The Accounts of Daidoji Chutei
The young nephew of Daidoji Uji sent me this story of his search for his ancestral yari, shortly before retiring to a monastery. Though he still longs to see the weapon retrieved, he offers the following warning to all who would brave the waters southwest of the landbridge. – Seikansha
Few heroes of the Crane are respected by more clans than Daidoji Masashigi who gave his life and the lives of his men to help the Hida Bokaru hold the landbridge against Oni no Kinjiro’s forces. Indeed among the Crab, he is held in greater esteem than Kakita himself. A shrine to his spirit sits on the landbridge border, holding his helm, the only possession which ever washed ashore. His yari, the ancestral weapon of the Daidoji, is still missing beneath the waves. And foolish indeed is the one who would try to retrieve it.
I was that fool.
As the younger son of Daidoji Tekugun, nephew and second in line of inheritance from the Daidoji daimyo, it was not difficult for me to believe that fortune would favor me a second time and allow my name to be mingled with the great Masashigi’s as the retriever of his armor, his katana, and most of all, his spear.
On the evening of my gempukku, the pain of my new tattoo burning fervor into my brain, I stood before my relatives and announced my name. “I am Daidoji Chutei,” I said. “My name means loyalty, and though I am not daimyo, I swear these vows: to protect the Crane clan, to study its history, never to betray the secrets of the Daidoji house, and to retrieve the yari of Daidoj Masashigi.”
And though I am sure now that there was much laughter behind the raised fans and stoic faces, no one spoke out, and my heart was light with pride as I began my research.
It was a simple thing to sit on shore and watch the tide recede, day after day, recording the patterns of retreat the water made on the sand, always to the southwest toward the tarnished beaches. Over and over I read the tales, the accounts of Bokaru’s lieutenants, the Kakita scholars’ interpretations, until I knew just where our commander had fallen, you deep his spear would be buried in silt, how far the tides would have dragged it over four hundred years.
Four three months, I practiced diving, until I could hold my breath like a peasant pearl-hunter and swim further than any Mantis. And on the sixteenth day of the Dragon, after paying my respects at the shrine of the Iron Crane, I made good on my promise.
I had not dived after more than fifteen feet into the waters of the Coast of Dark Mist, when they began to thicken against my skin. Cold and slick only heartbeats before, the waves were as hot as rice gruel and thicker than boiled dye. It was not so far below Amaterasu’s light, but the inky liquid closed over my head, leaving me in blackness.
Sightless, I knew my heart would guide me, for I was Daidoji Chutei, and I would not break my vow. Deeper, I swam, struggling against the heaviness which slowed my strokes and would have trapped a lesser man. My skin was numb, but I ignored it, concentrating on the tips of my fingers as they dug through the slippery ooze. I seized the shaft and tore it free.
Lungs burning, I got a ken-an further, two, then suddenly my breath left and there was only tar. My scream made no sound as pain tore through my shoulder. I have trained as a bushi all my life, I have earned scars in iaijutsu duels, and I once drank a poison cup meant for Lady Doji Ameiko; this was the most searing agony I have ever experienced. Yet I could not let go.
With no air left, I yanked on the rope my clansmen held far above, and clawed back to the surface, needing the taste of air and Lady Sun’s honest warmth. It was much longer coming up, and the darkness stayed with me all the way to the top. I sucked in a breath of tar. I had no choice. Though it choked me with its foulness, my head soon broke the surface. The air was sweet, and for a moment, even the pain was less.
And it did not matter, for I held my ancestor’s weapon in my hand.
I raised my arm to break the surface with the spear, and knew my failure. For though it never left my hand, the yari still lies on the ocean floor. At my shorn shoulder, where white bone and red, bleeding skin should have shown, was only a dull pitted brown, the color and consistency of driftwood.
I have given my life over to Shinsei. I can never serve my clan again.
Few heroes of the Crane are respected by more clans than Daidoji Masashigi who gave his life and the lives of his men to help the Hida Bokaru hold the landbridge against Oni no Kinjiro’s forces. Indeed among the Crab, he is held in greater esteem than Kakita himself. A shrine to his spirit sits on the landbridge border, holding his helm, the only possession which ever washed ashore. His yari, the ancestral weapon of the Daidoji, is still missing beneath the waves. And foolish indeed is the one who would try to retrieve it.
I was that fool.
As the younger son of Daidoji Tekugun, nephew and second in line of inheritance from the Daidoji daimyo, it was not difficult for me to believe that fortune would favor me a second time and allow my name to be mingled with the great Masashigi’s as the retriever of his armor, his katana, and most of all, his spear.
On the evening of my gempukku, the pain of my new tattoo burning fervor into my brain, I stood before my relatives and announced my name. “I am Daidoji Chutei,” I said. “My name means loyalty, and though I am not daimyo, I swear these vows: to protect the Crane clan, to study its history, never to betray the secrets of the Daidoji house, and to retrieve the yari of Daidoj Masashigi.”
And though I am sure now that there was much laughter behind the raised fans and stoic faces, no one spoke out, and my heart was light with pride as I began my research.
It was a simple thing to sit on shore and watch the tide recede, day after day, recording the patterns of retreat the water made on the sand, always to the southwest toward the tarnished beaches. Over and over I read the tales, the accounts of Bokaru’s lieutenants, the Kakita scholars’ interpretations, until I knew just where our commander had fallen, you deep his spear would be buried in silt, how far the tides would have dragged it over four hundred years.
Four three months, I practiced diving, until I could hold my breath like a peasant pearl-hunter and swim further than any Mantis. And on the sixteenth day of the Dragon, after paying my respects at the shrine of the Iron Crane, I made good on my promise.
I had not dived after more than fifteen feet into the waters of the Coast of Dark Mist, when they began to thicken against my skin. Cold and slick only heartbeats before, the waves were as hot as rice gruel and thicker than boiled dye. It was not so far below Amaterasu’s light, but the inky liquid closed over my head, leaving me in blackness.
Sightless, I knew my heart would guide me, for I was Daidoji Chutei, and I would not break my vow. Deeper, I swam, struggling against the heaviness which slowed my strokes and would have trapped a lesser man. My skin was numb, but I ignored it, concentrating on the tips of my fingers as they dug through the slippery ooze. I seized the shaft and tore it free.
Lungs burning, I got a ken-an further, two, then suddenly my breath left and there was only tar. My scream made no sound as pain tore through my shoulder. I have trained as a bushi all my life, I have earned scars in iaijutsu duels, and I once drank a poison cup meant for Lady Doji Ameiko; this was the most searing agony I have ever experienced. Yet I could not let go.
With no air left, I yanked on the rope my clansmen held far above, and clawed back to the surface, needing the taste of air and Lady Sun’s honest warmth. It was much longer coming up, and the darkness stayed with me all the way to the top. I sucked in a breath of tar. I had no choice. Though it choked me with its foulness, my head soon broke the surface. The air was sweet, and for a moment, even the pain was less.
And it did not matter, for I held my ancestor’s weapon in my hand.
I raised my arm to break the surface with the spear, and knew my failure. For though it never left my hand, the yari still lies on the ocean floor. At my shorn shoulder, where white bone and red, bleeding skin should have shown, was only a dull pitted brown, the color and consistency of driftwood.
I have given my life over to Shinsei. I can never serve my clan again.
