyes, his voice hollowing. “Kill me!”
“Enough, Munisai,” said Dorinbo.
The monk’s voice had hardened from pleading into somber command. But it was unnecessary. Whatever terrible thing might have come to be, the moment for it had passed when Bennosuke had lowered his gaze. There would be no bloodshed today, and they all sensedit. The monk straightened and looked from one to the other. Bennosuke kept his eyes to the floor. Munisai let his arm drop, his body wilted.
“What is wrong with you?” said Munisai to Bennosuke.
“There is nothing wrong with him,” said Dorinbo. “He has a chance to be something higher.”
Munisai laughed in disgust. But something was different now, something in his eyes and his voice had changed; a wall had been put back up.
“This is not what you came back for, Munisai,” said Dorinbo levelly. “Do not punish the boy for our mistakes.”
Munisai glared at his brother, seeking a new challenge, but the monk held his eyes with a coldness. It surprised Bennosuke to see such harshness in his uncle, but even more so to see Munisai relent to it.
“Very well,” Munisai could only manage. “Very well.”
He looked Dorinbo in the eye one last time and then stalked off into the night, right hand clenched around his swords and his wounded left strapped tightly to his body. The darkness swallowed him, and he was gone.
Then it was just the boy and the monk. They stood for a long time.
“He was right,” said Bennosuke. “I should have killed him.”
“It was a lure, Bennosuke. He would have killed you,” said Dorinbo. “He was goading you. His honor—”
“I know!” snapped Bennosuke. “I know—but I shouldn’t care about that! I should have tried! That’s what’s right! That’s what a samurai would do!”
“But you’d be dead.”
“It doesn’t matter—what kind of a person couldn’t attack the man who killed his mother? What’s wrong with me?” said the boy, and at that moment he truly loathed
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