Nezumi
The sun is setting, colouring the sky with bold strokes of fire
and blood. Nishiro spends a few seconds taking in the sight before he
dives into shadow of the low-slung cottages of the village and heads
for the house of Bazaemon. The house was always known for the quality
of the wine served and the games played, and the more honourable
people of the village and of house Arai are not seen there. Nishiro
is a regular, but as he skips through the streets and recalls the
faces of the drunks and gamblers, he also recalls the smell of their
scorn and fear. The smell of man.
Before entering Nishiro pulls the thin brown scarf around his neck
over his mouth and nose, covering his unattractive features somewhat,
then pushes open the door of the inn slowly. Words and light and
smoke assault his senses as it glides shut behind him, and the eyes
of the patrons find their way towards him. A few snicker, one snorts,
but none loud enough to be unable to take it back while grovelling at
Nishiro's feet should he decide to take offense - each and every
peasant knows not to attract the wrath of a samurai. A bead of sweat
trickles down his forehead as Nishiro takes one step, then another,
into the bowels of the house, looking at the faces of the rabble of
peasants and bushi gathered here. Their talk is merry and random,
nothing new and nothing that concerns him. At the tables, groups of
old friends speak of faraway cities, the wars and the battles, the
family and ancestors. They drink, they smoke, they roll the dice. The
samurai reaches the other end of the house to where he entered,
walking up and down a few displaced alcoves, and perches himself
against a doorway. His face covered by the veil, his only
distinguishing feature is his shock of spiky black hair. Nishiro
listens and watches undisturbed, carefully picking apart each sound
amidst the chatter.
One group of high-class bushi is talking about the Lord Arai's
son, away training for the burden of nobility somewhere. The words
evoke a complex web of memories in his mind. Images of Nishiro's
childhood drift in with the smoke. His father, brother of Lord Arai,
and mother, suffocatingly intimate, both of whom he practically never
knew. Then the man and woman who raised him after they were gone -
dutiful but cold. Nishiro sometimes told himself this was the only
reason he was disliked, that his real parents were not married and
his mother was of an unsuitable family. But in his heart he knew they
hated him for a simpler reason: he hated them. Only blood washed it
all away.
As his thoughts drift back to the present, Nishiro quietly opens
the door he is standing next to and slips through to the back of the
house. Facing away from the street, this side lies in relative
darkness not far from a crop of trees. Garbage piles and waste from
the houses are found back here, but the smell is not bad until he
walks over and crouches next to one of them. With two fingers he
scrapes and scratches in the dirt, very slowly, emitting a tiny,
pitched whine. After four or five repetitions of this his call is
answered. A medium-sized grey rat draws near him on tiny padded feet,
eyes shining in the rising moonlight and nose held high. Nishiro sits
and watches it silently, until it is close enough to sniff his hand.
One seconds passes, then two. He grabs the soft fur at the back of
the rat's neck before it has a chance to evade, firmly but gently,
even as it struggles and kicks to get free. Its squeaks match his own
in tune. Another second then he lets it go, and watches as it
scuttles away quickly into the night.