Painted with the words of a sacred text by Osamu the priest’s servants, Ho-ichi waited for the samurai to return.

“‘HO-ICHI!’ the gruff voice called. I held my breath and did not move. ‘HO-ICHI!’ sternly called the voice a second time. Then, like the roar of a might lion the voice called a third time, ‘HO-ICHI!’

I sat like a rock, and the voice grumbled: ‘Where is this fellow, Ho-ichi?’ The heavy steps circled around and around me. My heart beat like a base drum in the dead silence of the night.

‘Here is the biwa,’ muttered the deep voice; ‘But where is the storyteller? All I see are two ears. That explains why he did not answer: he had no mouth to answer with. There is nothing left of him but his hears. Then that is what I will take to my lord to prove I have obeyed his command.’

Suddenly, I felt two hand like iron vises grip my ears. The pain was excruciating as the samurai ripped my ears from my head. But I did not utter a sound. I did not move. I sat motionless as the warm blood trickled down the sides of my face, onto my neck and into the collar of my robe.”

As I listened to Ho-ichi I felt sick to my stomach and instinctively I reached up to feel for my own ears.

Next time: “Ho-ichi the Ear-less”