“You may be a strange sight, but any oni-slayer is welcome here.” Kaori’s eyes flickered to the arashitora, back to Yukiko. “My father will want to meet you. Have no fear. There is no evil here but what you bring with you.”
Yukiko bowed again, and she and Buruu allowed themselves to be led further into the forest gloom. She could feel the men and women around her: all fluid motion, drifting soundless through the clawing green while she stumbled along on exhausted, clumsy feet, making a small ruckus in comparison. Though the rain had stopped, the drip and patter of water upon the leaves was a constant off-tempo beat all around them. She could smell moist earth beneath her, and above that, the faint, sugar-sweet perfume of wisteria blooms. Breathing deep, she kept one hand on Buruu, running her fingers through the feathers at the join between shoulder and neck. She could sense him trying not to purr, to stay on edge amidst these strangers and their dark, hooded eyes.
After what seemed like an age, Kaori signaled a stop with a closed fist.
“We are here.”
Glancing about, Yukiko caught sight of a cleverly concealed ladder cut into the bark of one of the ancient maples beside her. Buruu looked up, and even staring through eyes as keen as his, she could barely make out a series of nets, woven through with greenery and strips of cloth; camouflage for the rope walkways linking the canopy high above. She could see the vague silhouettes of houses squatting in the branches of the timeworn trees. Carefully obfuscated by more netting and leaves and great tangles of wisteria, but houses nonetheless; a large village stretching out through the boughs, peopled with countless folk, all staring down with curious, bright eyes. She blinked, scanning the canopy, mouth open in wonder.
SIMPLE PEASANTS, EH?
They are far from that.
WHY DO THEY DWELL HERE IN THE DEEP WILDS? YOUR KIND FEAR SUCH PLACES.
These are not my kind, Buruu.
She placed her hand on the hilt of her knife, trying to keep her face impassive.
These are not my kind at all.
19 Avalanches and Butterflies
His skin was the leather of old boots, brown and weathered, cracking at the edges. Cropped hair, shaved so close to his skull that it seemed a shadow on his skin, old scars crossing his scalp and puckering the flesh above one narrowed eye. An ancient pair of goggles hung about his throat; custom Shigisens that in their day would have cost a small fortune. His irises were the same color as his daughter’s; steelgray, shot through with a thousand splinters of cobalt. He knelt in front of a low table set with a saké bottle and simple cups, salt-and-pepper mustache reaching almost to the ground.
“This is my father,” Kaori had said softly. “Daichi.”
Yukiko blinked, a flickering of remembrance in her mind.
I think . . .
She stared hard, a small frown darkening her brow.
I think I know this man.
They sat in a rectangular room, walls of raw wood, caulked with tar. Daichi’s
house crouched atop one of the larger trees, a shadow among the swaying foliage, nestled between a fork in the branches. One bough reached up through the floorboards and disappeared into the roof, letting in a faint draft and sweet wisteria perfume. Yukiko was reminded of her family’s old hut in the bamboo forest.
She had waited until the others ascended before climbing the ladder. Buruu had climbed beside her, bleeding gouges left in his wake, talons and claws sticky with sap. Unable to fit through the door to Daichi’s dwelling, the arashitora crouched on a branch outside, motionless save for the rhythmic sweep of his tail. His tension was palpable, radiant, eyes glittering like blades. Yukiko could feel his pulse, the rhythm of his breathing. Without even being conscious of it, her own heart and lungs fell into pace with his.
She knelt across from the old man, pressed her forehead to the floorboards. “Daichisama.”
“Yukiko-chan.” The old man nodded, covered his fist with his palm. “Friend
to arashitora. You honor this humble house with your presence.” Kaori and the rest of her group knelt in a semi-circle around Daichi, respectfully silent. Yukiko glanced around her: rough furniture, fire pit in the center of the room, crude metal chimney stabbing up through the ceiling. Three closed doors, leading off into different rooms. An old-fashioned katana lay sheathed in a groove on the wall at Daichi’s back, its scabbard exquisitely crafted: black lacquer, golden cranes on the wing. There was another groove beneath it, and Yukiko had no doubt that Kaori’s wakizashi had once sat there, part of the same daishō pair. Only the noble-born were permitted to carry the daishō, the proud symbol of their status among the samurai caste.
He must be ronin.
WHAT IS RONIN?
An ex-samurai. A noble-born warrior without a Lord.
WHY DOES LORD MATTER?
All samurai follow the Code of Bushido. It’s like a religion and a philosophy