Muraji

Muna found it odd that Muraji looked the least “Yamato” out of the three men she had encountered so far. Sure, that was a small number to go off of, but combined with the Yamato travelers she had encountered here in Hi before she had a much wider pool. Most Yamato prided themselves on being “noble”; they tended to wear white clothing to symbolize their purity, the gods they worshiped were far above mortal affairs, and their all particular habits and their particularity were difficult for any man outside their culture to fathom.

Then there was this Muraji—gruff and earthly. Dark clothing, a thick beard, and a utilitarian style. And, most distinctive of all, the white serpents stitched into his jacket. The Hayato, of course, esteemed snakes, even revered them. They were tricksters, and a trickster’s cunning was appreciated when on the hunt. Many men had tattoos of red emulating snakeskin all down their arms, or otherwise a coiled snake on their back. But for the Yamato, this cunning was the very thing they detested about them. And, of course, they reminded them of the Hayato. In Tsukushi, dead snakes, not living ones, were seen as good omens. Muna knew not how the rest of this settlement felt about Muraji, but to her he felt strangely familiar. Emphasis on the “strange”.

He did not take long to size up Muna before he delivered his verdict.

“Well,” he began, “forget what those boys said. You’re not a Hayato. You just look like you were raised by the wolves.” Then he gave a loud, hearty laugh. Muna would not have been amused in any case, but certainly now she had absolutely no reason to be. Muraji caught on, and the laughter came to a quick stop.

“Sorry. And I’ve really got to apologize for those boys, too. They’re so green they barely even know what a Hayato looks like. Odd sense of style aside, though, I can tell you’ve got the spirit of one. The Hayato-damashihi, if you will. Don’t you?”

A puzzled stare from Muna.

“Why do you look like a Hayato?” she asked plainly.

“BWAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!” came another hearty laugh from Muraji. “Guess this really works. It’s complicated, but…I don’t mean any offense by it, I’ll tell you that.”

“I wasn’t upset,” replied Muna even more confused now, “I just don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Muraji. “Anyways, as much as I’d appreciate some slaves, I don’t wish to cause any trouble with all your people around here. We’ll keep the deer since it was on the Great Kimi’s land, but I’ll release you here shortly.”

Muna’s confusion was replaced by irritation. She knew she ought, like the snake, to use this man’s folly to her advantage and make off with her life, but why, why did she still have to be lumped in with some group or another? She was Muna—not Yamato, not Hayato, and certainly no other people. Even when a Yamato showed her some goodwill, it was only because he assumed too much about her. Why did she have to be here, where the Hayato—even her own mother—called her a foreigner and the Yamato called her a Hayato, and not somewhere like the Plain again?

Bit by bit she grew to hate this land. That hate manifested in her eyes.

“Hm?” exclaimed Muraji. “Well, you certainly seem upset now. Something I say?”

“…No,” said Muna, hesitantly. “My leg hurts. That’s all.”

“I see. Must’ve been those boys. Hmph! They’ll be hearing an earful from me later, I swear… But I can see about getting you some herbs to numb the pain.”

“N-No!” Muna refused abruptly.

Once again, Muraji took notice. This time, that amicable smile he had worn finally had enough and vanished from his face, and he stooped down to Muna’s level. As the man, now agitated like she was, slowly moved in on her, he seemed as if he was blocking all the sun’s light. He let out a long, deep sigh.

“You know, I don’t like being lied to,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m trying my damned best to show you a little kindness, but I don’t see you giving me any. In fact, something tells me you don’t want to go back home. Am I wrong?”

He was right—wait, no, he wasn’t! Tension spread its way all across Muna’s face. She had failed, once again. She had failed to hit the stag on her first shot, which led her all the way to this cursed settlement to begin with. She had failed to talk the two brothers out of not capturing her, and then she had failed to evade the brothers’ clutches. Now, she had failed to even grin and take whatever she was given. Damn the Yamato, damn the Hayato—but most of all, damn herself! There was no way out now; she had dug her own grave, and at this point all she could do was dig it deeper.

“I’m not a Hayato,” she said through gritted teeth.

Muraji laughed again—could this man do anything but laugh?

“That’s what you’re so angry about?” he replied, exasperated. “Not that you’ve been split up from your family? Not that your people are out there worried for you and—”

“I don’t have a people! I am MUNA!”

“Fine, then.” Muraji drew a knife—Muna’s stone knife—from his belt and pointed it under Muna’s chin.

“I’m Muronokida no Muraji Asamaro. I have a people. And right now, my people could use a Muna. You’re going to be my slave whether you want it or not. Escape, and I’ll kill you. If anyone comes looking for you, they’ll pay us a ransom before they get you back. Are we clear?”

Muna’s eyes scarcely blinked as they stared at Muraji—not in defiance, but in impatience. If she was too proud to call herself a Hayato, then a simple “yes, sir” was absolutely beneath her. But looking at how relaxed her breathing was, how she did not more of shift about, Muraji could tell she did not mean to say “no” either.

“Good enough for me,” he said after a few seconds, before stretching his legs out and standing up once again. “I’ll need to speak to the Great Kimi about this. After that, I’ll untie you from that post and take you with me.” Muna still could not see what exactly she was tied to, but judging by the massive shadow it cast over her and a couple spans beyond, it must have been some watch-tower. To her right was a palisade like the one on the outside of the village, albeit made of smaller trunk-sections. To her left was a gap in the palisade, which opened into a grassy clearing. From the distance at which the palisade curved, this must have been quite the large enclosure.

Muraji did not make it more than a few steps inside the enclosure before a jarring noise cracked through the still midday air. For Muna, it was all the more alien because it was the heavy, dull ringing of iron. A tone sounded once, twice, three times, but lingered in the air for what felt like a whole minute. Then the cadence repeated. Nearby, Muna could hear footsteps tearing through the grass. Two pairs. She looked to her right, and, sure enough, it was the brothers again. They sprinted past her, not even sparing her a glance, and ran into the enclosure after Muraji.

“MURAJI!” the voice of the older cried. “We’ve spotted a group moving through the forest! At least a hundred men, twenty uma!”

“What!” exclaimed Muraji. “Are you certain?”

“We’re certain, sir! And from the banner they had, it must have been…”

“…Umisachi?”

An apprehensive silence.

“By the gods…” Muraji muttered to himself. Then, regaining his composure, he took command of the boys once again.

“Go relay what you’ve heard to the Great Kimi. I’ll rally the men.”

“Yes, sir!” the brothers answered. Two pairs of feet made their way into the enclosure. One made its way out. Muraji burst forth from behind the wall. Sparing no time, he took the knife in his possession and went behind Muna. The girl, against her own will, jumped, but Muraji steadied her, taking hold of the rope binding her to the post. He worked quickly but smoothly at this rope, with as much care as Muna took with it while it was in her hands. Finally the rope gave and snapped. Muraji stuck the knife back in his belt and planted himself firmly in front of Muna.

“Get up,” he ordered her.