And now this. Was it some sort of karmic revenge? I was breathless. “And all this . . . ” I gasped.
“Has been to bring us here and into his power,” Yamashita answered with certainty.
“No!” I protested.
“Yes. He is an evil man, but a gifted strategist. Consider. He used the two most powerful motivators to draw us here: duty and sentiment.”
Giri
and
ninjo
are often thought by the Japanese to struggle in the human heart. For the Japanese,
giri
, or duty, usually triumphs. The Tengu had used Yamashita’s sense of duty to get him to help Mori rescue a kidnapped relative, and I had rushed headlong to the aid of my teacher, blind to everything but my concern for him. I had even lured Micky and Art to their deaths with my stupidity.
I sighed sadly. I now knew enough. But habits die hard. “What’s the connection with the Moros?”
“I cannot say. For some reason, the Tengu sought out a neutral location to trap us. To do that, he needed assistance. It would not be hard for a man like that to sell his services for a price.” Yamashita thought a moment more. “And they have this in common with him; they hate the West and its culture. Perhaps it was enough.”
I sat there and looked up at the night sky. The stars were emerging, brighter with every passing moment. They were beautiful in a way, yet cold. Some cultures think that they’re the spirits of dead ancestors watching over the living down below. I squinted up at them.
Sorry guys
, I told Micky and Art. Even Ueda. I had a vivid image of Sarah Klein, of home and my family. I felt a spasm of deep grief. It held me for a moment, then I set it aside. I shivered.
“What was your plan in coming here?” my teacher asked, more to keep the conversation going than anything else. I told him. All three options.
“It would appear that this will not be,” Yamashita concluded.
“We can hope until dawn,” I told him. I left the rest unfinished.
So my teacher told me his plan. I shook with denial.
“I can’t!” I protested in a hiss.
“You must,” he said quietly.
“But
Sensei
. . . ” I pleaded. He cut me off.
“Think!” the force of his urging made him cough. He spat thickly into the darkness. “This is our last chance to gain some small victory here, Burke. If we can do this little thing, there will be some measure of victory.”
“But it’s too horrible,” I whispered. “No one should have to do this.”
“We have to, Burke,” he said.
“I can’t,” I told him.
Yamashita sighed in the darkness. “Burke of course you can. You are my pupil. And I have taught you well.”
In the end, he wore me out and I knew he was right. The path we were on was the path we were on. All you could do was walk it. The night was alive with the restless noise of the jungle at night. I looked up at the stars. Distant. At peace. My eyes slowly closed, then flickered open again for one last glimpse of a night sky.
Might
be nice to be up there
.
And I sank into a troubled half-sleep, restless with the certainty that at dawn,
giri
would once again triumph over
ninjo
.
The human body is a strange, frail vessel that can withstand unbelievable amounts of agony. The spirit is even stronger. The old samurai knew it and Hatsue learned it as well. She blanched when she learned of the bargain that Yamashita planned on striking, but nodded in resignation.
The stars had kept watch over us long enough and now fled with the sun’s return. The guards came, bearing gifts: a bucket of warmed water, some cloth, and a clean kimono. I sponged Yamashita carefully, since he could not do it himself, and I knew that he would wish to conform to the ritual requirements for purity. In the half-light, it was almost possible to imagine my teacher as he once was: unmarked and whole. I dressed him silently, the hush of morning broken only by the muffled sounds of camp life and Yamashita’s occasional gasps when the pain of movement grew overwhelming.
The Tengu had savored the idea of Yamashita’s demise for some time. He had lived in the details of it with self indulgent delight, but when Yamashita proposed a new twist to his scenario, it clearly intrigued our captor.
“Think of it,” Yamashita urged. “I only ask that she be given one small chance. And in return . . . so much for so little.” I saw the Tengu’s nostrils flair slightly; his checks seemed to redden, although it was difficult to be sure in the poor light.
I sat there like a stone, the implications heavy within me. To stop a human body, you can break the support structure of bone, overload the nerve circuits with pain, damage important muscles, or cut off the flow of oxygen to the brain. These things usually take a while—all that Hollywood stuff about the hero sneaking up, delivering a quick chop to the neck, and dropping someone is mostly fiction. Anyone who really fights people knows that it usually takes a while to bludgeon them into insensibility, or to set up the killing technique.
And killing was on my mind. But it’s hard to do without a weapon. I would be relieved if I could have one in my hand again. I eyed the men around me wistfully, dreaming of targets. But it was a fantasy, really. I knew that Yamashita and I would be on the receiving end of things this day.
Seppuku
, commonly known as
hara-kiri
, is a Japanese form of ritual disembowelment. It inflicts horrendous pain. The first stabbing incision takes place low on the left side of the gut. The blade then slices horizontally across the body, severing the stomach muscles. At the end of its traverse, the blade is turned upward for a final, tearing cut, to expose the peritoneal cavity and its contents. It provides much on the list of bad things that can happen to a body: pain, muscle damage, bleeding, and organ disruption in a fixed sequence.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t kill you immediately. And it’s designed that way. It is an action of atonement, or a demonstration of honor and fidelity. The white hot blasts of pain shoot through the victim, and in the experience of endurance his inner nature is thought to be revealed, much as the physical act itself exposes the center of the human body to the elements.
That’s the theory, at least. In reality, you can live a relatively long time like this, and the Japanese evolved a way out. When someone commits
seppuku
, another person is honored with the role of
kaishaku
. The
kaishaku
stands behind and to one side of the victim, sword poised. When he judges that the victim can stand no more, the
kaishaku
severs the victim’s head and ends his suffering.
I was Yamashita’s
kaishaku
, simultaneously honored and appalled. But it got worse.
Yamashita’s proposed bargain was that the Tengu should let Hatsue go free. He wasn’t naïve enough to suppose that the old demon would agree to an act of mercy, so he proposed just before the ritual of
seppuku
began, that she be untied and permitted to flee. The Tengu would restrain his men for as long as Yamashita could endure the knife; once his head was off, they were free to pursue her. It was a straightforward swap: his personal agony for another’s shot at freedom. The longer he could last, the greater her chance to escape.
He didn’t bother to negotiate on my behalf. We both knew that was futile, that the elaborate series of events strung together by that crazy old man were designed to bring us to our end. Hatsue, on the other hand, was merely a pawn. Yamashita was hoping to eke out one, tiny victory before we died.
What was in it for the Tengu? Seeing Yamashita suffer. And I’d suffer along with him, knowing that as
kaishaku
I could end his agony, but that in doing so I would thwart my teacher’s last wish and ensure that Hatsue’s innocent life would be lost as well.
You could see the calculations flitting in the Tengu’s eyes, restless shadows cast by inner thoughts. Finally he spoke. “You have such faith in your
gaijin
pupil?” Yamashita nodded, and the old man cackled, removing the war fan in his sash and opening it with a flourish. “I do not share your confidence,” the Tengu concluded, “but it will be an interesting game.”
“It’s not a game!” Hatsue protested in a small, brave voice.
The Tengu ignored her. “You seek to save a life by your suffering,” Then he looked at me with contempt. “You seek to spare your master and obey him at the same time.” He whirled to face Hatsue. “And you wish to escape.”
He mulled it over, looking around the silent circle of men who had formed in the clearing. “I like it,” he finally concluded. “If Yamashita-san succumbs to pain, he fails. If he endures, then his
kaishaku
has failed. And long time or short, the woman will be caught.” He nodded to himself. “None of you can win.”
“We must try,” Yamashita said quietly.
The war fan snapped closed and Tengu bowed mockingly at him. “I honor you for the attempt and will rejoice in your humiliation.” He straightened and looked at me. “All of you.”
Hatsue shook her head. “No,” she protested.
Our
sensei
looked into the eyes of his new pupil and merely said “
keiko
.” I watched as Hatsue struggled to master her agitation, and then settle under its heavy weight. She bowed deeply and accepted her fate.
Yamashita was standing, unsteady on his feet. He took a deeper breath and seemed to swell with some of his old power. “I would ask a moment with my pupils,” he told the Tengu. “This one,” he gestured at me, “must be clear on his role.”
The Tengu nodded, and Yamashita sank down to the grass. The motion was smooth, but quick, as if it were an effort to maintain control and he wished to hurry through the ordeal.
She had tears in her eyes when Yamashita addressed her, but Hatsue nodded her understanding. “You must start out on the main trail,” Yamashita instructed her, “and cover as much distance as possible. But then swing to the west, toward the coast. We know that most of their men and equipment move through the jungle. The coast may hold a better chance for you to escape.”
I added my encouragement. “You’ve got to move quickly. Maybe you can flag down a fishing boat.” The advice sounded lame, even to me.
“The time will be short,” Yamashita urged her. “Do not look back. Do not hesitate. Do you understand?”
“
Hai!
” Hatsue whispered.
“And you, Professor,” Yamashita asked, “are you ready?”
I swallowed and nodded, but I didn’t feel too confident. Yamashita smiled one of his rare smiles, reached forward, and touched me gently. “Have you heard the traditional saying, Burke? Duty is heavier than a mountain . . . ”
“But death is lighter than a feather,” I sighed in response. It was from the old Imperial Rescript for Soldiers and Sailors. Was it true? I guessed we were going to find out. I started to speak, but a half shudder, half sob shot through me and I had to master it before continuing. “
Yoi
,” I told him. Ready.
The men in the camp were restless. They had relocated from their previous base to meet us, but they still had to worry about the capacity of the Filipinos to mount another raid. You could see the split in the camp between the Middle Easterners who followed the Tengu and the hard-core Moros. The Tengu’s people watched him for a sign; the others watched the tree line, nervous about what was to take place, and anxious with the need to be moving.
The Tengu gave no sign of noticing, but he too was impatient for blood. “Enough!” he called. “The sun is rising and it is time.”
I helped Yamashita up and led him to the place they had prepared. There was a straw mat placed upon the earth, and I lowered him down into the formal sitting position. It was hard with his legs in the shape they were in; I wondered that he could stand it. But other than a slight hissing noise, he was silent as he sank into finality. My teacher faced the dawn, the sun awakening the hills to the east and lighting the edge of the trees.
Before him there was a short sword—the
wakizashi
—as well as a white piece of paper. A bucket of water waited to one side. The Tengu and his attendants stood to Yamashita’s right, about twenty feet away. You’d think that it was a sign of respect not to get too close. In reality, they probably just wanted to stay out of the way of flying blood. The rest of the camp arranged themselves around the clearing, watching the proceedings with morbid fascination.
I knelt down beside Yamashita and helped him slip his arms out of the kimono. I tucked the freed sleeves of the garment under his legs. It’s the sort of grisly aesthetic that is the constant companion of the martial artist. The action not only makes things look neat and tidy but is also designed to minimize the indignity of the death throes once the cutting begins.
“Is your arm up to this?” I asked quietly. It seemed so odd and matter-of-fact a question, but all through the night we had both begun traveling to a place where the sights and sounds of this world are muted. It made for a peculiar calm. When you’ve run out of options, what path do you take? The only one left.
He rotated his right shoulder slightly. “Yes. They were careful to leave this side intact.” Yamashita clenched and opened his fist. “The fingers are stiff, but they should obey my will for a little while yet.” He paused for a breath. “As will you, I hope, Professor.”
I sat up straight and then bowed formally to him. No words were necessary and I don’t think I could have spoken anyway.
Two of the Tengu’s men walked over. They were both armed with AK-47s, but one carried a
katana
as well. The long sword of the samurai was the weapon wielded by the
kaishaku
. One handed it to me, clearly unfamiliar with sword etiquette: You are supposed to proffer a sword with two hands. Did it matter? Probably to Yamashita. I grasped it with both my hands and bowed. They looked at me like I was a visitor from another planet. Then the guards moved away slightly and stood behind Yamashita, fingering their weapons. I eyed them.
“Take another two steps!” the Tengu commanded. “You are within his killing range.” I was sizing things up to see what kind of damage I could make in my last moments. The Tengu sensed it.