Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel. T. C. Rypel

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СКАЧАТЬ that to call him illusion is fully the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all week.” Paille looked offended but said nothing. The samurai then recalled Lydia Benedetto’s similar reduction of the supernatural to the inexplicably natural. What a difference a change in speakers made.

      They were nearing the Llorm garrison, and soldiers passing by sneered to see the familiar artist, some jeering openly at him.

      “Now don’t be starting any trouble,” Gonji found himself advising in a curious reversal of his usual position. He halted Paille halfway through the delivery of an obscene gesture. “So you don’t believe in the existence of things that are purely of evil use, yet you ply your craft in churches—I’ve seen your work, by the way, and it’s very good.”

      Paille brightened. “You think so? Merci, monsieur le samurai! But, oh, since these paintings of chapel ceilings became all the rage they’ve cost artists nothing but stiff necks and aching shoulders and arms. Then one must work under poor light and with inadequate equipment—Ah, but I see that I’ve slipped back into French again. Eh, may I continue?”

      “Oui,” said Gonji patiently. “As Guy’s ear would have it.”

      “Merci beaucoup. But I was saying that there are more portentous matters to concern myself with now than chapel ceilings. Oh, yes indeed, for here in this place, at this time, begins the struggle that will make men forever free of the yoke of monarchy. And you shall be the one to lead it.”

      “Now wait a moment, Paille,” Gonji said, stopping and facing the Frenchman. Tora nudged his shoulder as he spoke. “Don’t be including me in any of your dreams. I’ve already explained how I feel about your...politicals—”

      “Politics.”

      “—whatever, and I make my own decisions about what I become involved in. Besides, this talk is madness, out here in the open like this. You’re every bit as crazy as they say.”

      Paille’s eyes shone. “Oui, crazy enough to recognize destiny’s beckoning call, to see the coming jacquérie—the peasant revolution—that will begin in this insignificant place, among these humble mountains, and will echo down the corridors of time. And men will hail these days, for I shall record their moment, and they shall not be forgotten.”

      Gonji rubbed the back of his neck, and a gurgling sound rumbled in his throat. They began walking again.

      “You’ve taken up your predestined place already, you know,” Paille said in a quiet voice.

      “How so?”

      “Well, the fight at the square, for one. Quite an inspiration to the people. And now you’ve become Flavio’s bodyguard. A stranger, no? Bodyguard to the chief magistrate? And then I’ve heard other things...whispered.”

      Gonji’s skin prickled. “Such as?”

      Paille moved closer and said out of the corner of his mouth: “They’re saying you killed several bandits single-handedly while trying to rescue Michael’s brother. You’ve become the hero of the masses in a span of days.”

      Gonji bridled. “Simply not true,” he lied. “Nonsense cooked up to produce just the effect it has. Those bandits were dead already when I arrived. And I’ll thank you to whisper that back to the whisperers next time, neh?”

      He deeply regretted the prideful notion that had caused him to reveal how he had slain the boy’s killers. Damn that chirruping Strom Gundersen!

      “Too late,” Paille said, grinning, “you’re already included in both my chronicle and in-progress epic! Epic poetry—that’s my current aesthetic passion. Ah, the glory of days past!”

      “Don’t worry. I’ll have a look at it before long, and I’ll have my blades with me,” Gonji advised, tapping the hilt of his killing sword.

      “Ah, but those swords of yours will figure prominently in the epic. Of that I’m confident. I wish I had my manuscripts with me—oh! I do have something, the work of a friend—” He fished inside his tunic and produced a crumpled parchment. “—arrived last week—all the way from England. You’re a man of intellect. You possess discerning critical faculties. Tell me what you think—”

      “Well, I’m no great critic of poetry—”

      “Just listen,” Paille ordered, holding a hand in front of Gonji’s face. “It’s a sonnet—tacky, sloppily sentimental form—mercifully dying out, I think, but it goes:

      ‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead

      Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

      Giving warning to the world that I am fled

      From this vile world, with vilest worms to—’

      “What’s the matter?” Paille asked in annoyance, finally seeing Gonji’s head shaking.

      “I don’t understand English,” Gonji said.

      “Oh—well—let’s see—” Paille did a hasty translation of the sonnet into French, which Gonji strove to follow.

      After a second reading, Gonji stroked his chin reflectively, then said, “Well...I think it’s quite good, although I’m sure the language suffers in the translation.” Paille made a small squeaking sound. “But is he saying that he should be forgotten when his present life has ended? No life should be forgotten.”

      “No, of course not. This fellow should forget this sonnet business and apply himself to the stage. My brother tells me he’s quite an accomplished actor.”

      “Your brother—Guy, with the one ear, or David, who smiles like a rabbit?”

      “No-no, Gaston, the big strong one, who chose the stage against all advice.”

      “Gaston,” Gonji repeated, rolling his eyeballs.

      He recalled something he hadn’t thought of in years: his twelfth summer—the song of a lark—an indiscretion—the certainty of young death—

      Gonji smiled. “Listen to this—

      ‘The soft white blossom—

      Her eyes, markers of my grave.

      My heart yearns for time

      As shadows stretch and move:

      The lark remembers my duty.’”

      “That’s very interesting,” Paille declared. “What does it mean?”

      “It is waka poetry,” Gonji replied proudly. “And that was my death poem—composed a bit prematurely, as it happens.”

      As they neared the Ministry Paille questioned Gonji about his origin and background. The samurai spoke wistfully of Japan, of his father, the daimyo Sabatake Todohiro-no-Sadowara; of bushido and its seven basic principles: justice, courage, benevolence, politeness, veracity, honor and loyalty; of the samurai’s profound sense of duty; of Gonji’s repudiated heritage—but not the details of the duel over star-crossed love fought with his rival half-brother....

      “This СКАЧАТЬ