Child of Vengeance by David Kirk Read Free Book Online Page B

Bennosuke also.
    He gazed down into the landward valley of the village—the abandoned valley. At the bottom, amid the wild growth of eight years, a cluster of burned stumps and foundations were huddled. A vague outline of what had once been a village could be made out, charred angles and order within the mass of green. It was a view well known to the boy.
    This was where his mother had died.
    Yoshiko.
    Bennosuke barely remembered her. She was a soothing voice in the night, a warm hand that enveloped his and nothing more, no face or tangible memory he could recall. What he knew of her was mostly what Dorinbo had told him: that though she had been born a samurai and was married to one in Munisai, she had a kind heart that drew her to healing. Dorinbo had taught her, and in turn she had tended to the peasants of the village. She set their bones, rubbed salve upon their sores, and sometimes delivered babies.
    She had been called to do such a thing one night down in the valley before him, back when it had life there.
    An earthquake had come.
    A roof had fallen in.
    A lantern had tipped over.
    And that was it—after that she was gone. Bennosuke had been staying with Dorinbo that night, and he had been sleeping so deeply that he had not even felt the shaking of the earth. What had woken him was distant screaming, and bleary-eyed he had wandered out into the night. Dorinbo was up and out in the grounds already, tying a sack of his medical tools around himself, the sky above him tangerine.
    “Go back to bed, Bennosuke,” he had said, his voice unusually hard. “It’s dangerous.”
    The boy had obeyed, and while he had lain in a dark room his mother had burned to death. He wished he could have known her. She must have been a wonderful woman—this he knew, for his father so loved her that when he learned of her fate in the morning he was overcome with grief and had left the village, so haunting was it to remember the places they had been together.
    The child Bennosuke had not dared to even look at the ruins for years afterward, but eventually he had summoned the courage. Now he found himself returning more and more often. It was a quiet place, away from the disgusted glares of the peasants. He could escape the shame here, and think. He never once went down, only looked, as he did now, clenching and unclenching his fists.
    He somehow wanted the ghost of his mother to appear, as stupid as he knew that was, and to tell him what to say to Dorinbo. Bennosuke had gone to the temple every morning for as long as he could remember, whether to help with healing or with worship or for Dorinbo to teach him to read or to count or any number of things. But he had never once considered that this was what his future might hold. He had gone to the temple simply because he knew nothing else.
    His uncle had obviously been thinking otherwise. How could Bennosuke deny the monk without hurting him? He knew his uncle was good enough and kind enough that he would surely take a renouncement of the offer as a renouncement of himself. What were the words, the shining explanation? The boy needed to know.
    But the ruins were just ruins, the mortal and the spirit world separate as always. There was no answer here, no matter how long he stared.
    He left eventually, still torn, still alone. It was time for training.
    THE TIME IN the dojo, at least, Bennosuke relished. Every afternoon he came to train in the hall, grueling though it was, for here he could ignore the worries that nagged at him. There was nothing that could not be solved by the strike of a sword, and that was pleasing in the baseness of it.
    Hours passed like moments, his concentration perfect as he took in martial form and pattern. Again and again he would repeat the same maneuvers, seeking to make the strange balance and unnatural movements fluid, preparing muscles that would not develop properly until adulthood. When he sparred, the boy would lose himself to the fight, putting the full body of