Child of Vengeance by David Kirk Read Free Book Online

of spring had ended. Twenty years of prayers was no small amount, and to weave even a single bough correctly took time. There was a precise and holy way of entwining twig with silk and paper, incense that had to be burned while holy phrases were uttered and small bronze chimes struck.
    The monk and his nephew gathered the prayers in their endless caskets, wood from where it was left in daily piles by the pious local woodsmen, and then they set to work in front of the temple weaving until Amaterasu was at her zenith high above and the sweat was dripping off them.
    The temple itself was a small pavilion perhaps ten paces square. Though it was set at the highest point of the village, the carvings and reliefs set upon it, which in other shrines would be delicately worked dioramas painted in gold leaf and expensive purples, were here simple effigies in faded base colors. An image of Amaterasu in her earthly form was highest, of course. She sat above the tarnished brass gong and the worn old knotted rope that was used to strike it, her face a plain oval in peeled white, the beams of light emerging from behind her devoid of any paint entirely.
    She watched over them, steady and serene, as the strain built in every joint of Dorinbo’s and Bennosuke’s bodies, working hunched over like beggars. The goddess offered no sympathy or divine respite when the boy rose, and he thought he heard the bones of his spine unlock one by one.
    “This can’t be good for my back.” He grunted, stretching and swiveling his hips with his fists.
    “I’ve seen peasants who labored under heavy bushels for decades still stand upright,” said Dorinbo. “Come on, just grit your teeth and bear it—two more and we’re done for the day.”
    “You ought to get an apprentice,” said the boy.
    “A young man who helps me with the running of the temple, you mean?” said Dorinbo, and he gave a small laugh. “I think I may already have one.”
    “Me?” said the boy, surprised.
    “Have you considered it?” said Dorinbo, rising to his feet himself. “Well, no,” said Bennosuke. He struggled for something to say. “It’s just …”
    “What?” said Dorinbo, and the monk waited for an answer that he knew would not come. He was earnest; surprisingly so. The boy realized that his uncle must have wanted to say this for some time, and so he suddenly found himself shy of Dorinbo’s gaze.
    “You’re young,” continued the monk when he realized the boy would speak no further. “I know life at a temple must seem boring to you, and I suppose that’s true. There’s little excitement or glory in the divine or in healing, but that does not mean that there is not pride and worthiness.”
    “It’s not that, Uncle. You do good things for people,” said Bennosuke, the words faltering. “I know that.”
    “But?” the monk probed. The boy stood pinned with his eyes looking around the sandaled feet of his uncle.
    “It’s just my father …” he managed. Dorinbo let out a sympathetic sigh, and his voice softened.
    “It’s been eight years since he left, Bennosuke. You’ve worked with me every morning since,” he said. “My brother is where he is, and that is not here. He cannot teach you, nor hold any expectations of you. Your mind is too sharp to waste on swords in any case.”
    “Yes, but …” the boy said lamely. He looked at Dorinbo’s toenails as though he were counting rings on a felled tree, and felt the empty blackness of that helmet looking into him once more.
    “Well, I’ll not force you,” said Dorinbo eventually. “But you’regetting older, Bennosuke. You’ll have to choose the path of your life soon. Warriors are not all in the world. You’d make a fine healer, or a priest, or a scholar. At least promise me you’ll think about it.”
    The boy murmured a sound, neither yes nor no. He dropped into a squat and got back to work, and for a few long moments he could still feel his uncle’s gaze upon his back, until he too