The Final Victory of Matsukawa Kikumoto

The greatest samurai in all the land seeks a legendary opponent.

The Final Victory of Matsukawa Kikumoto

By Azriel Estrada

 

Matsukawa Kikumoto was the greatest samurai in all the land and he was in a foul mood. It had been pissing rain since the moment he had arrived in this filthy province and the rumble of thunder in the mountains around him said it wasn’t going to stop any time soon. His horse, Hokori, a great black stallion of stern temper, was normally a vision to behold with the sunlight glinting from the silver plates of the blood red armor on his neck, shoulders, and flanks. Now, the armor of horse and rider was sodden, and showing signs of rust in places where iron was used in its construction. This was unacceptable. The warrior’s permanent scowl deepened as he looked around at the tops of the black mountains peeking out of the low clouds like stones in white water. His fine armor, normally a shade to match that of his mount, was sagging pitifully on his frame and the sashimono tied at his back wasn’t serving as a banner so much as it was a funnel to channel the rain down the seat of his hakama�"his pants. He pulled a small gourd of sake from a saddle bag on his trudging mount.

“A small price to pay for glory,” he muttered to himself as he took a swig and returned the lid before too much rain got in. The victory he anticipated served to warm him along with the liquor and raised his spirits some. He should be nearing his destination- some backwater called Amegafuru Basho or some such nonsense. It hardly mattered what the place was called. What mattered was who was there.

He had heard the story a month before in the common room of an inn. A lone, nameless samurai defended the gate to a village on a mountain and the man had yet to meet his equal in combat. Countless warriors had fallen before this mighty samurai who had defended the mountain above him for as long as any could remember.

It went without saying that for the great Matsukawa Kikumoto, this was a challenge that could not go unanswered, lest his honor and reputation be forever tarnished. He alone was the greatest warrior in all the land. He had cut his way through three ships at the Battle of Dan-no-ura, his sword, Raitoningu, whose name means lightning, leaving the sea red with the blood of the countless ashigaru soldiers who fell before him. Songs were sung of how his spear became a striking cobra as he defended the wall against the Mongol hordes at Hakata Bay. In the years since he had become a rōnin, ninety-two challengers had fallen before his blade, and today the number would be ninety-three.

His anger and impatience returned as he remembered the effort it had taken to follow the origin of the rumors; having to degrade himself over and over by asking hillbilly farmers for directions to this supposedly mighty samurai. The peasants had barely spoken the same language as he.

The stories had gotten more unbelievable as he’d come closer to their source.

“The samurai who defends the village on the hill uses no armor!”

“The samurai has been guarding the bridge at the base of the hill for centuries!”

“He defends the place where the gods keep their spring palace!”

“The samurai who defends the village on the hill keeps the souls of his defeated foes!”

“Please, you mustn’t go there!” the peasants had cried. Superstitious fools. It had taken much effort, but eventually he’d been able to cut through the ramblings and get directions enough to make his way to this valley, at the end of which he would find a place that had only been described as “the death fields.” Fah. The mighty warrior spat. Supposedly it was there that he would find a lonely mountain and at its base, his target. Matsukawa Kikumoto barked a sharp laugh into the rain. This would end up a waste of time. It was probably some farmer turned bandit who had found some fallen daimyo’s sword and killed a few locals to make a name for himself. Now that Matsukawa Kikumoto thought about it, the bandit had probably been the one spreading the rumors to build his notoriety.

Still, some of the rumors suggested this road would lead to a swordsman of at least some skill. The merchant at the inn had said that the armorless samurai had defeated Ishida Mitsunari, who had slain fifteen of Japan’s greatest shogun at the Battle of Sekigahara. To defeat a warrior such as Misunari would require skill beyond some common farmer. To do so with no protection? Only the suicidal would consider such folly. Even so, the way the peasants had reacted when he had asked them where to find this supposedly invincible warrior gave him some hope that he might find a duel worthy of his name.

The closer the red warrior got to his target, the more frantic these pig farmers became as their dull minds put together the mountain and the man he sought. Many more pleaded with him to return the way he came, which was beyond unthinkable. The legendary Matsukawa Kikumoto, retreat like some coward? His mighty steed Hokori chuffed as if in response to such lunacy.

A light pierced the rain ahead and Matsukawa Kikumoto drew Hokori to a halt and stared. As he did, the deluge let up just slightly and he could make out that the orange glow was a fire. Above the fire, a mountain loomed out of the mists, its top obscured by the haze of the low clouds. Small buildings were scattered among the trees just below the cloud line and he could just make out what appeared to be tiers cut into the slopes for farming. Could this finally be it? He was still a long way off and there was still too much rain and fog to tell, but it seemed hopeful. He fastened the chinstrap of his helmet, briefly adjusted the straps on his armor, tightening what he could, and clucked his horse into a steady walk so as not to appear too hurried, but also to eat up the remaining distance.

As he approached, Matsukawa Kikumoto saw a blue sashimono sticking from the head of a long mound beside the road. The fabric looked new, but the crest was unrecognizable. The katana that lay at the base of the banner said enough. A warrior was buried here. As his horse trod past the grave, he could see that there were other graves beyond this one, all marked with similar banners and on either side of the road, too; reds, whites, greens, blues and other colors scattered across the fields and fading into the misty curtains of rain. Matsukawa Kikumoto realized that these must be the “death fields” he’d been told to look for. Fields, indeed. There must have been a great and terrible battle here, but which? Matsukawa Kikumoto would surely have heard of the battle that killed as many warriors as this. He was as attentive a student of history as he was a student of warfare. But what was this? As Hokori brought him past grave after grave, Matsukawa Kikumoto noticed that the graves appeared to become older, as though this weren’t a battlefield so much as an immense graveyard that appeared to be growing outward from the mountain ahead. To a mind capable of cowardice, this would cause great unease, but the mind of Matsukawa Kikumoto was incapable of such a thing as cowardice.

 

As Matsukawa Kikumoto approached the base of the mountain, he saw through the rain that he had come to a crossroads�"the  road to either side stretching off into the misty distance while the road ahead led to a small stone bridge gated on one end by a large wooden torii. The water on the road cut a small silver snake through small pines that dotted the gently rising slope to the buildings above.

The fire he had seen was a small bonfire near a tiny ramshackle hut and a pile of stones that had been neatly arranged in a three-sided pyramid without the top, as though it was still under ongoing construction.

Praying this would be the final time he had to endure this miserable ritual, he drew rein and dismounted, crying out in disgust as his feet sunk into the mud. He slogged up to the hut, which was raised off the ground on stilts and shouted.

“Hey! Who’s in there? Come out! The great Matsukawa Kikumoto has need of you!” He waited for a response.

“Damn it! Wake up, you filthy hicks!”

He waited again, looking around for any occupants he may have missed. He stomped up the wooden step and was startled to see a troll squatting in the doorway. He gripped his sword and stepped back, stumbling on the last step in shock. A dry cackling came from the beast as it shuffled forward. He straightened indignantly. This was no troll. Only an old woman, covered in tattered, filthy rags and bent with such age that she was barely recognizable as human. Gnarled hands gripped a large jar that was covered in hundreds of vertical scratches that traced a nauseating pattern around the entire surface of the jar. Twine was wrapped around the neck and a strange symbol Matsukawa Kikumoto did not recognize was centered on the flat, clay lid.

“A little early in the day to be drunk, eh, hag?”

He scowled in disgust as the old woman settled the jar on the top step between her feet and plopped down to sit and stare at him silently. He started in shock again. The woman’s eyes were as featureless and as white as an egg! Straightening, he snorted and drew himself up a second time and gripped Raitoningu’s hilt proudly.

“I am Matsukawa Kikumoto, and I seek the warrior who has not known defeat! You will tell me, hag, does he reside near here?” He waited, his mouth forming a perfect upside down ‘U’.

The woman’s eerie eyes stared at nothing, but Matsukawa Kikumoto felt as though he were being regarded coldly. Suddenly she broke into a toothless grin and began to cackle again as thunder pealed through the valley. One bent talon lifted from the jar she held and pointed to the samurai’s left. He turned and saw a robed figure wearing a broad straw hat, a kasa, kneeling in meditation on the stone bridge. A katana rested across the figure’s lap.

The mighty samurai blinked hard. Had he been there before? He turned back just in time to see the old crone shuffle back into her hut and pull the flap shut, her cackle fading into the rain.

Finally.

Matsukawa Kikumoto straightened, stretching the muscles in his back and neck, working out the stiffness. Scowling, he turned to the road and the figure kneeling silently on the bridge ahead.

The red warrior walked to the foot of the bridge, glancing up at the torii overhead. More symbols were carved into the black wood, but he recognized none of these either. He stepped from the road onto the smooth stones of the bridge, his attention now focused entirely on the figure kneeling in white and black robes ahead, face hidden behind his large, conical hat.

He stopped ten paces from his adversary, who still had not moved.

“What kind of a*****e sits in the rain all day?” He sneered. The man said nothing but rose from his knees to his feet in one slow, smooth motion putting the katana he held through the kaku obi at his waist to stand silently, hands hanging limply at his sides as rainwater dripped from his fingertips.

Matsukawa Kikumoto rested his hand on his sword hilt and stroked his black mustaches, unsure of what to think of this silent figure. He wasn’t a large man and didn’t seem of especially hardened build. Nothing could be said about the man’s character from looking at him. His robe was plain white linen trimmed simply with black and the scabbard at his side was the same black. He bore only the lone blade, forsaking the traditional wakizashi, which should be used on one’s self in defeat. The arrogance of the man.

Matsukawa Kikumoto peered at his foe through the rain. Only the lower half of his face was visible; clean shaven and without remarkable feature, it was difficult to say whether he was young or old. The man could be a pauper or a lord but something about the smooth way he had risen suggested that, whatever he was, he was a fighter, and a skilled one. Good. The warrior in red armor spoke, this time with at least an attempt at an air of respect.

“I am Matsukawa Kikumoto, the greatest warrior in all the land, and I have ridden many days to challenge you. Will you accept?” He gripped the hilt of his silver blade, Raitoningu and stood waiting for a reaction. The man didn’t move a muscle as the armored warrior drew near, but he could feel a tension in the man; a bowstring, lean and taught. Ready. Matsukawa Kikumoto’s blood boiled at the insolence in the man’s silence, but he stayed his blade for the moment.

“Maybe I’ll kill you and visit your s**t heel village, eh?” he jutted his chin up the mountain.

After a moment, the briefest of nods shook a few drops of water from the man’s hat.

Grinning with anticipation Matsukawa Kikumoto closed the remaining distance. He stopped and the two bowed briefly. The rain was a cacophony of taps in his ears as his combat instincts heightened at the promise of battle.

 

Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap    the rain falling on his helmet.

taptap    taptap    taptap    taptap    the rain drips from his katana and wakizashi.

Tap   Taptap   Tap   Taptap    the rain drips from his chinstrap to his cuirass.

 

Like its namesake, Matsukawa Kikumoto’s sword flashed from its scabbard straight at his adversary’s neck but the speed with which the silent samurai answered his opening stroke was astounding. His motions a blur, the man’s blade appeared in his hand instantly to meet the skillful opening move. They froze as their blades met, testing one another’s strength. The silent samurai’s sword was gripped in one hand vertically, blade down, in the style of Zatoichi, one of history’s most skilled swordsmen. Avoiding a quick parry, Matsukawa Kikumoto took a few steps back and held his blade at the ready behind him and looked at his opponent with newfound respect. This would truly be a battle worthy of legend. He smiled grimly as he charged.

Glorious crashes of steel cut through the rain as the two warriors moved around one another, step matching step, counter-blow meeting blow. Each move was performed perfectly, and without hesitation, a deadly dance between experts. Dragon rushing down the mountain valley met stone breaks the crashing wave. Sparks flew when eagle clutches the serpent was met with moon rises to meet the storm. After a time, the moves came so fast that it was impossible to identify them. A practical combination of draw and slash, Matsukawa Kikumoto’s Jigen-ryu style of combat was fast and savage, leaving little room for anyone but a master opponent to do anything but defend, and this opponent was clearly a master.

The mountain’s silent defender followed something like the Eishiu-ryu school, which was stiff and willowy at once, answering blows not with force but with diversion, almost playfully sending the attacking blade in random directions. This was not a style that Matsukawa Kikumoto was familiar with, and it took every ounce of his not insignificant experience to match his opponent’s skill.

Suddenly, unbelievably, an opening in the silent samurai’s defense appeared as he barely missed a half step, overcommitting to weasel snatches the robin’s egg. Time stood still as the great Matsukawa Kikumoto leaned back and watched as his opponent’s katana sailed harmlessly past his throat in an arc that would have assuredly removed a lesser warrior’s head.

As though the gods themselves had ordained it, the rain stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds in a single divine beam, shining brilliantly on the two warriors on the bridge. It shone on them as Matsukawa Kikumoto drove his brightly shining sword Raitoningu, whose name means lightning, into his opponent’s heart. Drawing the blade out in a smooth motion, the mighty warrior spun, the kusazuri plates of his armor fanning out from his waist like a fan and he struck the dying samurai’s head from his body.

The warrior’s form stood limply for an instant, seemingly held erect by an invisible string. Blood shot heavenward from the neck as the body collapsed to its knees then to the stones of the bridge and as the skies cleared to a clear azure, all was still.

Flourishing Raitoningu, Matsukawa Kikumoto returned the blade to its scabbard and bowed deeply.

“None may know which is our final victory,” he said as he rose. “Arigato.”

            Turning back to the road, Matsukawa Kikumoto was already deciding how best to tell the story of this, his most glorious victory to date. For the first time in ages, Matsukawa Kikumoto turned his face to the sun and laughed gaily as he hopped from the stones of the bridge into a large mud puddle, enjoying the large splash he made. This was even more momentous an occasion than when he’d defeated the Demon of the Western Provinces, Sasaki Kojirō, whose nodachi great sword had cut down more than one hundred foes. That had been some battle, but this? The red warrior marveled at his own prowess.

Yes, he’d ride Hokori back to the inn where he’d first heard the tale of the undefeated, silent samurai, and he’d tell them all that after a most miserable journey, he had met his foe in glorious battle and left his enemy’s carcass at the foot of the mountain. From there, the stories of his greatness would grow and spread like wildfire.

After this victory, he thought, they may call him the greatest warrior in all of history.

He marched toward the ramshackle hut to inform its drunken occupant that she would be responsible for the burial and rituals required at her master’s death. She would have a tough time of it without her sight.
            It occurred suddenly to Matsukawa Kikumoto that if there were no witnesses, then it may be difficult to prove his story true. Some evidence would be required; proof that he had done the miraculous. The fallen samurai’s katana. Yes, that would serve as proof and make a fine trophy to commemorate the occasion.

There was a fresh peal of thunder and the sky darkened anew as Matsukawa Kikumoto turned back toward the bridge and, for a moment, he could not comprehend what he was seeing.

Two men, one in blood red armor, the other clad only in white robes with black trim and a kasa hat, stood on the bridge in the pouring rain, bowing to one another in preparation for combat. As Matsukawa Kikumoto watched, the armored warrior drew his blade in a savage opening strike meant to pierce his adversary’s throat. The warrior in black and white robes avoided the move so gracefully that the opposing samurai almost appeared clumsy. As the warrior in red stepped past his target, the samurai in black and white smoothly drew his sword and in one quick, precise flick, whipped the blade through the rain.
            Time slowed nearly to a standstill and Matsukawa Kikumoto could see with horrifying clarity as the impossibly sharp blade cut through raindrops on an inevitable course for the red warriors throat. Matsukawa Kikumoto, the greatest warrior in all the land, felt his blood turn to ice. He put a gloved hand to his own throat and when he looked, bright crimson stained his fingers. The warrior in white sheathed his sword in the same move that had severed the red warrior’s�"no, his head. He had been defeated in a single move.
            This was impossible. It must be some form of sorcery. Matsukawa Kikumoto looked around desperately for his horse, Hokori. He must flee this cursed place, but where was his mighty steed? He stumbled and caught himself on the small, unfinished pyramid of stones, his eyes rolling in terror as he cast about for an escape. The bonfire burned an eerie blue as it whipped in a wind that he could neither feel nor hear. A dry cackling reached his ears through the pounding rain and he turned.
            The old woman had returned to her seat on the stoop of the hut with her jar between her old wrinkled feet. Her cackling pierced Matsukawa Kikumoto’s ears like daggers and he reeled upon looking at her face. Where white sightless eyes had been, now could be found eyes of the clearest, most beautiful green. Eyes that could see beyond the stars and into the blackness of his heart. She pointed a gnarled claw again, this time up the mountain. Matsukawa Kikumoto looked and beheld a magnificent golden palace surrounded by cherry blossoms, freshly in bloom. The gods residing within cast cruel, sneering scowls down at him and the clouds closed again, obscuring the lonely peak once more.

The old woman continued to laugh as she opened the lid of the jar between her feet and held the vessel up for Matsukawa Kikumoto. Screaming silently, he flew inside to join the others forever. The old woman screwed the lid back on tight and grabbed a small grey stone from a hidden pocket in her tattered rags. She scratched a single line in the jar at the end of the endless winding pattern of similar lines and replaced the stone before going back inside her hut.

End.