The Sword Master

By I. J. Parker

In the streets of twelfth-century Kyoto, a homeless boy is brutalized and left to die.  A selfless physician saves him but cannot soften his hardened spirit.  Angry at the world and seeking vengeance against those who killed his parents, Hachiro rejects kindness and resolves to become a swordsman to avenge his parents.  He succeeds beyond his dreams, but with fame comes trouble: every young fighter challenges him, three beautiful women want to own him, and the war between two powerful clans forces him onto the battlefield.  He survives by his wits and skill to face a secret enemy who wants Hachiro’s life. 

THE SWORD MASTER is a savage and moving tale of survival in a violent world. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ingrid J. Parker Inc.
• Release date: Mar 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507037058

Book preview

Characters

(* marks an historical character)

Yamada Hachiro, an orphaned street child

Sadamu, another orphan

Yamada Sadahira, physician and adoptive father of Hachiro and Sadamu

Toshiko, Sadahira’s wife, formerly an imperial concubine

Otori, Sadahira’s housekeeper

Togoro, Sadahira’s servant

Master Soma, a teacher of swordsmanship

Akogi, his faithful housekeeper

Takeo, a student

Kosami, a student at a rival school

Sumiko, a poor widow

Oba Takehira, lieutenant of the guard, Toshiko’s brother

Jiro, his servant

Yamada Sadamori, the old Lord of Tanabe

Minamoto Yoritomo*, Lord of Kamakura, Shogun

Kiso Yoshinaka*, his cousin, a general

Lady Tomoe*, Kiso’s mistress

Ono Nakanari, Shinano shrine priest

Lieutenant Wada, a former student of Master Soma

Fujiwara, Sakanoue, Koremune, three former special magistrates

Nakahara Tameyoshi, former magistrate, Hachiro’s father

1

Every Day is a Bad Day

In this world what can I point to and call my home? Home is wherever I rest my feet.  —Anonymous, Kokinshu

It was the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. The boy decided to observe it by begging at the temple. After three years of life on the streets of the capital, he was wise to the best locations. The eastern market was the best, both for food and coins. But there the authorities were very strict, taking the lash to the many begging children. The western market was also good, though the coins were fewer and grown-up thugs were likely to rob and beat you. When there were festivals, he would pass among the spectators, and the take was always excellent. At night, he spent his time in the amusement quarter. Drunks were notoriously careless with their money, but there, too, he was often cursed and beaten.

Of all these places, the steps of the great temple gate were the least dangerous. True, there was no food here, but coins would occasionally end up in his grimy hands rather than in the offering box of the monks.

But he had come to say a prayer for his parents. He wished he could make a donation so the monks would recite a sutra for them, do it properly, but he had no money, had, in fact, not been lucky for days and was very hungry.

So he had said his prayers, trying hard not to cry, and now sat on the top step of the wide stone staircase leading to the temple gate.

Watching people come for their morning worship.

Holding out a dirty hand.

Giving them that sad, desperate look.

The sun gilded the roofs of the city, but his place was still in the shade and chilly. He shivered from time to time. It helped his pitiful appearance. Between hunger and inadequate clothing, his thoughts were on survival. He had really meant to sit and remember his parents, but who could think of the past? It would be winter soon. He must earn enough to buy some warm clothes from the rag woman near the western market. He hated sweeping up horse and cow dung to sell to farmers, but it would come to that. Even the stick and the brush to make a good broom would cost him something.

A very fat woman staggered up the stairs, leaning on her maid and stopping after every step to rest and expel a groan.

The boy watched her, amused. If you were rich and could eat until you got that fat, you deserved the effort it took to move all that bulk around. He was small for is age and very thin, but his muscles were good. He could run up those stairs many times without being out of breath. He chuckled.

They finally reached him and stopped again. He stretched out his hand and tried to look as hungry as he was. The maid kicked at him with her wooden geta. Out of the way, you lazy boy. Can’t you see people are trying to get by?

Bitch!

He cried out even though it hadn’t hurt much.

Her mistress looked down and heaved a sigh. Don’t do that. He’s just a child. My boy would’ve been his age. Give him some money. He looks hungry.

The sharp faced maid glared. He’s a thief, most like. Why encourage them? They ought to be working like the rest of us.

The mean hag doesn’t like walking the fat one about, thought the boy. She thinks such work’s too hard and dull. But she eats well, doesn’t she? She has no worries about winter cold or where to sleep at night.

He stuck out his tongue at her.

The maid gasped and tried to kick him again, but her mistress stopped her. Do as I said. Give him ten coppers. He needs a hot meal. He’s shivering.

The maid muttered but reached into her sash and counted out the coins as if they were her children about to be sacrificed to an oni.

The boy took the money, stood and made the fat one a deep bow. May the Buddha bless you, kind lady.

She smiled—though it was hard to tell with that tiny mouth between her bulging cheeks and her eyes disappearing altogether. Be a good boy, she said, and they walked on.

Be a good boy!

It was what his mother had said to him before she cut her throat.

On the day the soldiers came, he’d been called to the main hall. They’d told him to run away when the soldiers came. His father had taken him by the shoulders and said in a very fierce voice, Listen to me! You must not tell them your name. You must forget it. And you must run away and never come back here.

And then he had handed him to his mother, who had held him and told him to be a good boy and pray for them.

He’d tried to obey, but on the veranda, he’d stopped to look back. With the sound of the soldiers breaking through the front gate, his father had plunged his short sword into his belly and fallen. His mother had bowed to the figure of the Buddha on the niche, and then she had cut her throat with her dagger.

Sobbing, with that image before his eyes, he’d run into the vast garden to hide.

The soldiers had searched the house and the garden, but he’d clung to a branch in the big cedar, and they’d left. When night came and all was silent, he climbed down to look for his parents. The smell of blood had clogged his nostrils as he groped his way across the great hall. Blood covered the floor. He’d slipped and fallen in it.

They were still lying there, and he’d sat beside his mother in the dark and held her cold hand. With the dawn, he saw the blood, saw the sword in his father’s belly, saw the slashed scrolls, the broken vases, the scattered and torn books.

And he ran and hid again.

Neighbors came, screamed at the horror and left. Then there were constables, and after the constables, priests came. They searched for him again and nearly caught him. One of the priests had seen him. They chased him, cornered him, and wanted to take him to their temple, but he had bitten the hand of the one holding him and run. That time he’d left his home for good.

His first life was over.

As if it had never been.

A dream left behind.

His second life was a good deal more interesting if you discounted the hunger and lack of cleanliness or comfort. He knew he had started learning about life in the streets at a speed that was well-nigh mind-boggling after the dull education in his home. He’d seen things that he’d never known existed. He’d met people who were lessons in the book of human existence. And he’d learned to manage his life, day by day and night by night.

His second life had started three winters ago, at the worst time of the year. That first winter he’d almost died. He’d slept in gutters, under bridges, and in woodpiles until a beggar found him nearly frozen. The man had shaken and pummeled him back to consciousness. He’d had told him to sleep in stables, kept warm by horses and oxen, or in the kitchens of great houses or monasteries. He’d also taught him how to beg. In those early days, he had been a mere child, and people had taken pity on him, but he knew he was getting older, and these days he got more kicks than coins.

So here he was, on the cold temple steps, staring at ten coppers in his cold hand. A fortune. He could eat for days. His mouth watered at the thought of a bowl of hot noodle soup.

He bought the noodles from a vendor a few blocks away. They were thick, tasty noodles and good vegetables. The man had sometimes taken pity on the boy and let him scoop out the remnants at the end of the day without demanding money.

The boy gulped the noodles and broth, warming his hands on the bowl, and eyed the cauldron longingly. But he needed to buy some warm clothes and save something for food tonight and tomorrow. He returned the bowl and walked away.

He’d barely walked a block, when he became aware of them. Three boys, older than he, and bigger. They were following him, sharing a joke. He increased his speed, hoping they would ignore him.

No such luck.

Hey, kid, what’s your rush? one of them shouted. You want to come see a cock fight?

He almost stopped. Yes, he wanted to see a cock fight, but he knew them. They were thugs who made smaller kids their prey. Sometimes, if the kid had no money they could take, they’d play a cruel game with him. Like holding him under water in one of the canals to see how long he could hold his breath. Or putting a rope around his ankles and suspending him upside down from some rafters so they could twist him around and around, then let him go spinning wildly. Most of the small kids started throwing up, and one had choked and died.

No, thanks, he cried over his shoulder and started to run.

They caught him three blocks away after splitting up and boxing him in at the end of a blind alley. They advanced, grinning in anticipation.

What’d you run for, toad? asked the one with the harelip.

Yeah, you got money, I bet, said the fat one. He was big enough to make two of the boys and enjoyed sitting on his victims.

How about it, grathhopper? asked the one with the broken nose. He lisped because his front teeth were gone.

Leave me alone, said the boy, clenching his fists.

They laughed.

They teased him a while by feigning to jump him, but in the end, all three simply piled on top of him. The boy screamed, fought by biting, scratching, kicking, snarling, but it was no good. It just made them angry. He’d known that. Had also known he should just have given them the money and run, but something had made him fight.

They held him down and searched him, taking his fortune anyway. He stuck his fingers in harelip’s eye and kicked the fat one in the groin. After that they beat him up, taking turns. They broke his nose, and jumped on his chest and back. He swallowed blood, choked and rolled, tucking his head under.

Trying not to vomit.

Trying not to cry or scream, no matter how much it hurt.

Trying to make his mind go elsewhere until it was over.

They stopped. But by then, he was unconscious.

2

The Doctor

It is said when one has entered the bottom of hell, princes and slaves are the same.  —Emperor Daigo

He almost died in the gutter of that back alley. It was the doctor who found him. If it had been anyone else, he would have been left to die. But Doctor Yamada carried the boy home and tended to his wounds.

And so the boy began his third life.

His injuries were severe. The thugs had broken his ribs. He coughed and spat blood for days in horrible agony. The other wounds healed more quickly. The doctor’s gentle hands straightened his nose and applied ointment to his cuts and bruises, but the coughing up of blood appeared to worry him. He wrapped the boy’s poor, thin chest firmly with bands of hemp and told him not to move. Every day, he unwrapped him, applied soothing oils, and rewrapped him, and gradually it became a little easier to breathe without coughing, and he got better.

The fact that the boy would not eat and only sipped a little water or broth now and then was another concern. He was pitifully thin already.

You must eat, the doctor said, or the life force will drain out of you completely.

He did not know the boy wanted to die.

That he wished to be with his parents.

That he wanted a home.

He lay on some bedding in a small chamber where the cook—he assumed the woman was the cook, for she wore ordinary clothes and was too old to be the doctor’s wife—stored supplies. She tended to him also, but far more roughly than the doctor and with a scowl. She did not like sick and filthy street kids in her clean house and only took care of him because the doctor told her to. This shamed the boy and was another reason he wished to die.

The doctor asked, What is your name?

The boy shook his head and said nothing.

The woman—her name was Otori and she was really the doctor’s housekeeper, he learned later—also asked for his name. When he didn’t tell her, she said to the doctor, Most likely he won’t tell because he’s wanted by the constables.

It came close to the truth, but the boy glowered and said, You can call me ‘boy’.

He dared not give his name. His father had told him to forget it and never to tell anyone. He knew the soldiers would have killed him. They might still do so now if they knew his name.

So he became Boy.

In time, he was able to get up and do some simple chores. Otori put a broom in his hands and told him to sweep. This he resented. He was no servant. It was especially hateful to be a servant to another servant, for Otori was the doctor’s servant. But he was still horribly weak and winter had come with a vengeance. Outside, the snow lay in the streets and icicles hung from the roofs of the houses. Here he was warm and dry and had a full belly. He decided to postpone his departure until warmer weather returned.

Truth was, he missed the streets. He missed the excitement, the entertainment to be had, the adventures that awaited a boy there.

The doctor also asked his age. He lied about that, taking off two years to make himself appear younger. Thirteen, he said. They believed him, and that gave him some pleasure.

Day by day, he did the work Otori didn’t want to do, resenting all of it bitterly. He rarely saw the doctor after his wounds healed. He lost interest in his patient and sometimes seemed astonished to see him there. For some reason, this pained the boy.

One day, the doctor brought home another patient. He’d found the man near death and horribly burned.

Togoro took Boy’s place on the floor of the store room and drew everyone’s attention and care. Boy was forgotten, except for being scolded and called lazy and sullen.

The burned man was a terrible sight even after the burns healed. He lay there in continuous agony that made him weep silently day and night. The doctor tended him with the greatest devotion, and even Otori had kind words.

When Togoro grew better, he instantly attempted to work for his keep. He crawled around on the floor trying to sweep, and both the doctor and Otori were overcome with admiration and coddled him all the more, telling Boy to do the work for him.

Otori said, See the difference between Togoro and Boy? Boy is lazy and ungrateful. Why do you keep him here and let him eat us out of house and home?

Boy almost left that day. What made him stay was really more his anger than the desire for food and roof over his head. He did work a little harder for a while, and so the months passed.

3

The Other Orphan

Fortune and misfortune are like the strands of a rope.  —Japanese Proverb

One afternoon, a ragged child came to the door. He was no more than five or six years old, shivered with cold, and looked half starved. Otori ran back to her kitchen and gave him a bowl of warm rice. The boy hesitated a moment, then took it, and ran away.

Wait, you thieving little rascal, she shouted after him. Bring back my bowl. Too late. The child was gone.

Boy laughed at that.

To his surprise, the little thief returned the next morning, without the bowl.

Where’s my bowl? Otori demanded.

The child backed away a little and looked at her with frightened eyes.

She glowered at him. Well, you won’t get anything else until you bring back the bowl. Do you hear?

The child walked away but squatted under a tree across the road. There he stayed all day, in the cold, watching the house. Otori glanced at him from time to time and muttered, I’ve got no bowls to spare, not when the master has no more paying clients and doesn’t go out to find any.

Boy had paid little attention to his employer’s income. He assumed all doctors earned good money. Otori’s mutterings implied that her master cured poor people for nothing. He had done so in his own case, and in Togoro’s. This might mean that soon there would not be enough to feed them all, and he would be chased out into the cold. He avoided looking at the shivering child outside the house.

The next day, he was there again. Otori left a stale rice cake by the gate, but the boy made no attempt to take it, and a stray dog found it instead.

Perhaps this would have gone on for days, but around midday, the doctor went out. The waiting child jumped up and ran after him.

Boy and Otori watched nervously. The doctor bent down to the child and they talked. Boy could imagine the pitiful look the shivering child was giving him.

There, said Otori in a tone of disgust. The doctor had reached into his sash to offer the child money. But the small boy put his hands behind his back, turned, and slowly walked away.

Can you believe that? breathed Otori.

Outside, the doctor stood dumfounded for a moment, his hand still extended. Then he called out and hurried after the child.

The boy stopped, the doctor crouched down so he could look into the child’s face, and they talked some more.

Smart, commented Boy. He wants more than a copper.

Otori gave him a sharp look. You should know, she snapped and looked back at the street.

Doctor Yamada stood, holding the child’s hand, and started back toward his house.

Otori gasped and flew out the door. She stood there, her hands on her hips. So, she said, the little thief’s found someone else to rob. You’d better watch out. He steals, just like the other young rascal you brought home.

Boy was outraged. He was no thief.

The child crept behind the doctor and peered around him with frightened eyes. He was blue with cold and had been crying.

Nonsense, said DoctorYamada, giving Otori a fierce look. He’s the son of a patient. I told him to come to me. And he’s much too young to be a thief.

Boy almost snorted aloud.

Hah, he ran away with my bowl only two days ago, Otori cried. But she stepped aside and let them come into the house. Ask him where my bowl is. It was a good one.

Get some hot food, the doctor told her, and bring it to my room. He took the child through the house and into his private study where Boy wasn’t allowed. Boy trailed behind them but stopped at the door.

The doctor asked his new foundling, What is your name?, and the child answered readily enough, Sadamu.

Sadamu? Mine is Sadahira, said the doctor, sounding delighted. Imagine that! It’s surely auspicious.

Boy felt a hot surge of envy. Oh, to have a name again, to be someone, not just a creature you called Boy like a dog!

The child looked puzzled.

‘Auspicious’ means good luck, the doctor explained, smiling. I think you’re good luck for me.

The lucky boy!

Sadamu glanced around the room and asked, Why do you need good luck? You have everything.

The doctor squeezed the boy’s hand. You’re welcome in my house if you’d like to stay, he said. Then he looked up and saw Boy. His voice changed. Oh, Boy. Come in and spread my bedding. We need to get this poor child warm as quickly as possible.

Boy obeyed and watched enviously as the doctor removed the child’s muddy shoes and wrapped him in quilts.

Otori’s broad feet came slapping down the corridor. She carried a tray with several bowls on it. This she set down on the doctor’s desk. Well, has he sold my bowl or does he still have it? she demanded.

The boy glanced at the tray, then at her. The landlord took it, he said.

Yamada put his hand on the child’s head. Don’t worry, Sadamu. The bowl doesn’t matter. I have many bowls.

Otori bristled, but catching the doctor’s eye, she only muttered under her breath.

Do eat, Yamada invited, setting the tray next to the boy. And if something is left, you can feed the fish.

Otori had brought soup, fragrant rice, and sweet dumplings. When she saw Boy staring, she snapped, What are you dawdling for? Back to the kitchen. I need more wood for the fire.

Boy learned soon enough that Sadamu’s mother had been one of the doctor’s poor patients and that she had died. The doctor saw to her funeral services and cremation and looked after the orphan with the most loving care, letting him sleep in his room and spending a lot of time with him.

Otori also was kind to the child, though she muttered at the expense of the funeral.

Boy didn’t know how he felt. He was painfully envious of the love the child received, particularly from the doctor. But he also remembered his own grief at his parents’ death. He avoided everyone as much as possible while he tried to sift through his mixed-up emotions. This was fairly easy to do, since Sadamu had everyone’s attention.

During the weeks of being nearly forgotten, Boy ventured out into the streets again. He thought he might as well begin to make plans for spring. It was pretty obvious that he was merely tolerated in exchange for the chores he did, and those were mostly done by the ever-cheerful Togoro. Boy wasn’t a servant like Togoro and chafed under each task.

The day Sadamu’s mother was cremated at Toribeno, the doctor took Sadamu and Otori there for the ceremony. It was the first day, Boy left the house. He spent the whole day in the eastern market. He sniffed the tantalizing odors of dried dumplings and roasted birds, of piles of plump oranges and aromatic herbs. He watched the menders of clogs and sandals, listened to the story-tellers, and eyed the colorful fans and umbrellas offered for sale. These days, his clothes were too good to attempt begging, but he amused himself with listening to story tellers and snatching sweets and dumplings from unattended vendors’ trays. He didn’t consider this stealing but rather an entitlement. He was a child and an orphan. The world surely owed him an occasional small treat. Besides, it was an adventure, a skill, and a small triumph, and his life was sadly lacking in all of those lately.

He kept an eye out for the three youths who had nearly killed him, but the eastern market had far fewer beggars and thugs than the western one. Instead there were many dashing soldiers here, guardsmen in colorful uniforms and provincial warriors wearing half armor and long swords. Ordinary people weren’t permitted long swords, and Boy admired soldiers immensely. He wondered how it would feel to use such a weapon.

He did not approach them, however. The image of the soldiers who had come to his home burned in his memory.

He remembered his father vividly as he was cleaning his own sword and placing it reverently on its stand. His father told him that it had belonged to his grandfather before him and that it would someday belong to him. But when his father lay dead in his blood, the great sword was gone, stolen by his enemies.

The vividness of his memory made him do something, he’d done only once before. He returned to his old family home.

Then as now, his father’s words rang in his ears: You must never come back here! But his yearning had been too strong. There had been a recurrent dream in which he’d walked through the open gates, seen the smiles on the servants’ faces, and been welcomed by his father and mother as if he’d merely been for a short walk.

The first time he’d dared, he’d found the gates closed, but the house had drawn him so strongly that he’d tried to climb over the wall. A warden and his men had passed just as he’d almost reached the top of the wall. They had taken him for a thief and had rushed up to jerk him down by his ankle. His fright had given him the courage to kick and bite until he got loose, and then he’d run away as fast as he could.

This time, he was more careful. He watched for a while from a distance. The residential street lay quiet in the afternoon sun. But someone was living in his home. It looked well kept. The gate stayed firmly closed, but he walked around the corner, thinking to get a peek inside from the back. In the narrow side street, he ran into old Kurodo, a servant belonging to one of the neighbors. They both stopped in surprise. The old man stared.

Is that you, Tamehito? he asked in a quavering voice, squinting at him uncertainly.

He hadn’t answered but turned and run.

It had been a foolish risk. The danger of being recognized was too great. For all he knew, the old