A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

"What’s this?"

Gengyo asked suspiciously, as Momochi handed him a cup filled with a liquid that gave off the scent of various herbs.

"A tea lovingly brewed."

Came the old man’s response, as he wore his usual smile.

"And why should I trust that? It seems rather odd to give one a cup of tea this close to bedtime. I’d rather not have my sleep interrupted by the needs of nature."

"Interrupted, is it?"

He responded still pushing him the tea. There was something about his knowing smile that made Gengyo distrustful, as he took the tea with both hands, taking care not to let the boiling water spill on his skin.

"Yours doesn’t smell like mine..."

Gengyo noted, as he stood next to Kitajo, and could not detect the same aromatic herbal smell coming from the lad’s steaming cup.

"That is because you do not have the same tea, of course."

Momochi informed him, as though that was obvious. They had returned to the old monk’s company as evening had neared, and Soroko had left them to attend to other things, and since then, it had seemed to be the monk’s prerogative to try and fire up Gengyo at all opportunities that he possibly could.

"And why might that be?"

He dared to ask, already knowing he would not get a response. The monk’s seemed rather fond of cryptic replies that rather than offering further information, and left the asker even more confused.

"I wonder."

Came the expected response. Momochi had shown them to a small room at the bottom of the large multistoried temple structure, where they had bathed earlier. It seemed the majority of the monk’s lodged in this area, or on the floors above.

Yet their room seemed slightly bare compared to what might be expected. There was literally nothing in it. The only thing that they had to cushion their heads as they slept on the floor was a layer of tatami.

"You are quite the distrustful individual, young man. It would be rude to reject the hospitality we’ve shown you in making the tea – see, your comrade has already completed his."

Gengyo turned to look at Kitajo in surprise, to find out it was true. The lad shot him an apologetic look.

"...It tasted good."

Was all he offered.

"Tsch."

He tutted, shaking his head. He raised the glass to his lips, making constant eye contact with Momochi, who was still smiling reassuringly as though he no alterior motives other than to offer them a cup of tea.

His wide sleeves drapped heavily, as though they wished to smother the teacup, and as he tilted the cup back, and let the liquid run into his mouth, he left the smallest of gaps, so that it could drain out along his sleeve. It was uncomfortable, but he did not wish for his mood to be alterted by whatever herbs they decided would be the best way to ’fix’ him. He was a man of his own mind.

He showed the empty cup to Momochi, indicating that he had completed it.

"Was it good?"

The old monk asked, forcing him to speak. There was the tiniest fraction of the liquid still present on his tongue, and on impulse, he was forced to gulp before he spoke.

’Shit...’

He cursed, as he felt it slip down his throat.

’...Well, such a tiny amount should not have any effect.’

He reasoned, before responding to the monk’s question.

"Mm, it wasn’t awful."

"I am very glad to hear that. I will leave you two now to get your rest."

Momochi left just as quickly as he had come. It seemed after seeing Gengyo consume the herbal liquid, his job was finished.

"Heh..."

Gengyo muttered as he watched him go. He was a strange man indeed.

"...Sorry about drinking the tea, Miura."

Kitajo said quietly, after he had left.

"It’s fine. But be careful in future – their motives still aren’t obvious, and we don’t know what they’re liable to put in our tea."

"I know, but... Don’t you think you’re being too distrustful? They’re monks, after all. They’re meant to be honourable."

"Perhaps."

Was his single-word response. He was unwilling to discuss it further. His stance on such a thing was firm. It seemed there was something to be gained from living amongst the monks, but he was unwilling to make any sacrifices, lest it come back to haunt him later.

"We should do as the old man said though, and sleep."

It was indeed growing rather late, and their day had been far more eventful than they would have hoped. Kitajo met his words with a nod, and curled up in one corner of the room, using his robe as a blanket.

Gengyo moved to do the same, but a twinge of pain in his sternum halted his movements.

’Bastard...’

He cursed, recalling the monk that had struck him out of nowhere. It was a painful injury indeed, and he was lucky not to have broken anything.

’I’ll get him back for that.’

He decided, as he rolled onto the floor carefully.

’A liar. A temple. A monk. Could this day have been any more problematic?’ Only he could phrase the manic series of events as merely ’problematic’. It was a series of inconveniences brought about by the worst kind of luck, yet still, he did not give up hope. In chaos like this – that was where he thrived. As other people flailed around and were consumed by it, he was able to order it neatly, and quickly.

No man is infalliable, yet someone like he, who is able to deal with chaos so familiarly – they were as near to it as you could come. An onlooker might have a harsh opinion of him, and say that he should have acted differently in certain events. Yet the same onlooker would crumble thousands of times worse. That was why he – despite his intense criticisms of himself – was still able to hold his head up, and trust in himself, and his own problem solving ability.

...

...

Morning. He looked up at the bright light that permeated throughout the room in surprise. It had been a long time since he had felt such a sensation. The feeling of being able to recall just what had happened for the past eight hours. And that was evidence of but one thing: the quality of the his slumber.

It took him mere moments to connect the dots in his head, and place the blame with the tiny fraction of herbal brew that he had swallowed. In concluding that, he set about analysing other parts of himself for any changes.

Emotional state? Normal. Not consumed by joy, nor wading through thick muds of depression. Both were as dangerous as the other. Speed? Normal, perhaps slightly sharper. Cause? Better sleep. He was familiar with, and had consumed, various types of drugs experimentally, and was aware of the effect they could have on the body. He displayed none of their symptoms, not even that of caffeine.

He stood up – he was compelled to. A brief glance to the left. Kitajo was still sleeping, and had yet to wake.

’Good.’

A single punch forward. The air could be felt rippling around his fist. Faster? Certainly. His expectations had been met. For almost a month he had walked around with a weight on his shoulders. Not a weight that was affected by gravity, but a weight none the less. It hindered his abilities, and it hindered his mind. Yet he still forced himself to perform to a certain standard because of it. That weight, was of course, fatigue. And with that weight lifted – like an athlete that had previously trained with 20 kilograms of weight on his back whilst running – he was that much sharper than before.

His mind felt reinvigorated and heightened, and his body was swift and responsive. And this was merely the first day of having his sleep returned. If a week of quality were to come to pass? New heights would be reached, and clouds would be stolen from the heavens. He curled his lips in anticipation. His psychological burden had not yet been lifted, from witnessing the deaths of so many that he had come to value. But that did not matter too much, as of yet.

"Ho, awake already, are we?" Soroko stood at the door. Gengyo’s heart fluttered, because, for the first time, he had actually sensed the man coming – though he was unsure whether it was was him. It was manifest as an itch behind his ear, but nevertheless, he had sensed him.

Gengyo turned to him with a small smile. There was something about these people. They could see far more than their eyes should be able to, and they had noted his aliments within a mere day. Yet he could not understand why they were helping him.

"Soroko-sensei." He replied with respect. The man was older than him, even with both this life and the past one combined. He was wiser than any human had right to be, and, he had earned Gengyo’s respect.

There were words, and there were words. Some did not need to be said, and were manifest merely as a feeling between two or more individuals. And for scripture to capture and describe such a feeling would be to defile it, and render it less than it is truly worth. But, put loosely, it was a feeling of understanding. They both knew what had occurred, yet they did not feel the need to say it. The monk understood Gengyo’s gratitude, but he did not push him to express it. Such was their order, and such was his heart.

"You are eager to fight – that is clear. But the darkness within your mind, and your heart, there is a way to tame it." He spoke measuredly, for he understood the value of this individual. Despite the respect he had shown for him, he did not change his manner of speech because of it.

"Tame it, not purge it?" Gengyo noted astutely. The reason he had grown stronger was because of the darkness. But like a performance-enhancing drug, there had been numerous side effects, such as his lack of sleep.

"Indeed. Tame it. That should be your goal. Someone who has experienced their own darkness, and can control it, is virtuous. The rest are nothing more than sheep, who are incapable of inflicting harm. That is why we send our monks out into the world, to experience that side of themselves – within us all dwells a demon. Now, enough of that. I can see from your eyes you already have such an understanding. Come with me, and I will teach you how to meditate."

Gengyo did not respond with words, but instead with a questioning glance toward Kitajo, wondering whether they should wake him.

"Do not worry about your comrade – he walks a different path to your own."

He nodded his understanding, and followed the old monk out of the room. He asked neither questions nor did he voice his doubts. Mediation, from his experience, was an underwhelming affair. Yet he had been taught not to take these old monks lightly, for their knowledge was quite obviously vast.

A stone room in a vast chamber. Surprisingly, for a religion that was so connected with nature, they had gone underground. With flickering flames, and a golden statue of Buddha, they took their seats down on old mats, dusted lightly with a white-grey powder that had slipped from the walls around them.

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