The Face of the Enemy

Swiss Army Knife

"Prejudice cannot see the things that are

because it is always looking for things that aren't."

- Mark Twain

The innkeeper woke up every morning to the cold floorboard beside her bed, where once a small futon had been stretched. She would turn on her side, knead her arthritic hands, and allow the old grief to tie itself into a hard knot inside her chest. Only then did she get out of bed.

She would pin back her long, grey hair and tie a matronly apron over her lap. Then to the kamidana, the little family shrine, to light incense. The smell would waft around her like an unhappy ghost, and afterwards she would walk with heavy steps to the kitchen, where Sonosuke would already be preparing breakfast if he knew what was good for him.

The work of running the inn began as the sun made its slow path through the rowen and aspen trees of the high wood. She and her husband had established their business at the base of the mountain as a place to make a gentle living with their daughter, but the borders had grown unstable. Twice, in one year, they had paid taxes – to two different Lords. And with these power struggles, violence had come to the forest and to the little inn on the edge of two lands.

"Ota-san," Sonosuke greeted her cheerfully. She watched him heft fuel to carry to the bedroom stoves. He had a stubble of whiskers and was getting on in years, but she kept him on. He minded the repairs and was strong enough to keep out the general riffraff. The usual riraff, but not all.

Her face clenched with anger, and she thought, No, not all.

It was very late in the evening when the sound of wood sliding on its tracks announced Sonosuke, whose worried frown slipped inside her door. "Ota-san, there's someone coming," he said. "Not from the road. The woods."

Her hand paused, poised over her ledger. A tremor of fear went through her, because it was too late for regular guests. Nonetheless, she put on her dressing gown and followed Sonosuke. Although it was no protection, she also slipped the knife she used to open envelopes into the quilted pocket of her gown.

In the dark, gathering elevation of the forest, it was possible to hear the approach. The ground's thick blanket of fall leaves crackled. Branches snapped and popped, and for a moment Ota allowed herself to believe they were safe, because surely shinobi wouldn't make so much noise. Then the brush parted and two figures came staggering out.

At first they were indistinct from one another, formless, until the faint light of the lantern made it possible to see that one was draped over the other's back. The taller man had a long, pale arm clenched tightly around his companion's neck, and the other stumbled under their combined weight. Sonosuke moved instinctively to help, but Ota caught his arm.

Even from this distance she could smell the blood, and it froze every compassionate bone in her body.

They stepped nearer, and the one who was upright panted under his burden. In the low light, she could barely make out his face, but she could tell that his threadbare clothing was soaked through.

The stranger didn't seem to have the strength to bow, but he tried to duck his head. The head resting on his shoulder moved with him, dark and light hair shifting together, and the ailing man produced a low moan. Lines of concern framed the strained dark eyes that sought hers. "Please. He's not well. Will you shelter us here?"

Ota wasn't moved by his plea. She knew who these men were – what they were – but never before had they come to her wounded. It put her in a position she had never imagined. To give herself time to think, she questioned, "Who are you?"

"We came to be hired at the dam site, but when we started working, it was –" The stranger's account trailed off, his features becoming pinched as though he couldn't find words for the suffering they'd experienced.

Ota could feel Sonosuke softening beside her. It was a plausible story. Everyone hated that wretched dam. The daimyo rearranged the land without thinking of the damage or the conditions endured by the workers. Yet she trusted this sad tale as much as she would the keening of a fox with his foot caught in a snare. A sympathizer would receive nothing but a mangled hand.

"What is your name?"

The flickering hesitation was almost indiscernible. "Iruka."

"And your friend?"

A greater pause. "Kakashi," he said finally, and a weary smile flitted over his lips. Ota was disgusted. Did he really expect her to believe such nonsense? But the man who claimed to be called Iruka did not argue with her apparent disbelief. Instead, he repeated, "Will you let us stay here?"

Sonosuke moved forward before she could respond and wordlessly took part of the weight of the unconscious man onto his own shoulders. "There's a room in the back." He looked right at her as he suggested it. "It's dusty. We don't use it."

A moment of pure anger flew through Ota. She did not want these…these shinobi in her house. Hadn't she endured enough? When the patrols came through and she had no choice but to entertain them, wasn't that already too much to bear? But then, even now there was only a parody of a choice. The loose, torn clothes kept them out of sight, but there were surely hidden teeth. Sonosuke's broader shoulders were an illusion.

Ota pushed open the door and stood aside.

Sonosuke brought them bedding and steaming water. 'Iruka' was not shy about stripping off his companion's damp, muddy clothes – all, Ota noticed, except for the mask clinging around his pale throat, obscuring the lower half of the face it covered. This he left it in place until he had, with difficulty, eased the prone body into the warmth of the futon and drawn the covers high.

Why? From her hidden place by the door, Ota wondered. Would that carefully guarded face match the visage of a wanted man? Yet the carefulness used to preserve this privacy wasn't anxious. Instead, she found herself thinking that it was protective, as if he were defending a dignity that she didn't know.

The lamp burned down as the oil ebbed; the warm water sunk low in its bowl and cooled. It was nearly dawn before all was settled and the one who called himself Iruka came to where she still waited. His weariness was like a cloak he wore, yet he still met her unsympathetic eyes. She led him to her own room and leaned against the dresser. There were only a few things on it: a bone comb, a covered jar of ointment, and a small, faded portrait. She averted her eyes.

She'd had had all night to think about what to say. "You won't be able to move him, not if you want him to live. Not for at least two weeks." She'd heard the rattle in the narrow chest – pneumonia. Untended, in a winter forest, it would be a death sentence.

There was nothing he could do but agree. "Yes."

"He'll need rest, medicine, shelter. Food."

Out of the corner of her eye, Ota saw Iruka's throat working, and this was the test. She had him backed into a corner, and it was in this moment that he might lash out. He would demand what he needed and take it by force. He might even kill her – but she didn't think so.

In her mind was the memory of blankets being pulled up with great care. She could read his worry right now, hidden under the studied neutrality. He cared for the comrade lying on the floor of her house, swaddled in the warmth of her linens and breathing within the safety of her walls. He would need cooperation to properly care for him and also stay hidden.

If pushed, she knew he would abandon the sick one. It was all they knew, these soldiers. They were masters of selfish purposes. But, for now at least, she had him – trapped by whatever flimsy loyalty was between these two men.

She waited to see if he might snap, but he remained still and silent. His hand had not even made a fist. More sure of herself, Ota proceeded to ask the damning question: "Do you have any money?"

She had known the answer even before she asked, but it still gave her some satisfaction to see him pale. "I don't have any money – or anything of value."

"And yet you ask for my help," she scoffed and shook her head. "But I will let you pay. For the room, and whatever else he'll need. You'll pay for my silence too, do you understand?"

He said nothing, but his deep, dark eyes gazed into her face steadily, and again her anger flared because he refused to admit the truth. She snatched up her comb, wishing it were a weapon, and whirled to face him. "You will work for me," she snarled. "Whatever I say, you'll do. And if you ever get different ideas – I'd like to see you try to keep him safe by yourself. Patrols come by all the time!"

He looked at her, weighed her, and then he did something she didn't expect. Slowly, with difficulty, he sunk to his knees and bowed until his forehead touched the floor. "I'll work for you," he vowed. "Shelter him, and I'll pay any way you like."

Ota was shaken. She had not expected such a show of humility, and for a moment it stroked her conscience. It made her feel guilty that she would threaten a wounded man, that she would demand payment from someone in such dire need. Yet just as shame began to work on her, a little corpse and a streak of blood came wailing into her memory, and all ability to feel shut down.

She turned her back. "You'll be no use to anyone today. Go sleep. You can begin work tomorrow at first light. Sonosuke will show you."

It took Iruka more than one try to stand. The first time his knee gave out from under him. However, once he had reached the threshold, he paused and found her eye in the dresser mirror.

"Thank you, Lady."

Ota remained leaning over her bureau, collecting the ragged edges of herself, for a long time after she heard the door click shut.

After the fires had been banked, Ota summoned Sonosuke. "Tomorrow, I want you to take our guest out to the copse behind the shed. He can spend the day there."

Sonosuke rubbed his cloth hat off his head, pressing it between his palms. "That's awfully hard work for an invalid," he remarked. "Suppose I show him how to winter the garden instead?"

"No," Ota answered, taking down the last pin from her hair. It had grown very grey; the two hard bits of slate that were her eyes matched it exactly. "I want him given hard work. Let him use a little of his strength to ease our labor. Why not?"

"We already got all we need." Sonosuke tried once more to sway her, but she would not budge.

"The extra wood will never be wasted in a place like this. Now do as I say."

The length of time it took for Sonosuke to replace his cap made his movements seem doubtful, but he didn't challenge her. "Yes, Ota-san," he said, and wished her good-night.

The soothing ointment took some of the pain from her hands, but as Ota began to crawl into her bed, she was struck by a desire to look in on her unwelcome guests. The hall was dim, but the boards had been cut evenly and didn't creak. She came to the entry and peered inside.

There were many pillows propped behind the sick man's back. However, even with them, Ota could still hear the labored breathing and see the flush on sallow cheeks. Clearly the illness had become critical; the fever was spiking.

Iruka was bathing his companion in an attempt to control his temperature, but sometimes the breathing would still catch and – terrifyingly – falter. As she watched, a particularly bad episode seized Kakashi. He fought to free the obstruction, but his body was too weak even to curl inward or contract as he coughed. He made wretched, drowning sounds.

Iruka intervened. Pulling his companion up from the pallet, they rested, chest to chest. After a while, the leverage seemed to help. Too feeble to do anything else, the pale man rested his cheek against his companion's neck and continued breathing while the cloth returned, wiping away the perspiration.

Feeling like an invader, Ota turned away and went to bed.