Dororo: A Novel
Tsuji Masaki
Part Two:
The Tale of Yarokamizu,
the Water Demon
Chapter 1
“Hehehehe.”
“Ah! A thief!”
“Who are you guys callin’ a thief, huh?”
“Gah! My belt is gone!”
“Someone took my kimono!”
“Huh? Where’s my beard?!”
“You’re a bunch of damn clowns. If you’re so upset that I took your stuff, why not chase me down and try to get it back?”
“Hey, it’s that kid!”
“This way! He’s this way!”
“Hahaha. We’ve got you surrounded now, brat. Time to give your ass a pounding you’ll never forget.”
“Hehehehe. Next time, I’ll take the strings holding up your underwear, too.1”
The child who’d spoken was a quick little thing. You’d never find a cleverer child if you looked all your life. Put the ancient warrior and hero Yoshitsune2 on modern-day roller skates and you’d get some idea of the child’s speed. He moved so fast that by the time his pursuers realized he was gone, all that was left of him was taunting globs of manure right to the face, which he’d thrown at them before speeding off.
The pursuers of the little thief were thieves themselves. They’d sold their names on the battlefield to whoever was paying the best price for their services. They struggled to capture the little thief, who ducked right when they struck left and ducked under when they aimed high.
The little thief led his pursuers a merry dance, and eventually they were too exhausted to keep running after him.
“Let him go. It’s not worth it.”
“That damnable brat.”
The boy swept over battlefields like a storm, stuffing his pockets with money.
What did he need so much money for? He bought a mountain of manjū3 and ran around to all the poor families and houses and delivered it to them for free. Can you believe it? He was a chivalrous little thief. Whether he was stupid for giving away food is something I couldn’t judge.
The little thief was almost always able to escape after his work in a village was done, but in this village, his luck finally ran out. He was discovered fleeing and surrounded by his angry fellow thieves.
However, this little thief was a champion when it came to finding a way out of tight spaces. He wormed his way out of the crowd that surrounded him, ran a little distance, then turned around and pulled his eyelid down, sticking out his tongue at the same time.
“Morons! Fools! Blockheads! Assholes! Next time I’ll pee on you if you get in my way!”
Looking closely at him would reveal a face as cute as a button, wild and crazy hair that was knotted like a sparrow’s nest, and clothes that might once have been whole and clean but were now neither. They also didn’t fit him very well, being much too small. He was perhaps ten years old, but he talked like he was older, and with authority, as if he had the right to boss everyone around.
“I shall grace you with my name: Lord Dororo, the most renowned thief in the history of the world! The big burly men that rob the war dead of their swords and armor, snatching riches from the depths of the River Sanzu,4 sicken me with their cowardice! Rice becomes unbearably spicy when too much pepper5 is added to it. I, Dororo, am the pepper on these villains’ rice, and I will make their lives a living hell!”
This bold speech might be threatening in an adult, but Dororo was obviously a child, and many of his boasts were empty. That didn’t prevent his listeners from taking offense.
“This kid’s making fun of us!”
Dororo’s pursuers had chased him to a ravine of the Uji River that was blocked off in many directions by brambles. He wasn’t far from the bridge that crossed the river and connected Japan’s two ancient capitals, Kyōto and Nara.
A man with a cut-open forehead, hands curled into half-fists and anger in his eyes came to the edge of the riverbed, picked up a smooth stone, and threw it at the child. The stone wasn’t aimed well, but it still struck an unfortunate place: Dororo’s heel.
Dororo’s pursuers, sensing weakness, closed in and pushed him down. Dororo’s smart mouth couldn’t save him here, and even if his foot wasn’t injured, he had no place to run.
“Let me go! Hey!” Dororo shouted. He twisted his body around with the elasticity of a rubber ball, and finally won free with a cry like a victory song. He was running across the ravine again, back to the battlefield he’d come from, and his pursuers were fast on his heels.
“Stone him!”
“Kick him!”
“Get him down!”
Dororo was in bad shape. His injured leg dragged behind him, and he had bruises and cuts from thrown stones and kicks to his little body. He fled, bleeding, along the riverbank.
Despite his injuries, Dororo laughed boldly. “Hehehehe!”
Dororo’s face was smeared with blood and mud in equal measure. The men chasing him took in the battered sight of the child and suddenly felt a keen awareness of what they’d done. Rather than backing off, though, they doubled down.
“What’s up with you, kid?”
“Don’t try to make us feel sorry for you!”
They picked up Dororo and tossed him into the flowing river. Dororo didn’t resist. He didn’t swim, either. He sank like a stone and didn’t surface.
“Forty... forty-one... forty-two... All right, it’s done. Let’s go,” one of the men who’d thrown Dororo in the river said.
When they were gone, Dororo surfaced. He was laughing. His dark hair stuck to his forehead. “Hehehehehe....”
What vitality! What strength! Who would ever think a child could shrug off all the terrible beatings and abuse that those ruffians had afflicted him with? Dororo’s pursuers had beaten and beaten and beaten him, but they hadn’t won.
“Hehehehehe....”
But Dororo’s pursuers were not quite gone. Dororo crept near them, sucking blood-tinged drool into his mouth and casting handfuls of river sand into their eyes.
Before the others could react, Dororo was gone: a flash of light vanishing into the trees. One man that he’d temporarily blinded was the leader of the group. He wasn’t the only one Dororo had managed to injure. The thieves rested along the river side, out of breath and tired out.
Roving bands of thieving soldiers were common in this area. They murdered and stole each morning before breakfast, sowing seeds of cruelty in a world that was already cruel. It was no surprise that men such as these valued Dororo’s life as little as they would an insect’s. They’d been humiliated by the brat and couldn’t let him live. They didn’t want to set a bad precedent for others who thought to stand up to them.
“We’ll kill him,” the leader said.
Dororo limped away from them one-legged like an injured monkey, full to bursting with rage on the inside. He felt the presence of his pursuers as they drew near again.
There was a strange boy standing at the edge of the ravine, his feet scuffing stones.
This boy’s name was Hyakkimaru.
1 Historical underwear is called fundoshi (褌). Fundoshi are similar to loincloths, and they stay up by tying pieces together, as the theif’s statement implies here.↩
2 Minamoto no Yoshitsune (源 義経, c. 1159 – June 15, 1189) was a military commander of the Minamoto clan of Japan in the late Heian and early Kamakura periods. During the Genpei War, he led a series of battles which toppled the Ise-Heishi branch of the Taira clan, helping his half-brother Yoritomo consolidate power. He is considered one of the greatest and the most popular warriors of his era, and one of the most famous samurai in the history of Japan.The author uses Yoshitsune’s childhood name here, 牛若丸 (Ushiwakamaru). Historically, samurai children had one name in childhood and were granted another in adulthood. ↩
3 Manjū (饅頭) is a steamed yeast bun with sweet filling.↩
4三途の川: The River Sanzu is similar to the River Styx in Greek mythology; it is a river that runs through the Japanese underworld.↩
5 山椒: This is Japanese pepper plant, also known as prickly ash. The fruit of the plant serves as a local substitute for ordinary red pepper.↩
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