Chapter Two—Ujiro’s Katana

With Ujiro at the lead, Hiro found himself worried. What was the old man planning? he wondered as a nervousness took hold of his physical senses.

Haru followed his friends, thinking that it would be impossible to get through the gate, so he readied himself for the inevitable confrontation. But still, he thought it unreal that Ujiro would lead them into a scuffle at the edge of the camp where they had just been held prisoner.

The grass was wet with the cold dew of the night, but the lanterns and the torches bellied the darkness of the late evening. It was summertime, so the cool air felt good on Ujiro’s neck and hands.

During their recent captivity he had sweated profusely, but now they were free. They just had to get past this gate. He said nothing to the other two samurai—or rather they were no longer such now, surely—and paced forward resolutely, a smile on his face.

He had not a care.

The old samurai knew how to slip past these guards. They milled about, watchful, but in a way dejected among the smoke of their blazers. And who could blame them? Their lord daimyō had just suffered an embarrassing defeat.

The new shōgun would be furious. Sakuraichi Ujio was no man to suffer fools—and it seemed that daimyō Tsuji was just that. Why he had sent his samurai and warriors up against a much larger force as that, was beyond Ujiro’s understanding.

The only thing he could surmise was that he thought, since their lord had taken the throne—nothing could stop them. Arrogance was Tsuji’s downfall.

And it cost many men their lives.

Samurai were there to serve, but not to die for nothing.

And these thoughts were making Ujiro turn up his face in ways that would not aid him at the game, so he wiped these thoughts from his mind for a later time and smiled in a greedy and lustful way that came so easily to him.

The first two guards on the road saw them coming.

“We are going drinking,” Ujiro said quietly, so only Haru and Hiro would hear him.

As the guards approached, their spears became a little more erect in their grips. “Stop,” one said, putting up a hand. “What are you doing? No one is to leave the camp.”

But he did not stop immediately. The old man sauntered up two more paces and smiled more broadly than he did before. Spreading his arms, he said, “My friends—my friends. How are you this night? Are you well?”

The guards looked at each other as the other two who handled the gate came forward, wondering what was going on. They thought it might be a scuffle in the making, so they readied their weapons, a spear and a sword.

“We are fine,” the other guard said. “Why have you approached the gate? You know we are all under orders not to leave the camp?”

With an understanding nod, Ujiro dipped his chin several times, “Hai, hai—to be sure. But have you been to the camp?”

“Nani?”

He gestured over his shoulder.

“Of course we have, the first guard said.”

“What a terrible time,” Ujiro said. “The men—I mean we—we’re all out of sorts. This defeat was terrible!” He stressed the last word, almost comically.

“Are you insulting our lord daimyō?” the second guard asked.

“Iie! No—no!” Ujiro said as he put up his palms. “Of course, I would never do this. I just want to take my two samurai friends out for a quick drink. Is that wrong?”

These men at the gate were not samurai. They were a lower class of soldier, but right now, as they guarded the gate, they were in charge, whether or not a samurai approached them.

Ujiro smiled inwardly even more broadly as this next thought came into his mind. But it did not mean that they did not suborn themselves to samurai by nature. And they had no idea they three had just escaped confinement.

Ha!

Though Ujiro was dressed like a guard, and with his yari pike in hand, he had convincingly made up the fib about taking Hiro and Haru out for a drink.

“Listen, my friends,” he added, as if they were all drinking buddies. “We—err—I mean they—are samurai.” He gestured to Hiro and Haru, who nodded to his words. “You know the shame of a defeat. These men do not even have their swords now. They were lost in the battle.”

The guards glanced at one another, understanding, and some sympathy on their faces. Good. “Let us slip by quietly. We will drink some of our worries away, and when we get back, we will leave something with you and your friends.” He smiled, adding in a wink for good measure.

The guard most closely before them blinked and looked to his companion, who said nothing. Neither man rejected the offer, but it was clear they were surprised at what they were hearing.

Ujiro laughed—putting in more of the “jovial old man” than was necessary. And spreading his arms again, he said, “We may never see another day, my friends—or a sakura leaf blowing on the wind. Our lord has no intent to give up his need to impress our new shōgun—“Oh, oh! I mean… Haha! Emperor.”

The two men snorted, their faces lightening considerably.

“So?” Ujiro continued, then speaking across the back of his hand in a friendly and conspiratorial manner added, “What do you say, eh?”

The guards looked at each other one more time, then turned to their other two companions, who nodded vehemently.

“Hai?” Ujiro persisted, making sure to keep a big smile on his face.

“Hai!” the one in charge said, suppressing a laugh as he nodded. Then he could not help letting out some more mirth. “Yes, yes.” He turned. “Open the gate—open the gate. Let them through.”

As the three rōnin passed through, the guard in charge said, “Do not forget about us, noble samurai.”

“Of course not,” Hiro said with a big smile. And for a moment, he thought he might actually like to go drinking, but no—they were not going drinking. This was their escape! As they left earshot, he said to Ujiro, “That is why we keep you around old man.”

“Ha!” Ujiro scoffed. “You two would be lost without me.”

“It is true,” Haru said. He was not smiling. The whites of his eyes still showed, as he glanced about as if in search of a winged beast that might snatch him into the air.

“Settle down,” Hiro said with a smile and patted the younger man on the back. “We are free now.”

“No,” Ujiro said in a rasp. “Not yet. We have no weapons.”

“Where are we going?” It was Haru, kicking his legs faster on the road to catch up to the other two men after lagging behind a bit. “What is your plan?”

“We go to my home,” he said.

“What?”

“My sword is there. You want a sword, yes?”

Hiro nodded. “Mm.”

“Then we go to my home. Now let us slip out of this town quickly.”

Ujiro had used no sword, not even in the battles they had fought in together. Hiro suspected the reason why. Ujiro was old, and swordsmanship, particularly in battles, was a tiring affair.

It the katana is a weapon for the young.

And what Ujiro did not say to either of the two men, was why his sword had been left at his home during the war, though he thought Hiro might know why. As it was, his martial arts in later years had begun to take him in directions of style and fighting that were less kinetic with the enemy.

In truth, they were the skills of the ninja.

Trudging along after the two older warriors—men Haru looked up to—he could not help but feel dejected, even after Hiro’s pat on his back. He felt like a criminal. They were, all three of them, tantamount to deserters, and now they were adding lying to the list of their crimes.

Would stealing come next? Murder?

Where it end?

What did this say for their honor?

Did they even have any honor left? Haru did not know the answer to that question. As the others began to put distance from him be picking up their pace, he kicked his feet faster.

Now was not the time.

In the moment, the three samurai, or at least the older two, had had a moment of levity between them after escaping the encampment. But as the early sun rose, casting the sky in hues of golden light, they ran. They ran with haste and without slowing.

They had run through the night.

Hiro breathed in and out deeply, his neck glistening with sweat. Carrying this much muscle in a run across country for an entire night was no easy feat, but he was surprised at Ujiro, who had led them most of the way, staying at the front of their group for nearly the entire time.

As the birds chirped in the trees, their good-nature bellied the urgency with which the honorless men moved. Surely by now it had been discovered that the three disgraced samurai had escaped?

In fact, this must have come to light hours before, since Hiro remembered how they had left the guard alive.

Keeping pace, a cramp took Haru in his right side underneath his ribs. It was not the first time, and through the night, it had come and gone. It slowed him somewhat as the other two men pulled ahead with Ujiro in the lead. Though they were still within sight. He swallowed, breathing in the crisp morning air which stung his nose.

How did the old man run at a pace such as this, and for so long a time?

The answer came to the young man immediately.

They were fleeing.

Fleeing as fast as they could.

They had left that guard alive.

And Haru Tantaiama was glad for it—even if they were pursued at this very moment.

The trees. Ujiro recognized them as they began to thin, and then finally to part into an open meadow of long grass. The road was not far from here, but he had led Hiro and Haru on a path that would avoid it.

The runners sent after them would surely use the roads—and Ujiro was under no beliefs that they were indeed safe at this time. He was a samurai. They all were in their group. The army knew who they were—knew where they lived.

But the chance to get his sword had presented itself, and the weapon was far too valuable to leave behind. He ran, shouting, “Come!”

“Is it very much farther?” Hiro asked from behind.

“No.” He pointed. “Just—just over the hills.”

When they crested those hills, navigating around the rice paddies and the sheep, a house came into view—his house.

Smoke rose from the chimney.

Haiako. His wife. She was home.

Not months before, Ujiro had gotten a terse letter from his wife. He remembered the words within the hastily scrawled letter.

Husband,

I have not received correspondence from you in some time. It is my belief that you have perish in battle. Perhaps this is a fortunate thing, as your brother has moved into the house to help care and tend for things so that they do not fall into disrepair.

And he has performed these actions to good effect, unlike his lazy brother.

Should you ever return home, do not be alarmed and fall into a rage if you see a man in the yard. He is your very own brother, you drunken fool.

Haiako

The memory of those words almost made him laugh.

Though she always treated him like the tatami mats as if everything were his own fault, it was her, he knew. Nothing escaped the eyes of Ujiro Kagawaru. He knew all the comings and goings in his village.

And not because he spent time at the tavern in his cups.

He had followed Haiako.

He had seen her with him.

And what he had found had not surprised the samurai. He would have killed the man—but why? He found that, in his rage, he had spent his energy, and lost the will to challenge the fool to a duel.

She had never been satisfied with him, and he, though at first, things had been well, but over time Ujiro realized the true state of their marriage. Neither of them had married for love.

It was what had been expected of them.

There was no passion.

For himself at least, there could have been. And had things gone better, he could at least look upon his wife now as a tender friend.

But he did not even have that.

And he was not a man to be bothered—especially not in light of her indiscretions! Fortunately she had been careful, and to his knowledge, Ujiro had never become the talk of the town.

If that had happened, he might have killed Haiako.

He was a free-spirited man, jovial in his days and even more so in his cups. But bellow simmered and inner rage—that when stirred, often could not be dampened except by force.

This was not because Ujiro harbored anger and resentment in his life. At least, not that he knew of. For the most part, he was happy—happy to be ignored by Haiako, and happy to ignore her.

They had fallen into a workable marriage—a marriage of show, and nothing more. They even slept in different futons!

“This is your house?” Hiro asked, breathing heavily beside him.

“Hai.”

The strong swordsman nodded agreeably, though through his silly smile—as if he had had one too many cups of sake, it was sometimes hard to know. “It is nice. I like it.”

With his friendly eyes and his wispy goatee, he did not come across in the manner one might think the Whirling Leaf might. Hiro was a swordsman who loved battle—who loved crossing blades and killing his foes.

One might even say he had a thirst for blood.

Whirling Leaf…

That was his name given to him by the soldiers in the camp. He was by far no Legendary Warrior like such as the White Feather or the Masked Demon. Persons instrumental during the Wakiagaru conflict.

Ujiro smiled as well and led the way. “Let us not disturb my wife.”

“Do you not want to say hello to her?”

“Say—“ Haru gasped, his feet stamping up the grass behind them. “Say hello—to whom?”

“No one,” Ujiro said. “Let me go into the house alone.”

Hiro nodded, surveying the countryside. There was a river and a paved road with a bridge obscured the trees on their western horizon. Many farmhouses were scattered about the hills.

Farmers with pointed-straw hats toiled in the fields or carried sacks of grain and other things with donkeys on the dirt roads.

This place was a typical village in the Mikuman Empire—and they were not even that far from the capital where everything always happened.

From there, Hiro thought, they could easily catch a ship. But to where? The Twin Cities? That was where Princess Noriko Kurosawa had escaped to.

They would speak of this as soon as Ujiro came back to them with the sword.

The old man moved to the polished wooden bords, made to step up atop them, but then paused, lifting his sandals. His tabi were a filthy ruin, and thick wet mud clung to his sandals.

He sat on the wood, laid his pike down and took his sandals off, then he slid over the hardwoods with his wet tabi socks. He seemed to peek into the house before entering.

Was the poor old fool expecting his wife to come out with the sword raised?

“Look,” Haru said.

Turning, Hiro glanced at the young man. His hair was in wisps, his topknot barely holding together. He nodded to a rider coming from out of the tree line from over the bridge.

Hiro squinted as he shaded his eyes.

“Is this the army?”

“Mm,” Hiro noised. “Hai.”

“We should go. We must warn Ujiro!”

“Easy,” Hiro said, putting a calming hand out. “It is not uncommon for runners and warriors to be out in the villages. I am sure it is nothing.”

Haru said nothing, and as they stood on the hill, Hiro continued watching. Finally, he believed that they should at least take some small action.

But right now all he wanted was to rest.

“We can move down the hill in front of Ujiro’s house. It will block us from his view.”

“Hai!” Haru exclaimed, and wasted no time in leading the way.

Smiling, Hiro trailed after the younger man. Hopefully the old man had some money hidden away, otherwise they were going to be stowaways on their journey across the sea.

Stepping gingerly across the wooden floors, Ujiro glanced about for any sine of his wife—or his fool of a younger brother. But neither of them seemed to be home. The fire in the hearth crackled, but was mostly dead, the wood there burnt to ashes and fuming beneath.

He nodded to himself and stepped across the floors.

Heavier than he had ever believed, his footfalls were noisy, and drew the attention of Haiako immediately. Her first reaction was to flee out the back door, or grab one of the cooking knives, but something about the sound of those footfalls, of the bearing of the man, who she could not see, was familiar to her.

It was not Jun. She knew Jun had gone to the other side of the villager to fetch the fresh fish for the noon day meal. And besides, his presence was altogether different than that of her husbands.

Silently she moved across the floor.

Wasting no time to glance about the house, Ujiro moved to the back room, the one where most of the farm materials were kept. His chest was there. That was where the sword was.

Normally, he would leave it upon the arms of the wooden dummy, where his armor might lay, but he had not worn armor in so many years. In fact, he had none to speak of. That set had been given away years ago to one of Haiako’s many brothers.

Ujiro could not even remember all of their names.

In truth, he probably never learned all of their names. But these small regrets would be best left for another time.

He moved to the chest, picked up a rough vase from atop it where the ceramic had cracked and chipped off the edge. He set it down and bent onto his knees and stared at the wooden box.

There was no lock, so the sword might very well be gone—stolen, or given away. Perhaps sold off. He breathed out slowly and lifted the lid.

The katana was there, laying peacefully, wrapped in a grey cloth. He stared at the blade for some time, unmoving.

“It was the last thing you had left,” Haiako said from behind.

Ujiro was not surprised by her sudden voice.

“I did not want to do anything with it.”

He nodded, reached into the chest gingerly, and picked up the sword, unwrapped it. The blade was sheathed in black ceramic, the sheen dull from sitting in this box for so many years. He grasped the hilt and revealed a part of the blade.

The sound it made as it slid out was music on the wind. He closed his eyes, remembering his youth—his battles.

A smile came to his face.

But then he remembered his wife standing behind him, disapproving, staring down at him in reproach. He shut the blade and rose, his back straight as the boards that made up the walls.

When he turned, she stood looking at him, her eyes finding his as her arms remained crossed. “I have come for the sword only.”

She nodded silently.

Then finally she said, “I thought so.”

“I am leaving.”

He stepped past her, saying nothing. Finally he turned at the door and said, without making eye contact with her, “The house is yours, wife. You will most likely not see me again.”

She still said nothing.

It was what she wanted, was it not?

He heard her breathing softly.

Finally she said, “Ganbatte… Ujiro…”

With a final nod, he said, “Arigatao gozaimasu,” and left the house.

When he stepped out of the door, his eyes came upon a sight he was not expecting. Hiro and Haru stood facing a warrior with his sword in his hand, his blade naked as the day it was forged, a look of resolute determination for conflict upon his features.

The others stood, their faces grim and their feet spread wide.

The man standing before them was Kageya—the fourth man.

Ujiro’s face hardened and he gripped the scabbard of his katana more tightly. “Kageya…” he said.

The man glanced at him as though one might glance at a third enemy coming out to join his fellows. “Ujiro…”