Death Before Dishonor Read online

  The feeling was numbing as they made the three-hour drive from the airport to the point where they parked their vehicle. Parked there also was Kintake’s beat-up old pick-up truck. The feeling became sharp once they exited the vehicle and began walking the remainder of the distance; the closer they got, the more intense the feeling became. Finally, they made the final descent into the distinct ear-shaped river basin, and the first evidence of Togakure Ryu began to come into view.

  As they neared the edge of the village, Terry focused on suppressing his discomfort and found himself looking over his shoulder at his brother for reassurance. Yuri returned his brother’s occasional glances with conflicted, raised brows and a pursed expression.

  By then, they had passed the perimeter fence of the pigpen and angled toward to the most direct path through the peripheral cottages to the meeting hall from which Hattori Hanzo conducted business as well as resided, the inorganic hum of its generator becoming discernable through the ambient sounds of the mountain fauna. When the brothers broke through the wall of cottages, they could make out the meeting hall’s kanji-covered stanchions, its shrubbery, and a score of villagers congregating on and around the porch.

  “Don’t do anything crazy,” Terry said, sounding more suggestive than demanding.

  Yuri spat a mouthful of saliva before he replied, “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Something crazy.”

  “Don’t start with me. I’m not in the best mood.”

  “I know. That’s exactly why I said, ‘Don’t do anything crazy.’ I’m not trying to piss you off, little brother.”

  “I won’t. I’m here for the family reunion just like you.”

  Terry rolled his eyes. “Right.”

  “I even brought presents.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be appreciative.”

  “How’s your Japanese?”

  “Rusty by their standards, I’m sure. Why?”

  “Because you’re doing all the talking.”

  A teenage villager in a plaid shirt and worn corduroy trousers who was cleaning gardening tools on the side of a hut between it and the pen spotted them with surprise. Terry waved and shot a smile at the young man. The young man dropped the tool and waved both hands, nearly unable to contain himself.

  “Who’s that?” Yuri asked, leaning closer to Terry’s ear.

  “I don’t remember.”

  Terry greeted the teenager in Japanese, and he responded to Terry with stuttering excitement, bidding that they follow. Terry and Yuri did. The youth explained that the Shinobi-no-mono had fallen ill and that Omiyoshu Sensei had been awaiting their arrival but was unsure whether they would show.

  Terry assumed that the youth was too young to remember what had transpired between the brothers and Kintake so many years ago. Perhaps Kintake had forbidden any talk about the brothers, and as a result, those who hadn’t been present had never been informed.

  Curious, Terry thought.

  As they made their way to the village center, those who weren’t already outside came out to see the long-absent Shinobi. The brothers made eye contact and nodded toward each villager they passed; however, the villagers looked at the brothers like complete strangers. All the years they had spent in this village, and it felt foreign, as if they were unwelcome tourists walking aimlessly around Iga Ueno Castle looking for ninja memorabilia like those shown in western media. It made them even more uncomfortable.

  They approached the door of the center hall, where three Jonin in their late seventies and dressed in muted browns greeted them with nods. Terry and Yuri came up the steps and bowed at the waist, and Terry readied his atrophied Japanese. No one said anything, however. The Jonin just looked at them awkwardly. Terry looked back at Yuri; he was giving a look that read, Well, say something.

  Terry swallowed hard. “Masters, my brother and I were recalled by the kōchō. We were ordered to return per the Ninth Mandate of Ninpo.”

  The eldest Shinobi, and the one furthest away in their huddle, said, “Under terrible circumstances must you return, Terry, but the ancestors paved this path of righteousness so that we may be with honor.”

  Terry bowed deeply, and Yuri as nearly. “Yes, Sensei,” Terry replied. “May we see Shinobi-no-Mono?”

  “Of course,” another said, gesturing the door.

  Terry and Yuri bowed again and moved to the door, removing their shoes before entering.

  The interior of the meeting hall was immaculate and seemingly untouched by the ages—despite being the only building in the village that had electricity—a relic of a bygone era that connected the Fujibayashi to their past.

  The brothers walked lightly across the antechamber towards a room near the back. There, they found Hattori Hanzo closer to his end with each passing moment. He had changed tremendously in the better part of a decade. Age had not been friendly to him, decimating his virility and endurance. He couldn’t walk or see. Age had robbed him of his ability to talk or teach. He was no longer capable of being Shinobi and by normal standards should have committed seppuku like Ninpo demanded of any lame or inept warrior. The Shinobi-no-mono, however, was forbidden seppuku, only being allowed a natural death at the hands of fate or of combat but not by his own hand. Unfortunate, Terry and Yuri thought, to be trapped in an infirm body, unable to interact with the world. It felt dishonorable, but the Shinobi-no-mono was a position only the most honorable could hold. He was the spiritual leader of all Shinobi clans, who communed with the ancestors regularly and communicated their wishes and demands to the clans. He was their medium—their most holy. And when he passed from the mortal world, the clans would have to sacrifice their most promising Shinobi to their ancestors so that a new Shinobi-no-mono might be granted the wisdom to ascend. The lives of those sacrificial Shinobi filled the Shinobi-no-mono with the power to command the clans.

  The time for sacrifice was almost upon them. It only came once every couple of generations, and only the most capable Shinobi were honorable enough to participate and perhaps give their lives for their clan and Ninpo as a whole. It was a fatalistic system of beliefs, but it was adhered to religiously by the Shinobi and had been for millennia.

  Terry knelt next to Hanzo’s mat. “Shinobi-no-mono, it’s Terry. I…uh…I’m here with Yuri.”

  Yuri put his bags down and took up a position next to his brother.

  “We’re here because Ninpo has demanded our return,” Terry continued. “It has been a long time. Yuri and I have accomplished much in our absence. You’d be proud. Yuri is right here next to me.” Terry nudged his brother with his elbow. “Say something.”

  “Hi.”

  Terry sighed, “Yuri hasn’t changed much.”

  “Yuri. Terry,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway. “You have arrived after all.” It was a voice that they remembered. It reminded Terry of his childhood and made his heart flutter.

  They turned and looked. There stood Akiko with her alabaster skin, her hair atop her head in a messy pile, and dressed in plain gray robes with a ninjatō suspended beneath her belt at the small of her back. The bulk of her robes made her look far less petite and delicate. “Akiko,” Terry said, climbing to his feet, “it’s so good to see you—even under such compromising circumstances.”

  Yuri found his brother in the corner of his eyes, thinking that Terry’s reaction was anything but subtle.

  “Likewise,” Akiko said, unfazed, and then she turned her attention to Yuri. “Yuri, you are well?”

  Yuri nodded, his bright blue eyes betraying his discomfort and suspicion.

  “How have you been?” Terry asked her, bubbly and just a hair above a whisper.

  Yuri’s eyes shot back to his brother.

  “You look great,” Terry continued. “Haven’t changed a bit, really. You’re just a slight bit taller.”

  Akiko cracked a cornered smile. “Father and Saki went to the shrine to meet with the Momochi to negotiate the terms of the ritual. They are due shortly. I should take you to your quarters
in the meantime so that when he returns, we are all ready to speak with him.”

  “Sounds good,” Terry replied.

  Akiko clasped her hands together and turned to leave. “Come with me.”

  Terry followed.

  Yuri watched them exit into the antechamber and head toward the door. His discomfort was growing; he didn’t want to be here. He looked down at Hattori Hanzo and considered that he might not be feeling anything for the Fujibayashi.

  “Yuri,” Terry yelled through the doorway, “are you coming?”

  “Sure.”

  ***

  Yuri was antsy, and Terry could visibly see it. He watched Yuri pace the interior of the cottage, sharpening the blade of his tanto and staring angrily into space. Terry didn’t want to waste time inquiring into his brother’s feelings since he already knew how Yuri would respond. Terry, however, was concerned about Yuri’s reaction when they saw Kintake. Terry wasn’t worried that Yuri had unfinished business with Kintake; Terry was worried that Yuri would aim to bring that business to a close. Yuri did, after all, have a nasty penchant for grudge holding. Terry just needed Yuri to keep his cool.

  After nearly an hour had passed, Akiko returned. She knocked before she slipped through the rice paper door. “Father has returned. He summons us all.”

  “This should be entertaining,” Yuri said, tossing his rag onto the floor and sheathing the knife in the holster beneath his shirt.

  Terry climbed to his feet and pulled on his jacket. “Nothing crazy, Yuri.”

  “Dude, get off my case.”

  Akiko interjected, “Is there a problem?”

  Terry’s eyes became furtive. Was Akiko joking or just playing dumb? Surely, she knew why Terry was addressing him. “No. No problem. I’m just making sure my brother remembers protocol.”

  “I’ll be sure not to pull the pins on any grenades,” Yuri retorted, venom dripping from his mouth.

  Akiko didn’t pay any of it much attention. She knew Terry and Yuri to be a quirky, unorthodox duo and didn’t stress over their oddness. She departed the cottage without so much as a word, Terry and Yuri followed. As they came out from between two cottages, they could see that a rather large contingent of villagers—Genin, Chunin, and Kunoichi—had gathered in the rock garden of the meeting hall, and the Jonin had collected into a huddle of twenty or so at the base of the steps. All were dressed in the robes similar to those worn by Akiko, colored gray or brown, with their ninjatōs stashed in their belts. Terry and Yuri felt out of place. It wasn’t just the way they were dressed, though. In their adolescence, the villagers had paid them a monopoly of attention. Now it was as if they were invisible. Terry didn’t know what to make of it, but it enhanced Yuri’s desire to be elsewhere. Villagers continued to arrive even after Terry and Yuri.

  Kintake and Saki exited the central cottage and approached the congregation; their faces were painted with the seriousness of a physician preparing for brain surgery. They came to the apex of the stairs, and Saki raised his arms above his head. The crowd went instantly silent, bowing deeply.

  “The time is nearly upon us,” came a voice from the grouped Jonin. An indistinct, balding, gray head rose from the bowed assembly. “This is a time when the honor of Shinobi is tried and weighed. This is a time where Shinobi meet on sacred ground in the audience of our ancestors and showcase their devotion to Ninpo. Only the most devout are called upon to approach the sacred ground with weapons drawn.

  “Our blades are sharpened for generations until a time such as this. It is a time when selfishness is dissolved and sacrifice becomes the means by which we exist. This time will not be easy, nor will it bring us delight; sacrifice is never easy nor delightful. From it, though, our honor will be honed, and our existence will continue. We will persist as we always have. May the ancestors grant us wisdom and Ninpo guide our blades.”

  Everyone stood, moved by the elder’s speech, inhaling deeply of conviction and dedication; Kintake didn’t seem so affected, his eyes were like Yuri’s—contemptuous.

  Saki came forward. “Our three Chunin seniors will take to the sacred ground carrying only the weapons of the ancestors. There, they will engage the Momochi in our most sanctified ritual and, hopefully, be bid to ascend to the halls of our ancestors being regarded among the greatest Shinobi to walk the earth. Terry, Akiko, and I will begin training tomorrow when the sun sets. We have much to revisit—”

  “No.” Kintake placed a silencing hand in the air. “Akiko will not fight; Yuri will take her place.”

  “Father!” Akiko’s voice hummed with betrayal as she pushed through the small crowd to the front. “I am third Chunin next to Saki and Terry! It is my duty to go onto the sacred ground!”

  Kintake’s browed furrowed, and he shot her a look of ice. “You will be silent. No Kunoichi will go.”

  “Master, if I may—” Saki jumped to her defense but was cut off by the blade of Kintake’s tanto pressing into his throat, nearly lacerating him with the speed by which it was drawn.

  Kintake locked Saki’s startled gaze; the aging Shinobi’s speed was easily forgotten until a sharp-edged reminder was applied. “The next Shinobi that challenges my authority will die by my hand. Do I make myself clear?” The group was silent. Their concurrence was silent too.

  Kintake returned his knife to its sheath beneath the sleeve of his robe. “Continue,” he urged Saki.

  “Yes, Omiyoshu Sensei,” Saki replied obediently, resisting the urge to rub his throat. “In the morning, we must honor Mamushi. We will meet on the bank of the river. All not involved with preparations shall attend.”

  Terry’s stomach dropped. Yuri’s nose flared, a sneer rising at one corner of his mouth. They weren’t looking forward to being poisoned.

  ** *

  The villagers, composed of the Jonin and the more senior of the Genin and Chunin, numbering perhaps twenty in all, knelt in a half-moon-shaped cluster, shoulder to shoulder, near the edge of the river, with Terry, Yuri, and Saki at the center. In front of them was Kintake, flanked by a single elder holding in his hands the revered Mamushi—a pit viper native to the mountains in Iga.

  To the Fujibayashi, Mamushi was a kami—a spirit inhabiting an animal body. It was regarded as a spirit-guide, and legends held that Mamushi, angered by an invasion of his territory by the Shogun Oda Nobunaga, divided himself into many parts, entered the bodies of vipers, and sneaked into the tents of Nobunaga's generals, killing them with venom. This legendary act allowed the Fujibayashi, the Momochi, and the other Iga clans to strike decisive blows against the Shogun's forces. In the chaos, the clans were able to escape into the mountains. In spite of Mamushi, the Shogun ultimately routed and wiped out the Iga clans. The Fujibayashi, however, attributed their survival to the efforts of Mamushi.

  The ritual, thus, arose from the Fujibayashi paying homage to Mamushi by proving that only a true Shinobi could ingest Mamushi's venom and survive. Each neophyte, called Kodomo, who had reached the plateau of his or her initiate training, usually around age fifteen, partook in the ritual to become Genin—those that survived. Any who perished were deemed unworthy and never spoken of again. Following the ritual, all new Genin received a tattoo of Mamushi. The tattoo was unique to each Shinobi, and its placement on their body expressed their personal strength and their contribution to the clan. Terry's tattoo was etched along his spine. Yuri's snaked from his armpit to the top of his abdomen by way of his ribs. Saki's tattoo stretched from shoulder to shoulder.

  Saki, Terry, and Yuri were not, however, imbibing today so that they could cross over; they had done that more than a decade earlier. They were imbibing because Mamushi required that Shinobi carrying out the Ninth Mandate of Ninpo must prove his or her worthiness by ingesting his poison once more.

  Two Kunoichi approached the huddle of meditating Shinobi, carrying between them a hot cast of freshly brewed tea. They set it down in the gravel between Terry, Yuri, and Saki, and Kintake and his aide. They opened the cast and filled three small cups with t
he ladle.

  “To merely follow Ninpo is not, in and of itself, honorable,” Kintake said in an intense, solemn tone. “Any base creature could follow Ninpo's mandates, but to allow Ninpo to guide oneself like a honed blade in service of our ancestors is to be Shinobi. Ninpo's most genuine pupils have the most serious minds and unquestionable dedication. Not even the threat of death can sever a Shinobi's connection to Ninpo. Today, the three of you will prove that Ninpo and the Shinobi are indivisible.” Kintake approached his three Chunin and placed a considerate hand on each of their heads. “Are you ready?”

  They nodded in unison.

  Kintake snaked his fingers through his aide's grip and grabbed the base of the viper's head; it writhed in his grip. The elder man looked to Kintake for assurance that he had positive control of the agitated serpent. Kintake gave him a stern, hardened look and nodded. The aide released the snake's body and backed away. The viper defiantly coiled itself around Kintake's arm and formed a hateful grimace with its mouth.

  Kintake raised the viper’s head level with his own eyes. "Mamushi, I give you my best Shinobi. Their worthiness is yours to determine. If they be so worthy, let your venom empower them. If not, their lives are yours." Kintake lowered the viper's head to the first cup and squeezed. The viper's jaw came unhinged and opened, revealing its needle-like fangs. He pressed the viper's jaws to the top of the cup and expelled venom into the tea. Then he moved on to the other two.