Man of the Leaves

Sanjo blinked up at the open sky above him, surprised to find himself alive.

Not that it was a great comfort. He could smell nothing but his own blood, for his nose had been broken, and his right eye was swollen badly, so much that he could hardly open it. His head ached. He let out a pained wheeze as he instinctively tried to rise, only for a wave of dizziness to send him sprawling back to the earthen soil that he found himself sprawled awkwardly upon. At least he could move his limbs. They had not broken those.

Damn them. If he had just heard that one circling around behind him, he would have killed all of them, but his ears failed him. He would have to work on this, he knew, in some core part of him that was already working on rectifying the mistake. He had been too focused on his target. They had dashed him in the back of his helmetless head - he noted to himself that he would wear one from now on - twice, with something blunt and hard, and everything had become a gray, star-strewn haze as he had fallen from the saddle. Impressively bold, for bandits. They struck quickly and without hesitation. He had underestimated them.

He felt at his waist, only to find his sword gone, and the dō cuirass that he had worn missing. So was his coinpurse. They had been nice enough to leave him the clothes upon his back, at least, along with the splitting headache. He did not bother to look about for his horse.

After a few minutes, when it no longer felt like his head was going to explode, he shakily got to his feet and staggered onwards in the direction he had been traveling, seeing little sense in doing anything else. He had taken a shortcut off the road and through the forest he now found himself in. It would take him days to reach his destination now, and that was if he could retain his bearings after he had taken such a blow. Still, he did not regret the decision, merely his loss, and he wasted little time ruing it. He simply staggered onwards, bloody and half-blind, hardly aware of the cool mist that seemed to pervade the trees. It was early autumn, and many of them were losing their leaves already, coating the grass in red, much like the blood soaked into his clothing and dripping from his nose. More leaves would be upon the ground come nightfall. Perhaps he could build some replacement armor out of them, he thought wryly. And a sword too! That would terrify them. Kiai! I am Koyo-sama, man of the leaves! He chuckled aloud.

He found a stream before nightfall, and washed his stinging wounds, the dried blood becoming wet again and vanishing into the leaf-strewn water, tendrils of dissolved blood coiling around the red leaves. Sanjo pondered writing a poem about the visual, far from his writing kit as he was. He would have to hold onto it. He needed something to remind him of this defeat so he should not grow too complacent.

He thought himself quite alone and far from others, and so took his time cleaning himself off. He was surprised, then, when he looked up and saw the peasant girl, standing there and staring at the soaked, bloodied, bruised man standing in the stream, an expression of shock upon her face. Black haired and only slightly cleaner than he was, he had to admit her green eyes were quite striking. He put his hands up as if to soothe a panicked horse, and took a step back, trying not to trip on the smooth rocks upon the bottom of the stream. She looked as though she was ready to bolt at any second. "I'm not a bandit." He spoke, very carefully, letting as much of his distinct Kyoto accent slip through as possible. "I am samurai, hai? I am traveling to Kozagawa from the capital, and I am lost."

She swallowed, once, twice, and then three times, and, to Sanjo's bafflement, quiet tears began to stream down her face. Her expression wavered between relief, disbelief and hopelessness a thousand times each instant. She was ready to break. Sanjo stepped out of the stream, and to his surprise, she did bolt, but not in the manner he was expecting. She beckoned to him over her shoulder and then began to run, as fast as her bare feet could carry her. Sanjo followed, stumbling, barely able to keep up in his injured state. His feet had trouble balancing, but he managed, and even though she pulled ahead, ignoring his cries to wait, she remained in sight.

Finally they stumbled out of the tree line together, and Sanjo came to a halt. He found himself staring at a collection of wooden buildings, clustered into an arrangement just beneath a mild dip in the terrain. Houses dotted next to the treeline, clearly the homes of lumberers, for he could see piled logs behind them and stumps in areas that were being cut. Was this Kozagawa? He had thought he had been at least three days away on foot, but he must have ridden far closer than he thought. He could think of no other lumbering villages in the area.

The peasant girl kept running. "Father! I have found a samurai! Kannon has answered us!" She kept shrieking this last part, as if she almost could not believe it, as if it was some mantra keeping the darkness away. "Kannon's answered us! Kannon's answered us!" even as she tore away down towards the rest of the village in a mad frenzy.

Sanjo looked out upon the village, and finally his aching eyes captured the sight of the three charred husks nearest the road that had used to be large houses. Next to them were a dozen raised mounds topped with stones, memorials to those who had died within. He took a deep breath, sighed heavily, and rolled his shoulders. He had the terrible feeling that he would not have much of a chance to rest.

--

"... and, my lord, that is the situation." The elder of the village, a man named Iseya, who had a hunchback and had long ago lost all of his hair, explained. It was much later, and Sanjo found himself kneeling upon the floor of the elder's rather spartan hut, busily eating a bowl full of warm rice that he had been most grateful to receive. "They take everything we produce for themselves, and when we refused to the first time, they burned our homes and killed three entire families. We could not say no. They torment us, riding into town in the middle of the night. They've already taken three young women, and we never saw one of them again. You must help us, sir, please. We will give you anything."

He at least had the decency not to grovel before him, Sanjo mused. "Alright." He shrugged, and ate.

The elder, his son, and the few others in the community that had authority, gathered around in the small hut, looking at each other incredulously. "If you wish payment, sir, I can offer myself as a servant or even a wife-" One of the women, doubtless from the elder's family, began.

"I said yes already." Sanjo answered calmly, peering at her over the lip of the bowl. He shifted his gaze to the elder. "I will need every able bodied man you can give me, every axe you have, and every wooden spear we can make. Arrange it. I must see to my wounds."

The villagers bowed deeply, and in unison, left Sanjo alone, bursting into animated, hopeful chatter amongst themselves only once they had left. He paid them no mind. This bowl of rice was the best he had ever tasted.

--

"No!" Sanjo yelled, storming over to a man who had stumbled. "You look at THEM, not at me!" He pointed animatedly at the other small block of spearmen. He had arranged them into rows two-deep and had them advancing toward each other, spears low, training them in how to keep formation. "They're the ones you are facing! What if they try to break out and you are the weak one, hm?! Back up!"

The two blocks of spearmen awkwardly about-faced and marched back to their staring lines, denoted by a line furrowed in the dirt, and then faced each other once more, lowering their spears. "Advance!" Sanjo yelled, and they began to walk toward one another at a brisk pace, not raising their spears. They came closer, and closer, and closer, and Sanjo was pleased to note that they were looking at each other now, and not to him for the next command.

They began to look nervous as they came close to one another. The fire-hardened points of their wooden spears, made hastily and still full of splinters along the handle, came ever closer to each rank of men until they had almost touched flesh. They slowed down, inching forward, but Sanjo smiled as they did not stop. Relief drifted across their faces when he yelled "Stop!", a hair's breadth from disemboweling each other. "Good." He walked over, practically purring like a cat and looking about as pleased as one. "You have it now. Do not shy from the enemy. You must be a wall of sharpness ready to stick to them. Even if any of you fall, there must be more sticks to spear them. You must be impenetrable! Back up!"

They did it again.

--

It was of no real surprise to Sanjo when the bandits came in the middle of a training session. He hadn't been so foolish as to think they would come when he pleased. The sentry came down from the top of the hill yelling that the bandits were coming, and Sanjo yelled to take positions, and he smiled once again when he saw that they had not forgotten what he had taught them. As orderly groups with individual chaos, they scrambled their way into the houses.

Soon the village looked as if it were populated only by ghosts. Ghosts, of course, and Sanjo himself. He looked around, nodded at the empty village, and walked leisurely up to one of the larger houses, leaning his back nonchalantly against it, his arms crossed. Behind him he could hear shuffling that quickly died down, as all of the men - his men, he thought ruefully, his own little army - knelt down and prepared for the ambush.

The hoofbeats came and grew louder. There were ten of them, all astride horses. The leader was at the front, holding Sanjo's sword and wearing his armor. Sanjo was only mildly surprised. The other four that had jumped him were all there, too, wicked clubs and tetsubos in their hands. Their horses whirled about confusedly as they too shifted their weight in the saddles, looking about. "Where is everyone?" One of them asked.

"You!" Called the leader, who had never taken his eyes off Sanjo. His dark brown eyes, the color of tree bark, looked as if they would be set aflame. "I would have thought you had the sense not to keep going, samurai-dog! Where did you tell them to run?"

"Oh, nowhere." Sanjo answered disinterestedly.

The leader got off of his horse and stormed toward Sanjo, the oversized dō hanging off him awkwardly, and yet the samurai armor seemed to fill him with some innate sense of superiority over it's former owner. "You're going to tell me, old man, or I'm going to-"

"Advance!" Sanjo yelled, his voice cracking. The sheer sound of it cracked off the hills.

The bandits were startled, but they were even more startled when they were surrounded by a ring of spears, flowing from every household and home. Two of them tried to make a break for the edges of the village, spurring their horses on to smash through the crowd before they were trapped. It was wise, of course, for them to try to use their mobility. No doubt they had done so before in other village raids when the villagers had tried to fight.

None of those villagers had been trained by a former Gensui. They ran onto the spears and died along with their horses, their own momentum driving the cruel sticks into horse and rider.

The other seven who were still mounted turned from left to right, seeking an escape, their mounts frightened, but there was none. The ring shrank rapidly as the peasants converged on them, spears in every direction.

The leader knew he had lost. Sanjo saw it in his eyes. He also knew who the leader blamed. Sanjo's own sword was turned on it's former wielder, slicing at his midsection, and it was met by the haft of a spear of Sanjo's own. Made for him by the finest of the woodworkers in the village, it was still a frail thing. The blade bit into it, but it did not shatter.

Sanjo ran into the attack, shoving bodily at his opponent, but when he failed to gain leverage, one of his feet darted forwards to yank the leader's leading foot out from underneath him. Unbalanced, the bandit-lord toppled as he tried to swing again, the sword cutting through nothing but air. He did not get a chance to get up. Sanjo stabbed him in the neck, and felt the wooden spearpoint slide deep, snapping off inside him

Sanjo looked up, no longer concerned with the leader dying at his feet. The bandits had been hemmed in, and were calling out for mercy, that they surrendered, throwing down their weapons. The spears were a hair's breadth from the horses. Sanjo looked at the peasants' faces. Vengeance was in their eyes. Here were the men that had tormented them so long at their mercy. He knew many would want them dead.

"Stop!" He shouted. Everyone did.

Everything was quiet. The bandits looked at him, fear in their eyes, knowing that their fate was in his hands. Nonchalantly, the samurai picked up his sword. "Back up a bit." This was not a shouted command, but simply a request. Nonetheless, the peasants complied, making room for him.

He stood in front of the bandits' horses, unarmored. They could kill him right here if they had anything hidden up their coatsleeves. None of them did. That would seal their fate.

Sanjo grinned, nonchalantly raising his sword, one-handed, to his shoulder. "Get off your horses."

--

The smell of roasting horse lingered even in the elder's own home from the fire outside. The village would eat well tonight, Sanjo mused, as he sat upon the floor, pondering how to report this. It had been quite a week. Perhaps he would not bother. There were seven unhorsed, unarmed bandits running about the countryside, but he doubted they would continue on their present course, poor as they were. With any luck, they would return home. Not a single villager had died. In fact, aside from the fools that decided to try to charge spears with their horses, the bandit leader had been the only casualty, and Sanjo doubted he was of any import.

No, he would not mention this. Though he would praise the loyalty of this village, of course, and how well he had been made to feel at home after his long journey. The village's women, Sanjo grinned again to himself as he imagined how he might word it, inexplicably insisted upon cleaning his armor for him after it had gotten dirty, and he had been quite impressed by their gratitude, even if he was not quite sure what act he had performed to be granted it.

"Honorable sir, if I might enter?" Sanjo heard Iseya call from outside, and was doubly amused.

He assented, and the elder entered, sitting and bowing deeply to him. "I am terribly sorry to bother you, my lord, but I feel that I must ask a few questions, now that this is over. If I may, of course."

"Of course." Sanjo continued to grind the rusty patches off of his sword.

Iseya bowed to him again before asking. "I feel that I must ask, now that all of this is over, how did you find your way to us? Did Kannon send you, as so many of us whisper, or-"

"I am your new tax collector." Sanjo answered, bluntly, not looking up from his work.

Iseya's eyes widened.

Sanjo smiled, looking up. "Hatamoto Motoyasu assigned me to investigate and temporarily take over his duties, when your last one failed to report. We know why, now, of course. It seems I will be assuming the position permanently, now."

"I... I see." The elder bowed again. "Sir, if you are of such compassion and mercy as to help us so..."

Sanjo shrugged. "I was doing my duty to my lord. No more, no less, and you shall do the same."

The elder could not keep his expression from looking slightly crestfallen.

"Of course," Sanjo added. "if we work together as well as we did in that battle, we will be a productive, well-fed village indeed..."

"H-hai!" The elder answered, and retreated, seeming quite stunned by this turn of events.

Sanjo smiled to himself, and made a note to send away in the report for someone to bring him his writing kit. He would have to write a poem about this village, now, too, and he was of half a mind to stay here, even with his investigation over, for a time. His first poem, he decided, would be called Koyo-sama, Man of The Leaves. Yes. He would tell the story of the battle that way, in a long poem, and perhaps a few images made upon wood-block from this very village.

Yes, at least here, he mused, he would have plenty of time to write.