text: The Yamato plain is a basin bordered by mountains. Jiro passed the city of Nara in the center of the plain by a side road. Meeting a professional messenger on the road, he had sent a message to Okiku, but inasmuch as there was little real news to tell, he only asked her to alert their friend Goemon and meet him at some well-known spot. He chose Koya-san, knowing little about his quarry besides their possible connection with that well-known monastery. He had inquired along his route, gleaning a hint here and there. Yamabushi bands were not uncommon, many travelled with women, and they all seemed to be heading south. Still, Osatsuki's beauty and charm were striking, and Jiro was not a man to give up easily.
  
  He marched the entire day. Well-tended, straight-sided rice fields stretched out to the wooded mountains that rose steadily before him. He made inquiries along the way, with little hope. No one had seen any sign that could be interpreted as a kidnapped courtesan. The ground rose with the setting of the sun, and by the time the sun was in the far west, Jiro decided to call it a day. He was in a rural area. Small hamlets and occasional isolated houses dotted the landscape. He headed towards one of the nearer hamlets across the fields and fruit groves. A road led through the hamlet, and it looked as if it might have an inn, or at least the house of a wealthy farmer who would offer him shelter for the night.
  
  He passed through a small peach orchard and came suddenly upon a small farmhouse. Before it, a spring bubbled from between two rocks. One of them was carved with the words "water god," to indicate its sacred nature. A young woman knelt by the water's edge, at the small artificial pool. She was bare to the waist, and her breasts dangled suggestively over the water. She was combing her hair, and spots of moisture on her back seemed to indicate that she was in the final act of a rustic bath.
  
  She raised her head at Jiro's approach, saw his tall figure emerging from the trees, gasped, and rose to flee. Her straw sandal caught in a tangle of brush, and she crashed to the ground, yelping in pain. Trying desperately to rise, she cried out. Jiro stopped at the other side of the pool as she frantically sought to cover her breasts and crawl away from him at the same time.
  
  "I won't hurt you," he said. To demonstrate his peaceful intentions he knelt and drew some water in his cupped hand.
  
  She tried to rise and fell back. Panting heavily, she managed to hide her breasts. He rocked back on his hams and looked at her.
  
  "I was only passing through, on my way to the hamlet." He waved casually at the gathering gloom behind her.
  
  His tone and immobility rather than his words seemed to reassure her. She rolled to her knees and bowed.
  
  "I am sorry, Mr. Samurai, but I am not used to strangers. My mother and I are alone here since—Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth in consternation.
  
  "Ah, you're not supposed to say that, are you?" He laughed and waved a hand. "Don't worry. I'll be on my way. I won't take advantage of your situation."
  
  He rose to go, and she rose with him, moaning a little. She turned to pick up a heavy wooden bucket but could not put weight on her sprained ankle. She cried in pain.
  
  "Let me help you?"
  
  She tried to refuse, awed by her proximity to what was to her a mighty nobleman. He insisted gently and was at last allowed to carry the heavy bucket. He marvelled at these simple country girls, able to carry burdens that would make a man look for other employment.
  
  The house was a small peasant's cottage. The interior was divided by wooden and matting screens into several rooms. Bare rafters, huge beams of twisted aged wood, rose in the gloom. Farmer's tools were scattered about. Over all was an air of abandonment and poverty. Tools seemed unrepaired, and the matting was old, the wood warped.
  
  She begged him to rest, and Jiro gratefully sat on the wooden platform, his feet still in sandals on the pounded earth floor of the entrance hall. He removed his sword from his sash and accepted the fruit she offered.
  
  "How did you get here, sir?" she asked with country ingenuousness.
  
  "I am looking for a friend," he answered absently. She was quite pretty, he decided. Flat, round face with fine eyes. Thick ankles below the hem of her short dress, but a nicely rounded body. "I was hoping to find an inn in the hamlet..."
  
  "There isn't one," she said. "It's a very poor village. There is an inn, I have heard, several miles away. Perhaps you could try that?"
  
  "No. I'll just have to sleep on the veranda of some shrine. The kami are always hospitable."
  
  She laughed. Then her brows ceased in thought. "Actually, why don't you stay here for the night? I'm afraid we have little to offer, but at least a mat and some protection from the elements..."
  
  He waved his hand in refusal. "I could not impose on your parents..."
  
  "No, only my mother. She is not here now. She has gone to sell some akebia-vine baskets. My father died some years ago. That is why we are so poor." She looked mournfully at the dilapidated cottage.
  
  He bowed his thanks.
  
  Supper was a simple stew of mushrooms, wild vegetables, and taro cooked in a pot over a small fire. It was held by a straw rope threaded through a wooden post in the shape of a fish. She served him, not eating until he had had his fill. While she was eating he leaned forward and poked idly at the fire. His hand snaked forward into the ashes.
  
  "Look—you must have lost this..." There was a small string of square-holed copper cash in his hand. Her bowl almost dropped from her hand. She laid down her chopsticks and stared at the money. He laid it down in her lap.
  
  "It must have dropped there from your father's sleeve," Jiro said. He was almost penniless now, but there would always be some way to proceed. She hugged the string to her breasts.
  
  Just then they were interrupted. "I am home!" a strong female voice called from the entrance hall. "Etsuko, come and help me." The girl hurried to her feet and rushed to the entrance, calling, "Welcome home!"
  
  The mother was in her early forties, Jiro estimated. She had the girl's country good looks, not yet turned stringy with age, her face only slightly wrinkled with care. She cast a suspicious look at Jiro, then at her daughter. Seeing nothing apparently amiss, she bowed at the samurai. Jiro introduced himself and uncomfortably, with thin lips, she bade him welcome. After a few moments she motioned her daughter aside. Jiro, impassive by the fireside, could hear muttered accusations and bitter protest. The two women reentered the room. Etsuko, the daughter, was drying her eyes and casting appealing glances in Jiro's direction. Jiro knew the source of the argument. Many samurai, he knew, treated peasant women as their chattels. They took them where and when they wanted, and pretty farm girls were prime targets. Wandering, lordless samurai such as himself were the worst: they not only raped, but also robbed and killed on the slightest pretext. Though the law was usually severe and swift, that was little consolation to the dead and none to the peasant who feared officialdom more than he feared death.
  
  Jiro rose and bowed to the mother. "If you will excuse me, I will leave. I am sorry to be such a bother." The mother made some protest, but it was clear she was relieved to see him go. The daughter, Etsu, looked on with a blank face.
  
  Jiro stepped out into the cool night air. He would have to sleep the night on the ground after all. He shrugged mentally. It would not be the first time. He walked away from the house, through small gardens of beans and squash and other vegetables ripening in the summer warmth. The path was worn, and it meandered as it neared points of importance to the peasants. He passed by a bamboo grove, the plumes of the plants glinting in the moonlight. The sky was clear, and the lunar illumination cast a glow over everything. There was a large tree in a clearing near the grove. Jiro marked it from afar for future reference. Such trees sometimes indicated shrines, and if the shrine was large enough, it would be his hostel for the night.
  
  He slowed down as he approached. His trained senses told him of someone lurking in the shadows. Without turning his head he watched the dark cautiously. Suddenly he was distracted. A group of men came up the path. Some of them bore lanterns. Their feet were bare, but they were in a hurry. They saw him in the moonlight, and one of them called out, "There he is! I told you there was a samurai there!"
  
  Jiro stood in the clearing to await developments. The lurker in the shadow of the shrine did not move. The excited villagers surrounded the giant samurai like hounds bringing a wolf to bay. There were eight of them armed with improvised weapons—sickles, flails, rakes, and wooden poles.
  
  They dithered around him for awhile, and one, braver perhaps than the rest, stalked up to Jiro. "Well, Mr. Samurai, what are you doing here, eh? Had your fun with our widow, huh? Don't think you can get away with it. We've had enough of you people. We pay the landlord, and that's enough."
  
  "Matagel, cut the chatter and let's finish him," another rough voice broke in.
  
  "I was merely looking for shelter for the night, but it proved inconvenient for the household," Jiro replied mildly. "Now get out of the way, please. It would be a bother reporting your death to the authorities."
  
  "Bastard! Report my death to the authorities?" The apparent leader of the peasant youths raised his staff. Jiro's left hand rested lightly on his sheath. One of the peasants sniggered "Shelter for the night. Bastard!" Others raised their makeshift weapons. Jiro kept his eyes on the leader. He knew from the sounds and small rushes they were making that they were not ready to attack—yet. As soon as their courage was up they would, and he would have to act. He grinned to himself. He had never been trained to run away. A defect, Okiku often told him, in a perfect character. Run away and fight again was his mate's philosophy.
  
  "Please don't draw your sword, Mr. Samurai. The smell of blood would upset my digestion." The voice from the shadows was hoarse and adenoidal, though the words and accent were town, rather than country. A massive shadow detached itself from the deeper shadow of the shrine-tree and lumbered forward. Nine faces turned in that direction.
  
  The interloper was shorter than Jiro but outweighed him by a half. An enormous belly extended the front of his robe, which was wrapped by a smart black-striped silk sash. His face was almost as round as the moon but framed in curly sideburns that reached to his fat jowls. He waddled forward and stood with feet planted wide.
  
  "I do think you should disperse, you know. Or at least fight him one by one."
  
  "Who asked you, horse-head?" Some of the peasants converged on him, their weapons raised.
  
  "A moment, please." He raised his hands. "As you can see, I'm unarmed. Here, look..." He extended his arms to the sides, palms upwards. He wore a light summer robe, and there did not appear to be anything hidden in it. He squatted a bit and stamped his feet on the ground. "You wouldn't want to attack an unarmed man, would you?"
  
  "I don't care if you're unarmed or the samurai here armed. We want you out of here. We don't care for any strangers, particularly those fucking our widow." There was chorus of assent from his companions.
  
  One of the peasants, a husky young man, spat on his hands and marched up to the fat man. "I'll deal with him!" he called over his shoulder. "The rest of you attend to the samurai."
  
  The peasant's hard bare foot lashed out and connected with a thump to the fat man's crotch. The fat man winced but stood there looking the peasant in the eye. The surprised young man, who had expected the fat man to collapse in agony, stared with his jaw open. An enormous fat hand lashed out and slapped his face. The peasant youth collapsed to the ground.
  
  The other young men yelled their battle cries and charged. Two of them rushed the fat man. The rest charged Jiro, who still had time to see how his unexpected ally dealt with some of his opponents. The fat man leapt forward in a single giant frog hop. One hand smacked solidly into a charging peasant's face, sending him flying. The other seized an opponent's neck and swung him around in a hip throw that crashed him to the ground.
  
  All that, Jiro saw in a flash as the other peasants were upon him. He dodged a pole aimed at his head and slid forward. The butt of his sword slammed into a midriff, and one of the men went down before him. Twisting, he seized another man's sleeve and with a quick move threw him over his own shoulder. He drew the sword, still sheathed, from his sash and parried a hooking cut by an attacker armed with a sharp curved sickle. Skilfully, the man tried to entrap the sword, but Jiro was too experienced a swordsman. His sheath moved with the hook, then thrust forward to the point of the peasant's chin. Jiro turned to his last opponent, and that worthy, trapped between two formidable foes, backed away in terror.
  
  "A moment, please. Do not run." The fat man's hoarse voice sounded again. "If I may inquire, why are you so anxious to attack us?"
  
  The young peasant, fearful for his life, had lost his former belligerence. He became obsequious as he bowed, trembling. "Pardon me, sir. We—we feared for our widow. You know, we are poor men, but we must protect our own..."
  
  "Your widow?" Jiro interjected. "Surely all of you are alive and well..."
  
  The man bobbed his head again. "Our widow, sir... that is..." He stammered for a second, trying to explain what was to him a commonplace. "You see, sir, we have a custom hereabouts—I think it must seem strange to you gentlemen. Anyway, when a man dies leaving a wife, the young unmarried men take care of her. Bring her firewood, help with plowing and sowing, repairs, things like that which she cannot do for herself. Of course, we also have to protect her, and someone saw the samurai gentleman entering her house, so we thought... we thought..."
  
  "You thought I was going to rape her," concluded Jiro drily.
  
  "Well, yes, sir. And that's no good sir. Besides, it was Kichibei and Saburo's turn to visit her tonight. We came along as a sort of guard, sir."
  
  The fat man moved impatiently. "Turn? Explain!"
  
  The peasant bobbed his head again. "Of course, we take care of all her needs. She is very nice to us, and since we cannot enter the houses of girls to visit them, she sleeps with us. A nice woman she is too, sir."
  
  Jiro and the fat man both laughed.
  
  "Well, I'm sorry I interrupted your friends' turn. I really did leave her there unharmed. Her daughter, too. I suggest, though," he added in a severe tone, "that you and your friends refrain from attacking samurai in the future. Your entire village could be razed if that came out." The young peasant shivered at the words, knowing how true they were. He fell to his knees and bowed to the ground, babbling for forgiveness. Jiro ignored him, and bowed to the massive figure at his side.
  
  "I am Miura Jiro, an unattached samurai and teacher. At your service. Thank you for your help. I would never have succeeded without you."
  
  "Nonsense!" said the fat man cheerfully and informally. Though dressed as a commoner, he seemed to take Jiro as an equal, if not perhaps even an inferior. "I am Tatsunoyama, a wrestler from Osaka. I am travelling on pilgrimage. Also, I am scouting for possible candidates for the ring." He looked up at Jiro. "A shame we did not find you when you were young."
  
  Jiro stiffened at the insult, then relaxed. The wrestler was obviously not out to insult him by questioning his profession of arms. He was merely blunt.
  
  "If I may venture a question..." Jiro said delicately.
  
  Tatsunoyama bowed slightly.
  
  "You were kicked in a place that normally renders a man unconscious, and yet..." The peasant, who had been busy trying to revive his groaning companions, paused to listen too.
  
  "It is one of the secrets of our trade," Tatsunoyama said hoarsely. "But I can tell you that I can raise my precious jewels at will. Thus it was a painful kick but had no real effect."
  
  The two men exchanged pleasantries for a time, while the attackers scrambled groggily to their feet. The peasants huddled together for a while, and Jiro eyed them covertly, wondering whether they were planning another attack. One of them, his back bent submissively, crept to the two. The others bowed their heads in a group behind. The spokesman scratched his head and laughed with embarrassment.
  
  "Excuse us, gentlemen, but this was all a mistake. I hope you are not angry?" Encouraged by Jiro's and Tatsunoyama's response, he continued, "We... we would like to make amends. Can we invite you gentlemen to stay the night? I understand the samurai gentleman has no place to go..." His voice trailed off at his own temerity. "And of course, the wrestler gentleman as well..."
  
  Tatsunoyama grunted, then smiled. "As for me, I thank you, but I am being hosted by someone in the neighborhood. I merely went out for a stroll. The gentleman here will accept your offer. Take good care of him." He flipped an enormous paw in Jiro's direction and rolled off ponderously.
  
  Jiro marvelled how such a mountain of flesh could move so swiftly in a fight. He marvelled too at how the wrestler, a commoner, could treat him, a nobleman, so casually.
  
  The peasant tugged at his sleeve. "If you please, master, we could repair to the widow's? We have some wine..."
  
  The widow greeted her guests gaily. It was obvious that they were desirable visitors. She eyed Jiro with a greater surprise, but one of the young men took her aside, and after a low-voice conversation punctuated with glances toward Jiro, she accepted him and even offered him some of the warmed rice wine in an old cracked cup specially polished for the occasion.
  
  The men lounged around the sunken fireplace, drinking and munching some snacks she had prepared. The widow served them herself, her round cheeks glowing with the heat and the pleasure of their company. Pounded rice cakes and taro were set to bake in the ashes. Etsuko, the girl, was nowhere to be seen. Jiro sat a little apart. The conversation was about subjects and people he knew little of. Gossip mainly, talk of the harvest and a coming festival.
  
  Jiro excused himself—to everyone's evident relief. There was a pallet on the floor in an inner room, laid on the bare boards. The widow offered it to him, with a bow. He noted the sour looks from the young men by the fire.
  
  "Thank you, no. But do you have a hayloft? I noted a barn and thought... well, I have not had the pleasure of the smell of newly cut grass in many years. That would be a delight."
  
  The widow looked at him in surprise. She tried to protest, not too strongly, but finally led him upstairs and through a narrow hatch to a pile of hay that overlooked the empty horse stall.
  
  "We had to sell the horse a long while ago, but this place is well protected and part of the main building, so you should be warm and comfortable," she said. He bowed his thanks, and she departed back to her guests.
  
  The loft was indeed comfortable, and the soft highland grass fragrant. Jiro burrowed into the grass and found himself ensconced against the loft wall. He was soon dozing, but then he found that a light was shining into his eyes. He blinked sleepily. The light came from a narrow fissure in the wooden floor. He rubbed his eyes and then peered blearily through the crack.
  
  The light came from a candle in the room occupied by the pallet offered him earlier. The wooden sliding door between the room and the kitchen where the young men lounged was closed. On the pallet lay the widow, her hair slightly loose, struggling in the arms of one of the farmers. Jiro snapped awake. The woman giggled and said something in a low voice, and the man relaxed his grip. She sat up on the pallet and languidly loosened the top of her robe. It fell to her waist, and she peered coyly at her companion from beneath the loose strands of hair. He lay back on the pallet, and she wiggled her shoulders. Her plump tits bounced, the nipples prominent dark, dancing at their tips. The man seized her impatiently, and she lay on him while he pulled off her robe. She had a full, muscular ass and thick, short legs. Jiro could see the shadow formed by the dark hairs that peeped like a little beard from between the columns of her thighs. The man grasped her shoulders and rolled her over. Jiro could see his rampant prick, a shiny drop of lubricant decorating its tip.
  
  The man took his cock in one hand and shook it several times. She spread her legs waiting for him. Her dark bush shadowed the lower part of her belly. The plump lips were almost obscured by the thicket. Her hand snaked between her legs, and she teased the lips open, affording Jiro a full look at her red cunt slit. Then the man's muscular body covered hers, and her knees came up slightly. The man heaved into her, and she uttered a sigh. Her face was obscured by the man's untidy hairdo, and then uncovered as he bent to suck at a nipple. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily as the lusty peasant ploughed into her. His buttocks moved in a rhythm that became rapidly faster. He grunted and she gasped as his passion reached a climax. The man stiffened as she looked reproachfully at his slack face. His ass jerked several times as his pent-up passion siphoned through his cock and flooded her interior.
  
  He lay on her as if dead for a while, until she shook him off impatiently. There was disappointment on her face, but she brightened as a muffled voice called from behind the door. The man rose and wiped himself with his loincloth. He stretched and looked at her with a smile. She lay there, one finger teasing her glistening clitoris, the other behind her head. He left, and another young man came in.
  
  This one dropped his clothes hurriedly and knelt between her parted legs. He pushed forward with a will. A short, stocky youth, he found it hard to thrust deeply into her while holding her breasts. At last he abandoned the attempt and withdrew. She looked at him in surprise. Grasping her hips he turned her over on her face. She protested, not too sincerely, at his odd mode of entering her. He pulled back for a moment, affording Jiro a clear look at her plump buttocks, bisected by the dark line that shadowed her anus. Below he could clearly see the mossy lips of her cunt, still glowing wetly from the intrusion of the man's stubby cock, which pointed like an arrow at her opening.
  
  The young peasant lad regarded the sight for a moment. Almost shyly he stroked the warm, soft buns. His cock jerked several times in anticipation. The widow smiled at him over her shoulder, then leaned forward and placed her head on her hands. The stocky lad—Jiro thought he could not be older than fifteen—bent forward as if hypnotized. He bit softly at the woman's prominent buttocks, and she urged him on with a soft cry. His tongue came out, and he licked the twin half moons lovingly. His tongue dipped lower, and he tilted his head, the better to get at the honey between her legs. She whispered at him, and then her hand came out from between her legs and sought his erect cock. She squeezed and rubbed it for a long while as he crouched over her back. He toyed with the plump breasts that hung down before her, and she peered back at his cock, framed by his hands and her own breasts and thighs. At last he gasped and fell forward. His stubby pole sought the delicious entrance, and he entered her cavern.
  
  Jiro could see that the stimulation had proved too much for the lad. His body shook and his ass danced as if struck by palsy. He writhed like a hooked fish, and she arched her back, urging more of his meat into herself. She stuck one hand back and massaged her hot clitoris, accompanying him in his frenzy. At last she collapsed forward, panting hard. Oblivious of the world, his face wreathed in a smile, the peasant lad lay over her. Above them both, Jiro gritted his teeth and turned over to try to get some sleep.