Kamikaze, page 8
part #1 of Dungeon Samurai Series
“The metal disc you received is your meal token. You may exchange it for a meal at any mess hall inside the village. Salt is our medium of exchange on this island, and the salt you’ve just received is your salary as new recruits. In the village, you may exchange salt for goods and services… not that there’s much you need to buy in the first place,” he added.
More warnings and lectures followed. Keep an eye on your belongings, don’t get into fights, be on the lookout for shady characters, and other precautions. Yamada listened with half his brain until Chong got to the important part.
“To reach the village from here, simply take a left turn at the gate and follow the road until you get there,” Chong continued. “It may be a short walk, but be careful. Our men have been ambushed coming and going from the village. Keep your weapons close and your head on a swivel. Travel in groups wherever possible. And be back in camp by dusk—after dark, the monsters come out to play.”
Yamada wasn’t sure how much of it was exaggeration. It had been three weeks since his arrival here and he hadn’t seen a single monster aside from Akuma. But he saw the veterans walking the road with a hand on their swords and their eyes on the trees.
No monsters leapt out from the forest. Passing through the gates, Yamada allowed himself to relax.
He wandered the village, studying the people, the architecture, the layout. His initial suspicions were confirmed. This wasn’t a homogenous village; it was three separate villages built by three separate peoples, packed so closely together it became a single town. He wondered why this was so. Perhaps the initial settlers arrived in three separate waves, before banding together for support.
Choo’s brief lecture on salt was woefully inadequate. Everywhere Yamada went, he saw vendors and artisans and storekeepers offering all manner of goods and services. Laundry and sewing, baths and clothing, snacks and tools, haircuts and furniture, everyone seemed to be selling something. But prices were uniformly listed in salt. A hundred grams of salt for a haircut, two hundred for a knife, two hundred fifty for a set of men’s clothing.
Yamada felt like the world had dropped out under his feet. Salt as currency? On an island? Why did the people use salt as a medium of exchange? How did they prevent runaway inflation? Was there nothing else they could use?
Most of all, Yamada noted the absence of goods. There were no toys, no books, nothing more sophisticated than scissors and hand-woven baskets. The villagers’ manufacturing capacity must be sorely limited, and their lives centered on meeting daily needs. He felt like he had stepped back half a millennium into the past. Maybe more.
Once again, he reminded himself that this was not Earth, and the logic of Earth didn’t apply here. He suspected that the only reason the people put up with the current system was because they faced significant resource constraints, and that there was barely enough to go around. And while prices were listed in salt, he witnessed people quietly exchanging foodstuffs and other goods in exchange for items.
He was a stranger to this town, to this world. He had to learn how things worked here. Fast.
The Western section of town was oddly empty. The streets were deserted, and Yamada saw no signs of life from the nearby houses. Wandering down a side road, he heard the pealing of a bell.
He followed the source of the sound, and found a church built upon a hill. It was a humble wooden structure; but for the bell tower and the cross mounted on the roof, it was practically indistinguishable from the other houses nearby.
The bell fell silent, and the door opened. People streamed out. Perhaps that was where everyone had gone. Squinting, he studied the crowd, trying to find a familiar face. Most of the churchgoers were Westerners, sure, but there were also several Asians in the mix. Was Hiroshi there?
An old man noticed him and waved. He was the priest who had stood up to Akuma. Yamada waved back, suddenly conscious of where he was.
He was an outsider looking in. Christianity was alien to him, its rituals and teachings virtually unknown. He knew Hiroshi was a Christian, but he had never asked him about his faith and never attended church with him. Yamada had never seen a reason to.
And yet… A Christian priest had healed everyone after the fights. Including Yamada. Never mind that he wasn’t Christian.
Why?
He didn’t know. He didn’t even know what questions to ask. All he had was a sure and certain knowledge that this world wasn’t what it seemed to be. And he didn’t know if he’d find answers here.
He left.
The Japanese section was more familiar. Laborers hauled sacks of food and pushed wheelbarrows laden with tools. A couple of armed guards patrolled the streets, exchanging greetings with everyone they met. Peeking through windows, Yamada saw women sewing clothing and cooking food, men cleaning weapons and chatting with their friends.
But there were no children.
Why?
There were men. There were women. Some of them walked hand-in-hand and arm-in-arm, and wore plain iron bands on their ring fingers. They’d been here for years. But… no children?
The chiming of a bell broke his train of thought. Almost everyone around him dropped their chores, left their houses, and followed the sound of the bell.
Almost everyone. There was a laborer going the other way, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with radishes.
“Excuse me, what does the bell signal?”
The laborer wiped sweat from his brow. “You one of the newcomers?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. It’s lunchtime. Just follow the crowd to the nearest mess hall.”
The mess hall was exactly like the one in the barracks, just larger. The food was also similar: a bowl of gruel with vegetables and a small fish, a smaller bowl of miso soup topped with seaweed and tofu. The serving lady also offered a mug of beer, but Yamada declined. At nineteen years old, he was still underage—at least, by Japanese standards.
The food was simple and austere. Nothing Yamada had seen suggested that the people had access to more ingredients or were capable of more refined culinary techniques.
Yamada continued wandering the town, noting landmarks and points of interest. The settlement was subdivided into districts, each specializing in different activities. He found a street filled with carpenters and artisans, another with tailors and laborers, a giant cotton factory that occupied an entire block, a warehouse district brimming with soldiers and laborers.
The architectural styles converged here. Where there were three separate aesthetics at the entrance, here he saw commonalities of design. Arched thatched roofs and narrow eaves, sliding doors made of thick paper and wooden frames, squat designs that emphasized length over height. High-security areas boasted tall walls and armed guards. Perhaps these buildings were relatively recent, built after the dwellings and the shops near the front gate, after the builders and laborers had first-hand experience of materials and designs best suited for the local climate.
Chong, Yamada belatedly realized, was right. Yamada didn’t need to buy anything here. He wanted for nothing. Everything he needed he could obtain from the camp. He opted to save his salt for the day he might need it.
At the edge of the village, Yamada discovered a gentle hill. Stone steps led up the slope, feeding into a red-painted torii.
The gate of a shrine.
He glanced at the sky. The sun peeked through gathering clouds, painting the heavens the shade of light amber. It was late afternoon. He could make one more stop, and then he had to go.
He climbed up the stairs. His straw sandals clapped softly against the mossy stone. Approaching the torii, he saw a thick rope tied to the vertical columns. It was a shimenawa, used to mark off a sacred space. White streamers hung from the rope, fluttering in a cool breeze. Pricking his ears, he heard the rustling of dry straw. When he reached the torii, he bowed deeply, stepped to the left side of the path, and passed under the gate.
A hush fell over the world. Gone were the chatter of the village women, the boisterous laughter of off-duty soldiers, the clinking of arms and armor, the trudging of weary feet. In its place was a profound emptiness.
No, not emptiness. Calm. There was… something here. Something radiating calm, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
The stone sando led his eye to the haiden, the hall of worship. The steeply arched roof pointed to the alien skies, framed against a deep green forest. Enormous shimenawa hung above the entrance. By the main entrance, a wooden stand held long rows of ema, votive tablets carrying the wishes of mortals to the kami and the Buddhas.
He felt a strange emanation from the open doors. It was like invisible tidal waves lapping against his body, sinking through his skin and flesh and bones to wash his heart clean.
The harsh whisper of rustling straw drew his ears away. Turning, he saw a young woman sweeping the courtyard with a crude broom, wearing a white haori and red hakama. A red ribbon gathered her black, silky hair into a ponytail that trailed down her back. Two locks of hair framed her almond-shaped face. The last rays of the sun painted her in gold.
Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she looked up.
A gentle breeze blew through the courtyard. Leaves sighed and branches murmured. Pink cherry blossoms danced in the air, rising with the wind for a few glorious moments, before the gravity gently but inevitably claimed them. A single petal landed on her crown.
She looked at him.
His breath caught in his chest.
She bowed. “Konbanwa.” Good evening.
He swallowed. Bowed. “Konbanwa.”
She was the miko he had seen on the first day. He was sure of it.
A thousand thoughts rushed through his brain, crashing into each other in a maelstrom of mutual annihilation, leaving him only with incoherent fragments of ideas. He felt like he should say something, but what? What were the right words for this situation?
She returned to sweeping.
He shrugged. Well, she had a job to do. Briefly, he thought about heading back, but… Well, he was here, she was there, and…
No sense overthinking this.
In a small pavilion off to the side, he found a large stone vessel filled with clear water. Ladles rested in an array surrounding the vessel, tied to a guardrail. Here was the temizuya, the water pavilion, for ritual cleansing.
Taking a ladle, he dipped it into the water, held it over his left hand, and tilted gently. Warm water sluiced his skin. He switched hands and rinsed his right hand. Switching again, he cupped his hand, poured out a small measure of water, and brought it to his mouth. He swished the water about and spat it out. He cleaned his left hand again, then raised the ladle and allowed the remaining water to flow over the handle.
When he returned the ladle, he saw the girl watching him.
They held each other’s gazes, neither saying a word.
Yamada had beaten the black giant against overwhelming odds. He had endured two-man kata training. He had survived many blows to the arms and head. He had traveled to another world.
But he couldn’t summon the right words for this moment.
“Are you here to pray?” she asked.
“Just visiting,” he replied.
“Se ya na? You seem… familiar.”
“You too. Were you among the ones summoned here three weeks ago?”
“Un.” She pursed her lips. “Ah. I remember you now. You were summoned here too, ne?”
“Un.”
Then Yamada’s tongue froze. He had never had much experience talking to girls. Outside of class, anyway. He tried to think, to say something, but all he felt was the rhythmic beating of his heart.
She smiled and bowed slightly. “Hajimemashite.” Nice to meet you. “My name is Katsura Miduki.”
Yamada bowed back. “Hai. Yamada Yuuki desu. Douzo yoroshiku onegaishimasu.” Please take care of me.
“You wear a daisho,” she said, indicating his blades. “Are you a samurai?”
“No. I’m still in training.”
“Training, you say? When are you from?”
“2018.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. “Yokatta.” That’s good. “I’m from 2018 too. Everybody in the jinja comes from earlier eras. You’re one of the first people I’ve met from our time.”
She spoke with odd vowel sounds and unusual consonants, cycling through a wide range of pitches. It was the mark of Kansai-ben, the dialect of the Kansai region. Coming from her lips, it sounded… charming.
“When did the other priests come from?” Yamada asked.
“The person closest to our time is from Showa 20.”
“Showa 20? But that’s… the final year of World War Two.”
“Hai. Akuma took him from his shrine in Nagasaki on the morning of August ninth.”
Yamada bit his lip. “Akuma has a wicked sense of humor.”
“Akuma is a demon, na?”
“Indeed. When are the other priests from?”
“I heard one of them came from Edo during the Meiji Restoration, but many were from the Sengoku jidai. The head priest said he came from the Heian jidai.”
“Heian? That’s a thousand years ago!”
“Hai. It seems Akuma can reach as deep into the past as it wishes.”
Yamada shook his head. What else could Akuma do? What else couldn’t it do?
And if it were so powerful, why did it allow humans to survive here?
“I didn’t expect to see a jinja here,” Yamada said.
“Actually, this place is a jingu-ji. There is a temple, too, next to the main shrine. See?”
She pointed with her thumb at a smaller building next to the haiden.
“That hall is a Buddhist temple,” she said.
“This place practices shinbutsu shugo?” Yamada asked.
The term referred to a syncretism of Shintoism and Buddhism, practiced in Japan between the Asuka to the Meiji periods. Even after the Separation Order of 1868, there was still a degree of overlap in contemporary society.
“Hai. The priests brought the teachings of the Buddha and the kami with them when they were summoned here.”
“I’m surprised you even know the term.”
“I used to work in a chinjusha before I came here. After I arrived, the priests lectured us on the history of this village and the purpose of the shrine.”
A chinjusha was a tutelary shrine, built on the grounds of a Buddhist temple.
“Religion plays an important role in this world, desho?”
She chuckled. “You remember DI Chong’s introduction speech?”
“‘Welcome to Hell’,” he quoted.
“Hai. If this place were Hell, then we need kami-san to save us. If this place isn’t Hell, then we need kami-san to guide us.”
A priest stepped out from the haiden.
“Katsura-san!” he shouted. “It’s almost time for the evening norito!”
“Hai!” she yelled back. Then, turning to Yamada, she said, “Please forgive me, but I must go.”
“Me too.”
She bowed. “Dewa mata na, Yamada-han.” See you again, Yamada.
He began to bow. Then a thought crossed his mind.
“Eeto… If you don’t mind, I’d like to see you again.”
She flashed a smile. “You can find me here most days.”
He smiled back. “Thank you. Dewa mata, Katsura-san.”
Giddy with elation, he passed through the torii, bowed to the shrine, and descended the stone steps. He had her name. He knew where to find her. She was someone close enough to his age that he could speak easily with her. Best of all, he didn’t make a complete idiot out of himself.
All he had to do was endure his training long enough to see her again.
11
Gusoku
After breakfast on the eighth day of advanced training, the soldiers received their armor. They marched to the blacksmiths, accepted a rolled-up bundle of metal plates, and marched back to the parade square, where they separated into their respective blocs.
“This armor is called tatami gusoku, because it can be folded up for easy storage,” Kato said. “Lightweight and flexible, it is the armor we will wear into the dungeon. Treat it well, and it will save your life.”
Yamada inspected his suit of armor. Every component—helmet with attached chainmail hood, armored sleeves and gauntlets, throat protector, breastplate, thigh and groin plates, shin guards—was crafted of chainmail reinforced with rectangular iron plates, sewn to a padded cotton backing. There were even heavy-duty jika-tabi, split-toe boots, made of chainmail. Every link was riveted together for extra strength. True to Kato’s word, the whole ensemble could be folded up into a neat bundle.
Sensei already knew how to dress himself in tatami gusoku. Together with the instructors and other sensei, he showed the bushi how to don and doff the armor. Yamada found himself fiddling with no end of knotted leather thongs. Difficult enough with bare hands, but once he wore the gauntlets, it became an exercise in frustration.
When he was fully clad in iron, he patted himself down. The lacquered armor plates were painted a deep red, covering his chest, forearms, thighs, shins and groin. The suit fit perfectly, as though handmade just for him. Surely it wouldn’t have taken merely a week to build it… unless the blacksmiths had reused the armor from dead soldiers. And, perhaps, used their special skills.
“Be aware of the openings in your armor,” Takahashi said. “The face, armpits, inner wrists and elbows, belly, the inner thighs. Armor does not make you invincible. Just harder to kill.”
Once armored, the true training began. The bushi had to learn how to move in formation. It began with simple walking, not unlike marching, before progressing into combat drills. Taijutsu, sojutsu, kenpo. Kato and Takahashi trailed the bushi with every step, forcing them to stay in their lanes, blocking them from sidestepping.
Formation fighting was so very different from individual combat. With every swing and every thrust, Yamada had to avoid bumping into or striking the man behind or next to him. With every step forward, he had to ensure he stayed on line with the others, lest the enemy seize the opportunity to break the line. He tightened his motions, drew his weapons in, regulated his shuffling.
