Chapter Eight—A Helping Hand

One Year Ago

This area had a river, something he hadn’t seen in his sun-addled delirious state when he had arrived two weeks ago.

Now, the family who had taken him in had him working in the fields. So far, he had learned a smattering of words. Things like “here” or “there” and “this.” He learned the words for various crops and tools.

But he could not speak, could not understand anything of what anyone said.

Out of habit, he brushed his thigh, feeling for the hilt of his sword that wasn’t there. The family had taken it away. Upon first discovering this, he had flown into a rage for several moments, yelled and screamed, but quickly settled down when he realized these farmers simply did not want him within easy access of a deadly weapon he could use to rob them with.

The family Shiro was staying with consisted of a man and a woman, obviously the parents. There were two girls, one about ten or so, and the other maybe half her age, and then two boys, who were somewhat older.

All worked in the fields.

Shiro ate with them, drank with them and rested as they took their breaks from plowing and sewing the fields and on some days, going to market to sell goods in a tiny village areas not far from where they lived.

Men came, bought sacks of grains and vegetables and left. Where, Shiro didn’t know, but he thought a larger town to the north-west could be walked to.

Surreptitiously he had looked for his sword, casting his eyes this way and that, hoping to get a glimpse. Just to know where it was.

Knowing would give me assurance, but I don’t even have that.

He hefted his plow.

Farmer’s tools. Not a warrior’s weapon. He was no farmer. Shiro was a samurai—a swordsman. His occupation was to serve his daimyo. And that was all.

When he had first begun to help the family—he saw it as a fair exchange for the shelter they gave him, the hay pile for his bedding and his food and water—he had been reprimanded, even yelled at as if he were an oaf.

Shiro was not used to being treated in such a way.

He was a warrior, knew how to be a warrior. Shiro felt like a child, being scolded for doing things wrong, not knowing how to do them at all to begin with. But he had learned his daily duties, and mostly he followed the older boy, Rashid and assisted him with his daily chores.

This was not the village of young men. There were some few, but Shiro suspected most had left to fight in some war, though he couldn’t know for certain.

This is the way of things in most kingdoms, he thought.

Now, eating the evening meal with the family, which consisted of simple foods and some small portions of flavorful meat, the father dragged a pack from under a cloth and sat it next to Shiro.

He said some words, but Shiro could only intuit what he was saying. “This we give you,” he seemed to be saying.

Shiro took the pack, looked it over for a moment. It was leather. Good quality. “Arigatou gozaimasu!” he said in thanks, and bowed.

The father said some other words, which Shiro thought meant “tomorrow” but whatever else the man said, he did not understand.

He went to sleep that night, wondering where he would go to, wondering about his sword. He hoped this family didn’t take his steel and sell it off. The blade was worth a fortune, and to these people, something they would never be able to afford.

Shiro was pleasantly surprised the next morning when the family greeted him. The father held a wrapped parcel. Shiro took it when he reached out to give it to him. He uncovered the hilt of his sword and nodded.

The daughters arrived from the well with two water skins with shoulder straps. He took them graciously and then bowed to the family, thanking them for their hospitality, knowing that they were indeed sending him on his way.

There were other villagers present who wanted to see him off. Shiro was an oddity to them, something to be watched, studies. He was a strange man from a strange land. He raised a hand in salute to them.

The father took him to the road, gestured forward with his hand, saying “Oravar.”

It’s a town? A city?

Shiro didn’t know, but he understood that his time in this village was at its end. He clasped his hands together and bowed, but the man shrugged, then embraced him. It was an odd custom to treat a stranger so well.

Shiro was not a chipper man, but he found himself smiling before he turned and began his journey to Oravar.