The Third Priest’s Tale
The last rays of light from the sun were warm on his skin. He ran through the clump of cherry blossom trees in the garden. Loose petals danced in the breeze. They always avoided his grasp and his wooden toy sword. And they taunted him. They landed on his nose and he fought the urge to giggle. They tickled him. But his father never laughed. And samurai were not supposed to laugh either.
"Time to come in!"
Her soft-spoken words floated in the wind from the house. They competed with the sounds of shutters banging, leaves rustling, and a dog barking in the distance.
Yoshiro ran from the trees to the house the moment he heard her voice. His mother stood on the edge of the porch. The multi-colored sleeves of her garment fluttered in the gust.
A faint smile danced on her lips. There was sadness in her eyes, The first few days her husband returned from the war, she was a bundle of conflicting emotions. She was glad that he was home. But he had bandages covering his eyes. His skin was burned and scarred. The doctors told her that he might not see again. She wanted to set an example for her son, but it was difficult for her to maintain it.
She hugged him when he was close enough. The folds of her kimono were warm, and as she pulled him closer, he inhaled her perfume. It reminded him of wildflowers in the summertime. Her fingers were bony, as they worked through his hair. He closed his eyes and drank it in. He tried to break the embrace, but she tickled him.
He giggled
"Where were you going, my little samurai?"
"Mother!"
He couldn't hide the smile on his face from her. She mimicked it, but it faded too soon.
She put her hand up and stopped him from going inside the house.
"Wait until the doctor leaves."
He nodded. They stood on the porch and waited. They heard the doctor's bottles jingle first. Then the plump old man in yellow robes shuffled out of the house. He carried a container with vials and odd-looking liquids that chimed when he walked. He panted like a dog when he reached them. He sat his box down so he could dab at his sweaty forehead.
"Healer!"
"Young master Yoshiro."
Asuya was always happy to see him. At first, he wasn't sure why the old physician came every week, so he decided to be blunt and ask him. The old man stated that he was following Lord Uesugi's commands: to check in on their family and tend to the samurai's wounds.
"Started training?"
"Not yet."
The doctor sucked air through his teeth.
"Why?"
"Uesugi told me I was too small, but we would talk after my birthday next year."
The old man nodded and scratched his chin.
"Did the procedures go well?" Yoshiro's mother asked.
The old man's face faded into a scowl.
"Most of the injuries healed---everything except for his eyes. They continue to trouble me. No matter what I tried, they were not healing. But don't despair. I reached out to an old classmate. He agreed to meet with me to discuss alternate treatments."
His mother held the physician's hands, and she stared into his eyes. But tears flowed down her face.
"Don't cry, Lady Kodai. Isamu was the strongest warrior I know. His body just needs time to heal."
She lowered her head and stepped away from Asuya.
The man bowed to both of them and picked up his box of medication. He walked through the gate to a nearby blue wooden kago, The porters helped him stow the supplies and help him climb in. Once everything was secure, they lifted it and trotted down the road. That impressed the boy, and he watched them disappear around a corner.
"Be quiet when you go inside, son. This was your father's first chance to sleep, thanks to the doctor's medicine."
Yoshiro pulled off his sandals and nodded. He put them next to his mother's shoes and admired how small they were.
"Coming, mother?"
"Not yet. Give me a little time."
She turned away.
The wood and paper adons illuminated the hallways. The wooden lanterns only provided enough light to make sure that he didn't bump into anything. He held his breath as he passed his parent's bedroom. He didn't want to wake up his father. The man suffered last night. He would moan or scream, tormented by some nightmare that lasted until dawn.
The only sound his father made now was gentle snoring.
He remembered the day Uesugi sent a samurai to visit. He was older, and he limped when he moved. His mother told Yoshiro to play outside, so she could talk to the messenger in private.
Later that evening, she talked to him about her conversation with the old warrior. His father was alive, but injured. The daimyo promised to take care of them, regardless of the cost, and he always thought of them as his extended family.
He wanted to read the letters, but his mother managed to hide them well, and he never found them.
He followed the hallway and it led him into a small room with a wooden lantern in the center of the room. It provided only enough light to see his father's swords and armor, where he spent hours kneeling in silence.
The katana and wakizashi were sheathed, and placed in a rack. Father once told him that they were old, and passed down from one generation to the next. They would finally pass to him when he proved he was responsible.
After his father came home, they sat for months, collecting cobwebs and dust, until his mother cleaned them.
But when nobody was looking, he would pull them out of their sheath and hold them. He wasn't strong enough to wield both of them simultaneously. Although he could wield the katana, the smaller sword was more manageable for him.
He would imagine that he was a man like his father. A true samurai. He was the daimyo in charge of several provinces. Even Lord Uesugi praised him. He was one of the greatest warriors of all Japan. Even if it was a waking dream, he was proud. But he understood he shouldn't play with his father's things, and put everything back exactly the way he found it. After all, his father may be blind, but knew when something was out of place.
The armor was a different thing altogether. It was too heavy to take off the stand it rested on. He never touched the helmet, no matter how much he wanted to. It was scorched and burned. But he did run his hand down the suit's curves and carved surfaces. Sometimes he would sniff his fingers, amazed that they reeked of burnt oil.
But something made him examine the suit closer. Something wasn't right to him. Something was tucked away in the skirt that he never noticed before. It was a wooden cylinder. He tugged at it as hard as he could, but it would not budge. So he pounded on the armor until it fell out.
He thought it was a broken fan or a rod of some kind. It was round and hollow, with several holes on one side. It whistled when he swung it. The sound changed when he changed his grip. The sound was more elaborate. It was almost chord-like in its tone. It was a flute.
He never took his eyes off it. He couldn't put it down. And he didn't hear the footsteps behind him. His father grabbed him by the wrist, and the object of his attention fell from his numb hand.
"This was not a toy for your amusement, son."
His heart hammered in his chest. But he didn't want the man to know how much he scared him. Somehow, Yoshiro calmed down and controlled his breathing, and forced his hands to stop shaking.
His mother gasped.
"What were you doing, my son? Say something."
That broke Isamu's concentration. He let his son go.
The boy rubbed his numb fingers to restore circulation to his hand.
"Can you play, father?"
Father grunted and held the ornate musical instrument in his hands.
"Where did you get it, Isamu?"
His father tightened his grip on it, and Yoshiro was sure it would explode any minute. But it didn't.
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They ate dinner in silence. Their shadows were reflected in the warm glow of the lanterns. The flute rested on the floor next to his father. Mother sat to the right of her husband. Her food was untouched as she helped him eat.
He risked a few sideways glances at his parents, then concentrated on the rice and fish in his bowl.
Once dinner was over, his mother took the dishes away, which included her uneaten food. He wanted to help his mother, but his father cleared his throat and padded the floor next to him.
"Let your mother clean up. We need to talk about a few things."
"Father, please accept my apology...."
Isamu quieted his son with a single gesture.
"This was not the first time playing with my armor or swords."
His eyes almost popped out of his skull.
"But this was the first time you found it."
"Hai, father. But where did it come from?"
Isamu scratched his beard.
"Can you play it?"
He swallowed hard.
"No, father."
His father held it out to him.
"Take it."
The boy refused to take it. He was sure he didn't want to touch it ever again. It wasn't the same. Something changed.
Isamu pulled out a letter and a bag from his kimono and put them on the floor. The bag jingled when his father touched it, and he was sure it was full of coins. He held the folded letter out for Yoshiro and hesitantly took it from him.
"Take it, son. This document was a contract with Kenji. He agreed to take you on as an apprentice and teach you how to play the flute."
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Yoshiro didn't know what to expect. Kenji's skills as a musician and poet were known throughout Japan. He remembered the man's performance at Uesugi's last birthday party. To learn from such a man was a fantastic honor.
"Father, what about my desire to become a samurai? Uesugi told me he would start my training next year."
"Becoming a samurai was important to you. But having you learn to play was more important to me."
"Just how long was this apprenticeship, father?"
"Until Kenji was certain you mastered it."
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Nighttime moved slowly. All he did was alternate between rolling around and waking up at odd hours. His father never made a sound all night long.
Just before dawn, his mother woke him up for breakfast. She made several of his favorite dishes. It was hard for him to choose what he wanted to eat, but since he had no appetite, it was harder for him to eat. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her feelings by not eating. So he went through the motions and wondered when he would see her again.
"Did father tell you anything about my apprenticeship?"
She smiled at him.
"Hai. Kenji was an amazing teacher, poet, and musician. You have much to learn from him."
He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but a knock on the door interrupted him before he could say it. She dashed to the door. And when she appeared, she came back with an elderly man. He was bent over, supported mostly by a. walking stick.
"Yoshiro. My young apprentice."
The old man bowed, and he got up and returned the bow.
"Master Kenji. This was a great honor that was provided to me by making me your apprentice."
Kenjji dropped his stick and moved like a man twenty years younger than he appeared. He grabbed a plate and filled it with food, smacking his lips as he nibbled.
"This was good, Lady Kodai. You were always one of the better cooks in the province. Skill and love were the two ingredients that were abundant in your cooking. But where is your husband?"
"He was resting."
Kenji nodded.
Once everybody had their fill of food, Yoshiro packed and followed the old man to the porch.
"Goodbye, my son."
Yoshiro gazed into his mother's eyes. He wondered if this was the last time he would see her. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her robes. He wanted to say something, but he choked on the words. He hugged her. And he never wanted to let her go. But his path was in front of him, and he had to go.
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Months flowed like water drops in the rain. When he left his parents, he was still a boy. He played with toys. But now he was grown. When he caught his reflection in the river, the boy was gone. Only a young man looked back at him.
Although he missed his parents, Kenji was more than just a teacher. Yoshiro thought of him as an uncle that he never had before.
Routines filled in most of his days. He was required to do chores in addition to his music lessons. Chopping wood, bringing in water, making fires, and cooking and cleaning covered half of the skills that were required in his apprenticeship. But once the chores were done, they would hike and Kenji taught him how to play in the clearing in the woods. They would stay until it was almost dusk, and it was time to prepare the next meal.
The odd thing about his apprenticeship was Kenji never touched the flute. He even asked the old man if he could identify several of the markings on it, but he would never take it. He wondered if the old musician knew something about the thing he wasn't telling him. But no matter how much he pressed him, the man wouldn't say a word. Whatever qualities it had, remained a mystery. Kenji would just change the subject if Yoshiro pushed.
He was impressed at how he had grown as a musician. For the first few weeks, he was sure the old man was about to throw him into the wilderness. His notes were not strong, and the pitch would falter. Kenji only took him along to other provinces to carry things and sat in the background.
Occasionally he played accompaniment with a few notes in a few songs. But as he grew, he was given solos and eventually played entire songs by himself. Others praised him and called him a talented musician. This made him happy. He took joy and pride in his work.
But he was sad when he thought about his parents and how far away from them he was.
After a long, hard winter, the weather cleared up. The paths and roads that led to Kenji's home in the mountains were open. He caught his apprentice making breakfast and slapped him on the back.
"My young apprentice. Do you know how much pride and joy I have for you? You've done well and you've learned so much that I have nothing left to teach you. Go find your place in this world."
He wept and hugged the old man, who reluctantly hugged him back. They danced around the kitchen and laughed.
"Thank you for everything. This was an amazing honor for me to be here learning from you."
The old man waved him off.
"What now?"
"My parents were on my mind for the last months. I need to see them"
"That was the distraction you were working through. That makes sense. But what was your dream? Becoming a samurai?"
"That was the best way to honor my family and my father. He was an extraordinary samurai."
Kenji nodded.
For the rest of the day, they sat around a campfire. Kenji played his koto. The man's fingers were a blur as he plucked a melody. His treble voice echoed the somber nature of the melody. And his former apprentice followed along by playing the flute. While the stars serenely listened and sparkled in the evening sky above them.
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The trip home seemed longer. He was gone for two years, but it felt like it was at least five years. Sadness faded from him when he saw a landmark that he remembered. His mind told him that he was close.
When he saw the house, his heart sank. It was not maintained. He saw several things that needed to be fixed or replaced from where he stood. And he was still far away from it.
"Yoshiro!"
Mother called and waved to him from the porch. Any traces of black in her hair were gone. It was completely white now. She moved slower. And when she hugged him, the grip was not as tight.
"How have you been? How was father doing? Has his eyesight returned?"
She shook her head.
"No. When the doctor let him know that his blindness was permanent, he became depressed. Except for meals, he spends most of his time sleeping."
His father was resting against the pillows in his bed. His hair was long and white, just like his mother's hair. Father's beard was long.
Most of the scars and burns on his face and arms had healed, but his eyes were still covered in bandages.
"Son, is that you?" his father said with a raspy voice.
He helped his father adjust and propped him up on pillows. The man was frail and thin.
"The doctor reported on your apprenticeship. Some of his patients commented on where they saw you perform, and how well you played."
He smiled when his father said that.
"Kenji was an exceptional teacher, and he taught me more than I thought I would learn in two years."
His father nodded and grunted in agreement.
"Would you play for me, son?"
The smile faded.
"Now?"
"Hai, my son. Now."
He pulled the flute out of his backpack. His lips felt dry and he licked them several times before he put it next to his mouth. But what should he play? What kind of song would break his father's melancholy?
"Do you have any requests, father?"
"The first song that comes to you. That is the song I want."
Kenji's vast catalog of songs passed through his head. It was an impressive catalog, but none of the songs seemed to fit the moment. He exhaled and cleared his mind. One song stood out more than the others. It had grace, warmth, and sadness to it. He started out softly but grew bolder as he played. The world around him disappeared. Music filled the void around them.
He was aware of his mother in the hallway, listening to him play. And when the song was over, she was proud of him. But she also had a look on her face, like she remembered a distant memory. Something that happened a long time ago.
"That was beautiful. You learned a lot from Kenji."
He bowed to his mother.
But his father was shocked. Tears streamed from the bandages.
"Father?"
"Atsumori..."
Yoshiro didn't understand. He looked at his mother and judging by her expression, she didn't know either.
"That was the name of the song. But you played it the same way that I remembered hearing it years ago."
"What does that mean?"
His father reached out. Yoshiro took his hand and held it.
"It's time to tell you where the flute came from."
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Isamu stood near the smoldering remains of a house. He couldn't remember if they burned it or if the enemy did. He kicked the smoldering embers with his shoe and grunted in disgust. This was somebody's house, not that it mattered anymore. But he hoped the family got out before it was burned.
Somewhere in the dark, the enemy had a camp beyond the treeline. They laughed, yelled insults, and taunted them for most of the night. Sometimes his friends would yell and taunt them back, but not often. The general put an immediate stop to it because he knew that it would give away their position to the enemy. Sentries were put in place to watch them, while the troops rested and regained their strength.
He was tired from the constant fighting. Little quarter was given because both sides were exhausted. They had little or no time to eat or rest. The two armies spent the last seven days probing each other's lines, looking for weaknesses, or they tried to lead the enemy into an ambush. But the armies were locked into a stalemate. They were too evenly matched. He knew that all it would take would be one army to make a mistake, and they would lose the fight.
The watch felt like it was days long. He barely kept his eyes open. His arms were heavy. He wanted to sleep and dream about his family, but he had to remain vigilant. But one of the times he almost drifted off, he swore he smelled Kodai's perfume. A rich, intoxicating smell that brought a smile to his face. He would be with her in a few hours when his shift was over. She would be with him in his dreams.
The others were having a hard time too. Some marched back and forth on the ground they guarded. Others yelled at the enemy camp. A few soldiers sat or leaned on whatever they found and waited.
His eyes almost shut again, but opened immediately. Reflexes took over. He crouched and almost drew his katana. He heard something. Somebody played a song on a flute in the distance. The music was so faint he nearly missed it, and the melody made him ache to be back home with is family. He held his breath and listened to it as long as he could. Then it was gone, leaving behind the crackle and pop of a nearby fire, and the wind banging wooden doors in the village.
A soldier ran up to him, grabbed his arm, and shook him. He had a crazy expression on his face.
"Isamu! Wake up!"
"What? Did you hear the music?" he groggily asked.
"What? Nobody's playing music. I was here to relieve you. You need some sleep.
He nodded and walked three steps before the alarm sounded. Soldiers screamed orders and scurried to different positions in the camp. He pulled his weapon and waited with a group of ten men. The enemy yelled, drew weapons, and ran toward their position.
"Stand your ground! Fight!" somebody yelled.
Waves of grey samurai poured around the remains of the house. They yelled and charged as they slammed into brown armored soldiers. Everything turned red as he yelled and moved in on his attackers. They played games and taunted each other before they closed. But he moved faster than they did and killed three of them.
Two of the enemy soldiers turned and ran, leaving one samurai by himself. The man was very young. Isamu was impressed by how he handled himself. He never took his eyes off him. He never lowered his sword. And he moved gracefully as they circled.
Startled, the man jumped at the sound of Isamu's voice.
"You remind me of my son, soldier. Does your father know you ran off to fight in a war?"
"What does it matter to you? You and your brown armored friends have oppressed my providence long enough."
Isamu laughed and took a couple of quick steps forward. The other man deftly backed away and maintained the distance between them.
"Do you fight as well as you dance, boy?"
He yelled and charged, and swung his sword wildly at his opponent, filling the clearing with the sound of sword striking sword. Each time he swung his sword, the enemy parried it with ease.
But something fell out of his opponent's armor. It whistled as it fell and clattered on a rock. At first, he didn't know what it was, but Isamu realized it was a flute. His eyes grew wide.
"Did you play earlier tonight? Was that you?"
The boy scurried over and tucked the flute under his belt.
"Hai! I can also play a song for your funeral later."
Isamu laughed.
"It was a beautiful song, and you played it well. What was the name of the song?"
"Atsumori. A song that I grew up with in my village. The musicians taught it to me, which pleased my grandfather. That was his favorite song."
"An artisan's life is one better suited for you than fighting. This is not your path."
"But I made a vow with my master to protect this land, just like you did."
"What is your name, boy?"
"Ichiro. What is your name?"
"Isamu."
The boy almost dropped his sword.
"The lord Isamu? Your reputation proceeds you. It is an honor to meet you on the battlefield."
They bowed.
"Leave this place. Seek a full life elsewhere."
Ichiro shook his head.
"That would be too much dishonor and shame for me to live with."
Isamu ran in and cut the man's sleeve of his armor. Blood tricked from the wound, and the boy yelped in pain.
"Why did you do that?"
"Tell your friends that you were outmatched by me and only escaped with your life."
Ichiro stanched the blood flow by grabbing the wound with his hand. But he was not running away.
Isamu growled, sheathed his sword, and pointed to the nearby woods.
"No father should outlive his son. Go!"
Ichiro acted like a timid deer. He was hesitant, but once he understood, he bowed sincerely. But he only made it five steps before some of Isamu's comrades ran in. They blocked off his escape, drew their swords, and closed in on the young boy.
"Death to the enemy!" one samurai yelled.
"Kill the grey scum!" another one yelled.
As soon as one of them closed in to kill Ichiro, Isamu stepped in and parried his sword.
"No! He is mine!"
The samurai backed off and joined the others at the burning house.
Their eyes locked, but his eyes were full of tears. He blinked, drew his weapon, and struck.
When he opened his eyes, the other samurai were gone. They lost interest in the enemy once he was killed.
He knelt beside the lifeless body of Ichiro. His sword fell out of his right hand when he fell. Isamu pulled the prayer beads his wife gave him out from under his armor, and placed them in the boy's open hand. He offered a prayer and hoped it would guide Ichiro to the next world beyond this.
But the boy had the flute in a death grip in his left hand. Isamu reached out, and when their hands touched, the grip was broken. The flute rolled around in his open hand. The flute called out to him and demanded he take it with him. He swore he would take it back to Ichiro's family someday.
"May you find safe passage into the next life."
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And by some miracle, they were safe. Somehow they found shelter in a cave, high up in a mountain pass. The blizzard snarled outside and covered everything in white.
There were three of them. Three priests from three different shrines pulled together and gathered up wood for a fire. They took care of their horses and ate while the storm raged outside.
One priest suggested they pass the time by telling stories. Yoshiro listened to their stories. But became uneasy when it was his turn to tell his story.
When he told his story, everyone was silent. Only the howling wind and the snap and crackle of the fire remained. His cheeks were wet, and he dabbed at them with his sleeve. He realized that it had been years since he spoke about the flute.
Yoshita, a chubby priest, did not hide his tears and let them stream down his face.
"Do you have it?"
He nodded, then pulled a bundle out of his pack, and unwrapped it. Light from the fire danced on the flute.
Takashi, an older priest blew his nose on a piece of cloth. He reached out and almost touched the musical instrument, but hesitated and withdrew his hand.
"Do you play anymore?" he asked.
"No."
"Why?" Yoshita asked
"After that day, I never understood if the music came from me, or the flute."