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Arsace Queneau was not yet a man, having only turned fourteen on the boat over from France, but his shoulders already sagged; his hands were worn and begrimed from work, his clothing patched and flimsy. It was a good thing that the winter was over, for he wouldn't have survived another two months of the bone cracking cold of that forbidding region. The plague of fevers that had so reduced the settlement was abating, lowering the risk that he might perish of congested lungs. Too late, however, for his Mere, the twenty-seven year old Catherine Queneau. She had lingered for weeks, tossing her head on the sweat soaked pillow of their little room and calling by name upon members of her absent family.
It had been sorry luck all the way through. The long, harrowing boat journey had made them both sick and reduced them to skin and bones, for son and mother alike proved unable to keep down so much as a shred of meat or a mouthful of biscuit so long as the boat was rocking and pitching underfoot. Then they had arrived in Quebec only to learn that Patrick, Arsace's father, had been captured and presumably killed in a skirmish with the savages beyond the lakes.
At fourteen ans, Arsace was too old to be put in the asylum with the orphans. Yet he had no trade to sustain him in the settlement. His father had left France because, as the third son in a family of Normandy peasants, he would be last in line to receive a parcel of land on which to grow crops. So Patrick Queneau had resolved to make his fortune in the stark North American wilderness by trading with the indigenes -- beads, hatchets, knives and cooking pots for beaver pelts.
Coughing mucous spotted with blood onto the sleeve of his jacket as he strode aimlessly around the dirty, crowded, smoking settlement, Arsace soon made the decision to follow his Pere's example, and become a coureur du bois. As an apprentice to a fur trader, he would journey by canoe deep into the land of dark and endless forests.
He enlisted with the first trading party that would take him. They were to leave at first light the next morning. That night, Arsace drank brandy with some Frenchmen who had just come over and worked during the days reinforcing the battlements with stone and mortar. They protested that Arsace was crazy to be going into the interior. Nothing could found there except endless woods and rivers inhabited by redskinned devils without the slightest respect for life, their minds forever closed to the light of religion. Suddenly one of the Frenchmen, the one with the club foot, gripped Arsace's shoulder and, bringing his face with its mouthful of blackened teeth close to Arsace's wincing face, said that perhaps he was in it for the women. Eh? Eh? Arsace smiled a secretive smile. What does he know about women? another man shouted. Arsace stood, tottering -- his head was thick from the brandy. He staggered and grabbed hold of a barrel to keep his balance. Let's go show him, the clubfoot cried. Let's go teach the boy about women. They dragged him along with them, protesting every step of the way, to a small, dark house near the wall, and rapped on the flimsy door, which was swung open by a large woman with a freckled face. We brought you something! the men shouted. Is your niece in? The freckled woman shushed them and told them to enter. They had to duck through the low doorway. She led them to an alcove and pulled aside the dirty bedspread hanging before it to reveal a young Indian girl with a flat, greasy face lying on her side covered by a wool blanket. Go at her, the clubfoot said. She's yours. She's a Huron. Go on. Go on. Don't be shy, eh! As Arsace, his mind reeling, climbed over the girl, the bedspread falling behind him, his groping hand found that her belly was swollen. She was pregnant.
He apologized to the girl and, sweating, tumbled out of the alcove onto the dirt floor, where he vomited profusely. The insults of the two men resounded in his ears.
**
He went to Mass before the sun rose. The chapel was a rude building of logs. He began to weep during the service at the thought of his mother, the dirt falling with thumps on her coffin. His eyelids were inflamed, and his face wet as the priest paused before him, holding out the wafer between finger and thumb. As Arsace's tear-stained face lifted to accept the Host, the priest stepped back, startled by this child's face which appeared, in the golden light of the flickering candles, like an angelic apparition.***
As Arsace put his paddle into the sparkling water of the lake, the canoe swerved. Paris, sitting in the prow, also held his paddle at an angle in the water. They slid slowly up the riverbank and Paris jumped out. So did Arsace. They lifted the canoe, grunting from the weight of the pelts and rifles in it, up over the stones and set it down by a clump of pines. A pure, fresh wind was blowing; Arsace, straightening, tilted his head back to inhale it, his nostrils flaring. Paris said, "We build a fire here." Arsace nodded and went into the woods to look for dead branches to feed the cook fire.
Although it would be an hour or so until dusk, Paris liked to have everything in place for night by the time darkness fell. As Arsace plunged into the thickets in search of sticks and branches, his back aching from the day of rowing the canoe, he experienced a suffusing happiness. Soon, he would return to Quebec with some money, for the expedition had so far gone very well, better even than Paris had hoped. Tomorrow they would rejoin the other three in their party, who had worked south to rendezvous a summer encampment of the savages whose language seemed, to Arsace, as empty of sense as birdsong.
Arsace even caught himself whistling a little as he gathered sticks of firewood. Sur le pont d'Avignon . . . The sun was dying behind the ranks of pine trees. He dropped his armload suddenly when he glimpsed, in a far thicket, a flash of color. A deer? Then something whirred past his head, snatching briefly at his earlobe, and struck into a slim pine tree just behind him with a solid, sickening thunk.
Turning, Arsace saw an arrow a few inches from his eyes, its feathered haft still aquiver.
He let out a shrill shout and, his legs almost buckling under him, broke into a run.
**
Arsace tore through a patch of brambles without slowing down. As he emerged onto the beach, his face and arms bleeding from scores of fresh scratches, he saw two half-naked savages standing over Paris, who lay face down on the smooth round stones.He stopped, his arms hanging, gulps of breath searing his lungs, as the savages looked at him -- without rancor, it seemed, but rather with curiosity. Then he was seized by the arms from behind, his elbows wrenched back, and shoved to his knees.
He was not afraid. He had not had time to become fearful. It was poignant, he thought, but also strangely fitting, that he would die as his Pere had. He swallowed the little saliva in his mouth and attempted to fix his mind on Jesus.
He heard the savages speaking rapidly but he could distinguish no words, could not even fathom what the subject of the parlay might be. Perhaps the words not concern him at all. He had become incidental to this scene. The savages had what they wanted already: the canoe stocked with pelts, provisions, even rifles. They would certainly kill him.
He felt that everything in and around him had already become unreal, flickering. In a moment he would be with God. Yet he felt a wild last impulse to gaze at the sinking sun, the trees, and the wide, glassy river.
When he raised his head, the savage standing nearest him -- tall, reddish brown, smears of white and blue paint on his naked chest and arms -- strode over to Arsace and struck him with an edge of the rifle he was holding.
He fell over, his mouth full of blood. In the sun's rioting glare, he saw the savage turn, walk slowly over to Paris, and, with a single, sharp blow, shatter Paris's skull.
Matsuo Kyoshi stopped at the corner by the stone wall surrounding the Shinto shrine, just before the turn off onto the street leading to the Suro dojo.
About halfway along that street, before the large wooden gate that marked the entrance to the Suro dojo, stood a grove of pines at least two hundred years old. Stone buddhas sat in the grass under these towering pines. Every morning at dawn, an old priest of the Kojiki temple, just a few miles distant, placed rice balls wrapped in banana leaves at the feet of the buddhas. Matsuo had grown used to pausing in the rich shade of the pine grove on his way to and from the Suro school.
During the listlessly hot days, after his training sessions with Osai, he had often walked into the town in order to visit the bookseller's or to drink green tea in one of the shops by the river. He had never yet been challenged on these outings. The merchants and the visiting farmers made room for him on the dusty street. Other ronin avoided Matsuo, having heard of his skills with the sword. He had occasionally been the object of haughty glances by samurai escorting a palanquin or buying supplies for the Kobe castle, one of the sub-fortresses of the clan which ruled this province. But, since those samurai who visited the town were usually on business for the daimyo, they did not trouble his leisure.
Tonight, the sake he had drunk at the teahouse was making him feel ethereally light, but at the same time hollow, like an empty jug floating on a river. He sagged against the moss veined stones of the wall and shut his eyes. It was utterly still but for the clamor of small frogs and crickets.
Suddenly, the image of the teahouse owner, Mizoguchi Eno -- her glossy head bowed over the antiquated koto as her fingers plucked the strings -- rose up in Matsuo's mind. He recalled her subtly modulated voice as it delivered the vocal accompaniment to melodies already ancient during the time of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi.
He continued to visit the house on Tatsuma street, Matsuo realized, not solely because of Mizoguchi's graciousness, which had made an ineffably pleasing impression on him at the very first, but because of her melancholy.
Whenever she played the koto, Eno imbued the atmosphere of the small back room, in which Matsuo was accustomed to drinking his tea, with an almost unbearable sadness.
Usually, when he visited the teahouse at night, he shared a few bowls of sake with Mizoguchi after she had finished singing and laid aside the koto. After the first bowl, her spirits would rise; by the time he was ready to depart, she would often be clinging to his sleeve, weak with laughter from one of his jokes.
One night, Matsuo had requested her fan, and, rising to his feet, danced and chanted a role from a No play. His skills were not those of a professional, but he had performed the steps and chanted with absolute conviction.
Done, he'd sat down again on his cushion, flicked open the courtesan's fan, and asked: So?
Eno had stared at him in fright.
You turned into a ghost, she'd said.
Matsuo had laughed.
Tonight, however, Eno had refused the sake he offered her and instead had refilled his bowl with an enthusiasm that had struck him as almost childish, again and again as soon as he'd emptied it.
Listening to the swelling and repeated cries of frogs and crickets as he stared into the drifting mist, Matsuo experienced a definite, sharp pang of apprehension.
In the darkness, he felt along the scabbard of his long sword. When he tried to draw the sword, grasping the handle firmly, it resisted him. Only with effort was he able to wrench it out a few inches, breaking whatever had bound the sword guard to its sheath -- hemp, perhaps.
The full moon, its light watery, was setting behind the peaked roof of the Shinto shrine.
As he strode quickly across the road into the deeper darkness of a house's overhanging eaves, Matsuo bit his kimono sleeve to stifle a laugh.
***
In the morning, Osai was surprised to find Matsuo seated in the reception room, polishing his sword.He was wearing the same kimono from the day before. Osai noticed that it was streaked with wet, as if he had slept out in the open.
Prepare to receive guests, he told her curtly.
Osai served him hot tea, which he drank in large gulps. Then she served rice and roasted fish.
As she finished washing the breakfast dishes, there was a loud rap on the gate.
She looked out to see a cedar-wood palanquin resting in the street, surrounded by a dozen samurai wearing the symbol of the Kobe clan on their tunics.
Osai emerged from the doorway and, kneeling, bowed.
When she glanced up, she saw a handsome young samurai in light armor standing before the palanquin, holding in one hand a long spear with its curved blade capped.
Retsudo Iyedo, he called out, begs to be admitted to this dojo to speak with the ronin, Matsuo Kyoshi.
Matsuo shouted from inside: Admit him!
Osai went quickly to the gate and opened it. Sir Iyedo, Osai said, bowing again. You will not remember me, but I am glad to see you.
Of course I remember you, the samurai said. How could I forget the daughter of Ujimori-sensei?
This way, please, Osai said.
Iyedo gave one of his entourage the long spear, then strode before Osai into the low building.
Inside the reception room, he knelt and bowed perfunctorily. Sir, he said.
Matsuo motioned for Osai to enter and shut the doors behind her.
She did so, then knelt with her head lowered.
Do you wear your armor for all social visits? Matsuo inquired, breaking a cold silence.
No, sir. Excuse me. It could not be helped.
When Matsuo did not respond, Iyedo turned to speak to Osai.
Young girl, how is your father?
Dead, sir.
Oh? I am sorry.
He turned to Matsuo.
Sir, may I presume to ask -- are you now the Instructor of this dojo?
I am.
And how many students do you instruct?
Matsuo laughed.
At the moment? Exactly one.
He pointed to Osai, who blushed.
Pardon my rudeness, Iyedo said, his voice sharp. But how did you qualify to replace the sensei?
Osai, glancing at Matsuo, discerned no sign of emotion. The ronin was sitting almost casually on the dais, still holding the long sword in his lap.
There is a simple answer to your question. We fought a duel, and I was successful, while he was not.
As I suspected, Iyedo said. Then allow me to describe myself. I am the head of the Kidenshu-ryu school of spearfighting. As a boy, I trained with Ujimori-sensei, who was a friend of our Lord and often came to the castle to instruct us. Ujimori-sensei was a master of the spear as well as of swordsmanship. My reason for telling you these facts is that I would like to test your abilities against my own in a match.
Matsuo said, Tell me. Did your men enjoy their breakfast of rice balls wrapped in banana leaves? I myself am somewhat tired. I am unused to sleeping out in the open air.
Iyedo looked up sharply. Matsuo stifled a yawn.
I will accept your challenge, he said. But I request that you leave now and return to this School at dusk.
Iyedo bowed, rose to his feet in a crisp movement, and departed.
Matsuo turned to the kneeling Osai.
I imagine that you recall Iyedo's training here?
Hai.
The young man finds you attractive. Hmm. So I wonder why, while the Instructor lived, there was no offer of marriage?
Osai's ears burned. She felt weak, as if at any moment she might fall forward onto the tatami mat.
I do not know, Sir.
You are sure?
Osai's head began to buzz.
Sir, Iyedo is the son of a chamberlain of Lord Kobe's. I imagine that he has many prospects.
I don't doubt it, Matsuo said with a rumbling laugh. He is grace and poise incarnate, is he not? And what sublime manners!
Sir, when he lived here at the dojo, he showed nothing but the greatest respect and displayed all the virtues of a son. His manners were as you say. If he treated you rudely just now, please forgive him. I am sure that he would regret making a bad impression on you.
Matsuo slapped his thigh.
Tell me, girl. Didn't you once hope for Iyedo to approach your father with an offer of marriage?
Osai lowered her eyes to hide the tears filling them.
Speak.
Yes, she said. Then: Please, Sir, do not kill him.
Matsuo sat still for a moment, his eyes shut. Finally, he murmured:
Very well. I promise not to kill him.
***
They did not train that afternoon. Instead, Osai scrubbed the floors of the practice hall and replaced the torn squares of paper in the shoji doors. She then raked the gravel in the courtyard and swept away dead leaves from the porch surrounding it on three sides.
Matsuo, having bathed and dressed in a clean robe, sat with the screen open, smoking his pipe and drinking bowl after bowl of cold green tea.
As dusk approached, he went into the Practice Hall and returned with two bokken tucked under his arm. He sat crosslegged on the porch and carefully polished each of the swords from tip to sword guard with a cloth.
Osai, done with her cleaning chores, changed into a fresh kimono and knelt at the family shrine before burning sticks of incense.
Are you praying to the gods and Buddha for my defeat? Matsuo called in from the porch.
Osai shut her eyes. She pressed her palms tightly together on the smooth wooden rosary beads.
Listen carefully!, Matsuo shouted. The gods and buddhas of all universes working together could not overcome even a single warrior who is truly imbued with the spirit of No-thingness. Do not expect supernatural events to save you. Depend on your own efforts.
***
Iyedo and Matsuo stood at opposite sides of the courtyard in the waning light of dusk, while Osai, along with Iyedo's entourage of a dozen samurai, knelt on the polished boards of the porch surrounding the courtyard on three sides.
Iyedo had returned without his armor, wearing a simple trousers, tunic, headband, and a cloak emblazoned with the Kobe crest. He now held, in a firm but relaxed grip, a spear of the type traditionally used on the battlefield, with a curving blade at one end and a short, straight blade at the other.
Matsuo, in trousers and a tunic, with no headband, his hair freshly washed and oiled and gathered into a topknot, held the two wooden practice swords he had spent the afternoon polishing.
I am Retsudo Iyedo, the young samurai shouted. Prepare yourself for the Kidenshu style.
I am Matsuo Kyoshi. Prepare yourself for my own style. I suggest that we wait for the bell of Kojiki Temple to sound, then begin.
Yes, Iyedo said. I am ready.
He lowered the blade of his spear so that it hovered a few inches from the ground.
Matsuo raised one sword over his head, and held the other at his waist. He was prepared, in such a posture, to fend off blows from either below or above.
Osai recalled that, in the Kidenshu-ryu style of spearfighting, the spear sweeps at the enemy's legs, besides stabbing and cutting at his midsection, chest, upper arms and head.
In the long stillness that followed, Osai's legs began to tremble. The samurai nearby her maintained a calm demeanor, but she sensed growing suspense in the tightness of their frowns.
***
With the first boom of the Kojiki Temple bell, Iyedo rushed forward, feinted with the curved blade, then spun the spear so that the straight short blade on the other end stabbed at Matsuo's face.
Matsuo caught the spear haft between his two bokken and wrenched on it, turning his hips to throw Iyedo to the gravel.
A few of the samurai gasped.
Iyedo did not lose his grip. Rising with effort to one knee, he strained his entire body to lever the spear free of Matsuo's crossed swords.
Finally, Matsuo let go of the spear shaft, ducked under the point, and rushed at Iyedo, his bokken whistling.
Iyedo, who had risen quickly to his feet, reversed the spear and, spinning his body, cut at Matsuo's head with the curved blade.
Matsuo dodged to the side, the razor edge of the spear blade missing his face by the breadth of a hand. Then, shouting, he rushed again at Iyedo, who pivoted on his heels, sweeping the blade at Matsuo's legs from the other side.
When Matsuo blocked the blow with a thrust of one of his bokken, Iyedo gave a chilling shout and, spinning the weapon above his head to reverse it, thrust in deeply at Matsuo's body with the short blade.
Osai felt a thrill as she saw the blade stabbing, with serpentine quickness, directly for its mark.
But Matsuo, again crossing his bokken in a whirling movement, caught the spear haft, halting the point of the blade only inches from his flesh.
Then, stepping firmly forward, Matsuo pushed Iyedo backward -- one pace, two, three -- even as Iyedo strained to work his spear free in small, circular movements.
After a few seconds, Matsuo released the spear haft in a flash of movement that seemed to open his body to Iyedo's spear -- but, instead, the young samurai staggered and fell to the gravel, as limp as if the life had left his body.
As Iyedo jumped to his feet, adjusting his grip on the spear to rush at Matsuo again, Matsuo raised both swords over his head and let out a shout that made Osai's shoulders jolt:
KIAI!
Iyedo stumbled and fell, drawing cries of outrage and sorrow from his entourage.
Matsuo tucked the bokken under his arms and bowed low to Iyedo, who rose to his feet shakily to return the bow.
Osai became aware, simultaneously, of the sweat dripping coldly under her kimono and the faint reverberations of the Kojiki Temple bell dying away into the dusk.
Read more of Andrew L.
Wilson's work in TPR:
