You stand in shadow. The moon is late to rise tonight. At your side is your katana, newly forged, never used. And so you wait, ready and eager to test its sting. This episode's story is based on the historical Samurai practice of tsujigiri (辻斬).
You stand in shadow. The moon is late to rise tonight. At your side is your katana, newly forged, never used. And so you wait, ready and eager to test its sting. This episode's story is based on the historical Samurai practice of tsujigiri (辻斬).
CW: violence and character-specific sexist slurs
Stories from the Hearth is an experimental storytelling experience ft. truly original fiction and thoughtfully produced soundscapes. The aim of this podcast is to rekindle its listeners' love for the ancient art of storytelling (and story-listening), and to bring some small escapism to the frantic energies of the modern world. Stories from the Hearth is the brainchild of queer punk poet, environmentalist, and anarchist Cal Bannerman. Vive l'art!
Episode #7 out Sunday 2nd May 2021 (02.05.21)
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With regards to the use of the term "whorehouse" in place of "brothel" (or some other less offensive term) - the author decided to use this term only after much deliberation, and only as they felt it in keeping with both the parlance of the historical setting of their story, and the character of its protagonist, who, let's face it, is not a very nice guy.
"Guzhen_stereo_1" and "Guzhen_bow_stereo_3" are the work of leonsptvx and are courtesy of freesound.org, licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported (CC BY 3.0) licenses. To read more about the license, click here.
Welcome to Stories From The Hearth, the podcast for tall tales and fantastical fiction, short stories the likes of which you might once have heard a wandering bard tell, to a group of villagers, gathered around the fire. Explore the history of storytelling in bonus series The Wandering Bard, or escape your surroundings with a brand-new story, written and performed by me, Calum Bannerman, on the last Sunday of every month. Historical, romantic, science fiction, or fantasy; these are tales to transport you, doorways into another world…
Hi, I’m Cal, and if you’re new to Stories from the Hearth, there’s a few things you might like to know. This podcast is an experimental artistic space, kind of like a painter’s studio or a DJ’s headphones – it is a place where I can try new things, make art, and share it with others in the hope that it might bring some comfort, value, and escapism to their lives. It is also a means to an end; after all, it has been my dream ever since I was wee to tell stories for a living; just like the wandering bards of old, who I read about in my history books and fantasy novels. Each episode of Stories from the Hearth features a stand-alone work of fiction, performed to an immersive soundscape, which allows you to lose yourself in the tale. Usually, the stories are short enough to be contained within one episode, but a handful of them are split over two. If this particular episode isn’t your jam, don’t worry – there are heaps of stories to choose from, and no two are the same. This podcast is also a safe and inclusive space for all, which means that its stories actively embrace queerness and otherness, right alongside more mainstream walks of life. If you’re enjoying it, then please do tell your friends and review it on your favourite podcast app, Spotify, or iTunes. If you’re really enjoying it, then you can support Stories from the Hearth on Patreon and help yourself to early access, behind-the-scenes insights, bonus content, physical copies of the stories, shout-outs and much much more. Just head to patreon.com/storiesfromthehearthpodcast or hit the link down below. And speaking of shout-outs, a huge thanks to these fine folks who help make Stories from the Hearth possible: my warmest thanks to Nick, Vivian, Jen, Charlie, Rob, Sandy, Jane, Ruathy and Mully.
Now, come and gather round the fire, for I’ve got a story to tell. This is Episode Six: Tsujigiri (Death from the Shadows).
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You stand in shadow. The moon is late to rise tonight, cloud cover thick and pregnant, through which peaks only the boldest of stars. In the east, a bulge of dull light on the horizon: Edo, a hotbed of filth you hope someday the Sumida river might wash away. Barring the freckled sky, the peach glow of the east, there is no light to illuminate your way. All the better. You stand in shadow, a crossroad splayed in four fingers either side of you, out in front.
At your side, the weight of a blade, newly forged. A katana, yet to earn its name. To your back are bushes high and singing, cicada, cicada. Test the ground beneath your feet; four paces in every direction it is firm, churned mud of the roads frosted hard and smooth, where you have chosen to wait. Your hands are steady, measured, brought to a quiet stillness by the warmth of saké. Its taste still coats your mouth, though hours have surely passed since the roadhouse; it is nutty, slightly sweet, expensive. Not the kind you usually drink, for tonight requires fortitude, and strength, and should be marked accordingly.
Focus on the road. Close your eyes. Blindness sharpens the senses, blurs the distinction between the waking world and the world of dream, where time may pass without warranting inspection. The tonsure of your scalp smarts from earlier, when freshly it was shaved, chonmage style. Ignore it. The sensation is only distraction, and you have been trained to ignore distraction. Likewise, ignore the whorehouse itch in your groin, ignore the ache in calves which have stood still like this since the sun set. Ignore the mild panic arising, which whispers to you, foretelling tonight passing without the ceremony. Ignore it. They will come.
You stand in shadow. Finally, a break in the clouds, and a pallid moon spills through; falls upon the land as a drunk losing balance. Falls upon the north-bound road running straight and true, from these crossroads to the mountains. You only sense these things, your head still bowed, waiting.
But now, a bell, gentle as foxglove, as if awoken in the moonlight, and you tilt your gaze, chance a look. There, walking wearily south, toward you, a pedlar. He is too far, still, to distinguish any features, but he carries a cart. Two-wheeled thing, low axle, bears the weight upon his shoulders and the weight must be great, for he is bent low to the ground. You imagine a tortoise in his place, picture the childhood death you served to the snapping turtles in your father’s pond. Pitiful things. Bland in soup, though others would pretend them a delicacy. Briefly, a flicker of disappointment. An old man? Yet, what had you hoped for. Few travel the crossroads alone, at night, in these lawless years. Old man, it is.
He draws closer. The bell on his cart is ancient, though polished and well-kept, so that its sound fools the listener to thinking he hears the tinkle of silver, newly wrought. A pedlar’s trick, no doubt. Presumably, the goods he stocks on that cart of his are equally knavish, deceitful. No honour in such business. Your teeth grit, your jaw tightens. Hear his song. As he comes, he sings, and the tune is ignoble, and base.
Hey, ho, a seller’s life
I walk from town to town!
Hey, ho, a pedlar’s strife
My back is weathered brown.
Hey, ho, a hawker’s life
Must surely be a curse
My back is bent, my legs are bowed
The only thing that’s worse
Is to meet a willing geisha giiirl,
And find you’ve lost your purse!
Hey!
Hey, ho, a vendor’s life…
Release the tension in your shoulders, your arms. Your movements must be swift and swooping, like the crane, not forced, like the bull. Has this man no dignity? A peasant’s humour. Not fit even for himself, a man of merchant class.
Closer now, he nears the crossroads. You must have patience. React, don’t plan. He is old, but a pedlar has surely survived much banditry before, else he is the luckiest sod in Nihon. He will be wary.
The man is bald, but sports whiskers: further evidence of pollution, corruption of character. He wears a threadbare happi, unbelted, open to reveal pot belly above a filthy loin cloth. His feet are wrapped in waraji sandals, the same style which adorn your own feet. Don’t let your disgust turn to rage, though. Quell it. Ignore it. His are caked with mud and mule shit from the road. He would do better to wear nothing. Yours, of course, are immaculate. Your steps calculated, decisive and designed to maintain your honour. The merchant has no such concept of decency.
At the crossroads now. You have positioned yourself between the south and east. To the west lies only the settlements of the hamlet people. No wealth there. The hawker stops; has he seen you? He scans the dark, and, though confident you are hidden in the quarter-light, you take a silent step back.
Fear not, for he is only resting, catching his breath. He suspects nothing. Minutes pass in which neither of you make a sound. He watches the stars, scratches his arse. You curl your lip, stroke the oiled camphor wood of your scabbard. A slight sweat develops along the lifelines of your palms. Wipe them against your kimono, quietly now; you require sure grip, and sweat signifies fear, weakness. Are you weak?
Finally, the old man turns for the east, and Edo. He passes within just a few feet of you. You smell his stench. Strong, after the heat of the day. His cart is heavily laden, no wonder it weighs him down. Spices, dried foods, haberdasheries, shoes of all kinds. Hanging on hooks from the terminus of the cart, are an assortment of pots and ceramic jars. Wait. Be patient. Let him pass.
On the road to Edo, he is whistling his tune again. Now, as his cart trundles past, you take your sheathed sword, and with it unhook one of the pots, let it fall to the earth. In the soft mud it makes a dull and sucking sound. Above the cicada song and his own noise, the man hears this. Stops. Perhaps he senses your presence, now, for he does not immediately turn. He lowers the cart, steps out from under it. Looking back along its shadowy flanks he sees only watery moonlight, and the silhouette of something stuck in the mud. He could swear it wasn’t there when he passed. There is nothing else.
Sighing, the old pedlar begins his hobble to the fallen object. As he grows nearer, he recognises it as being of his wares, cocks his head, puzzled.
‘Now, how did you…’ he begins, but gets no further.
From out of the shadows, you step.
The man clutches his chest, pales in the darkness. You stoop, gather his pot in your hands, and lift it. It is made of copper, and it catches the moonlight with a shine. The sheer brilliance of metal in the moonlight. You study this for a moment, mesmerised. Focus. You must focus. The pot is a little soiled, with the mud of the road. You turn to the man. He is stunned to silence. His eyes, little pools of mist in which dance a cosmos of stars, strain to determine your features, backlit as you are. Taking the pot in one hand, you use the folds of your kimono, pristine, to wipe it clean. Calm now, engaged in the act, the foreplay of the act, you do not begrudge the ugliness of this action. Hold out the pot, now bow: a few inches, no more.
The man is reanimated. He bows deeply, in return. A little too deeply. He betrays his fear, like a whipped dog. You are sure he thinks he has done well, thinks the deeper his bow, the more reverential. He could never understand your desire for precision, finesse. You are not the shogun, not of a standing demanding such subservience. You doubt, however, that anyone of his class could appreciate the minutiae of respect.
He reaches out and takes the pot, fastens it with shaking hands to the side of his cart. His voice no longer bearing the confidence of his earlier song, the man thanks you. Refers to you as sama, as he should. Samurai-sama, he says. Arigatou gozaimasu, Samurai-sama, he says.
Tell him he is welcome, it is your duty to help; that you were fortunate to be waiting here, waiting for your master, when he should come along, and his pot should drop. It is your pleasure, you say, to aid him.
The man does not know how to receive these lavish affectations. He only smiles and nods. Deferential dog. Maintain your cool. The light of the moon catches the curve of iron wrapping your shoulder. The sheer and terrible brilliance of metal in the moonlight. It is not customary to wear iron on the shoulders, for it is a heavy material. Armourers usually reserve the use of iron for only those parts of the body most vulnerable. But not for you, for you take pride in your strength. You have been standing now for hours, the weight of your dō-maru a constant strain. A test of character. In the light reflected from your epaulets, you can see the veins in the man’s temple pulse.
You ask him what keeps him on the road at such an hour. The man says the way from Matsumoto is long, with little trade lucrative enough to make resting viable. His accent is rough but his logic sound. He says he must make Edo, before he rests, for in Edo is surely great wealth. You tell him you agree. That where he is going there is not only wealth, but glory, too. He is unsure what you mean by this, but thanks you for the blessing.
What is your name? You ask him, and he is humbled by the question. He bows low again, and you think perhaps he may fall: stumble, and collapse, like that drunkard the moon.
He tells you his name is Terutoshi So, but that his friends call him Roba, for he is as good a mule as any, and he will eat almost anything. He says this with some degree of pride, and a humour lost on you. The peasantry are often vulgar, but this one especially so, for he airs his inanities in your presence. Does he expect you should enjoy a joke like this?
Keep your cool. Focus. The firefly waver of Edo on the horizon shimmers and falters; dawn approaches.
Well, you tell the man, Terutoshi So is a fine name. The name of Terutoshi So will not soon be forgotten, you say, and the old man bows again, his cheeks crimsoning. Retaining this posture, his face parallel to the mud, the old pedlar asks you:
‘An old man is weary, sir, and still he has many miles to go. May he take his leave, of you, sir?’
Watch his legs, how they quiver, his back, how it trembles with the strain of the bow. See, how he leverages his weight with hands on thighs, the only ballast which stops him from falling. You draw out your response, leave a pause pregnant and hanging, relishing the ache you know he must be feeling. Enjoy this moment, it is yours.
‘You may take your leave.’
You pronounce your command with strength and eloquence. You step toward the old man. Two paces, three paces, four, your foot planted on ground you had made sure would be firm. With the momentum of your final step, you take hold of the hilt of your sword, hanging erect at your side. Right hand to left hip. It makes a clean, virginal sound as with a single motion you unsheathe it, bring the blade up in a wide, elliptical arc. The strength of the swing comes from the trained flick of your wrist, the bend of your elbow, only locking at the last, at the zenith of its curve. Locking, as you point your sword toward a lone star, hung eternally from the firmament. Along the edge of your blade, a thick black, dripping from tip to hilt. In the moonlight, it shines. The sheer, terrible, beautiful brilliance of metal in the moonlight.
At your feet, falls the severed head of an old man. On his face he wears a coward’s grin. You step once to the side, graceful as a crane, and into your shadow slumps the body of a pedlar, now nameless.
You take a rag of cloth from the pedlar’s cart, and with it clean your blade, untested before tonight. You are careful with your movements. You have proved to yourself the wicked bite of its edge, keen and incisive. A worthy blade, newly forged. A blade named Terutoshi So, with a kick like a mule. A fine ally.
From the back of an old pedlar’s cart, absent of pedlar, you take a swig of saké. Fiery stuff, warrior’s stuff. You gather a handful of dried edamame, for you have worked up a hunger, and the salt of them sates the desire awoken by the drink.
To the west and south is darkness, to the north, the dim outline of mountains, silhouetted by the moon. On the eastern horizon, the light of the city mingles with the growing lustre of morning sun. A new day, you think. And on your face you wear a smile.
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This episode of Stories from the Hearth is based on a real historical practice, that of tsujigiri, which is a Japanese term literally meaning: crossroads killing. It was a practice when a samurai, after receiving their new katana, would test its effectiveness by attacking a human opponent, usually a defenceless passer-by, and most often at night. The samurai who practiced this called themselves tsujigiri. During the Sengoku period of 1467-1600 there was such widespread lawlessness that the practice of tsujigiri, already barbaric, lent itself to indiscriminate murder, permitted by the unchecked power of the samurai. Even once the Sengoku period had lapsed into the much more lawful Edo period, this practice still occurred, culminating in the most horrible spree killing of one hundred people: sex workers and men, in the Yoshiwara district of Tokyo, in 1696.
Thank you for listening to this month’s Story From The Hearth. you liked what you heard, please do subscribe, and share this podcast with friends, family, and anyone you know who could use just a half-hour’s respite from the chaotic energies of the everyday. You can also now rate podcasts on Spotify, so if you’re listening to it there, why not drop us some stars. If you wish to support the podcast, please head to my Patreon by hitting the link in the description. Similarly, you can check out the podcast’s Instagram, Twitter, website and email address via the links below. Story episodes are released on the last Sunday of every month. Additional episodes in The Wandering Bard historical mini-series will pop up from time to time. Until next we meet around the fire, I’ve been Calum Bannerman, and you’ve been listening to Stories From The Hearth.