Another morning, or was it midday?

Miyo squinted, winced. Pinched and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was very bright, and he was very hung-over. It was midday, decidedly.

His mouth was dry, and he cast around his futon for the jug of water that he hoped he would have left himself. Years of waking up hungover had taught him the merits of a jug of water by the bed. He found it, and lifted his neck just enough to take a sip, spluttering over his open laced shirt. It was, as with every other morning (or afternoon) the most magnificent drink of water he had ever drank. Refreshing right to his core. This was one good thing about being a drunkard. A sip of lukewarm water could become one of life's greatest pleasures, and it was so very cheap. He had a whole well of the stuff. The rest of the jug was gone in a swallow.

The door to the courtyard had been left open, as it was always during the peak of summer. He sucked his teeth. That little runt, Sai, was there. He was always there.

Breathing in deep he tried to fight down vomit welling in his stomach, the impulse to sick up everything he had ever took in; to expell the decade to the last, to come back up alive and refreshed and finding himself suddenly in the grey of blissful morning; his students ready for a day of hard drill.

He lost the fight.

He scrambled for the jug. Threw up all over the spout. So much for that. He was still here, he was still a drunk. Sai still watched him, indifferent. Mockingly stoic. Miyo wiped his face, made a show of standing up steady and striding to the edge of the deck. It was more of a stumble. He arched an eyebrow at the boy. “Wait long?”

“All morning,” Sai said. Nothing in his voice, all wooden.

Miyo tsked.

“Well, get to it then. You know the form.”

Two weeks had passed since Miyo had lost control and given Sai a sweltering bruise on his shoulder. And the guilt had subsided. And with that dissolution came regret. He had promised to teach the boy. It was hard to get back into the instructors habit. Others had formed in its place. He wanted to be left alone.

Sai touched his forehead to the ground, as he was already on his knees and Miyo snorted again. What a perfect little pupil. What sweet manners on him. The boy slowly crossed the yard and up into the dojo. He walked over to the racks of practice swords and placed a tentative hand on one, glancing at Miyo.

Miyo rolled his hands, get on with it then. Sai selected the top most, and he moved to the centre of the room to practice, to emulate the stance that Miyo had showed him that first day. Though much too stiff, he was not stepping properly into the strike.

“You're too rigid, you must be like...” Miyo sighed, shook his head. “Never mind. Go on. Two hundred strokes.” And the old man went around his dojo, and he found himself another jug of wine cooling beneath the floorboards. There were fourteen more, now, and this was the lowest quality of wine. Horrible, horrible stuff. He had switched vintage quite some time ago, he was economical above all else. With that switch he could keep himself in drink for a month more, perhaps.

He scratched himself as he came back around the dojo. Perhaps Sai's parents had some money, if so...

The thought made him sicker than he already was. To take money from someone, only to sit there and drink and refuse to instruct. He took a swig, winced, and sat down on his step. Sai exhaled with every swing, he was steady. He had good rhythm. Above all he listened. He would have been a remarkable pupil.

Would have.

Miyo swished some wine around in his mouth, and frowned. He counted with Sai's exhalations, he would always count when he gave a target number of strokes to his students. He did not want to be caught being too lenient, not knowing, letting someone get away with ninety-nine, when he specified one hundred. To always know cultivated an aura of mystique, if a resistant pupil flagged, tried to stop short and was called out with the exact number of strokes that he shirked, he would become more pliable.

More sighs, more swigs. He stopped counting. He stared at the maple tree, most of the jug disappeared in his staring. He started to feel warm and light and a slight bit hopeful. He knew the feeling daily, eventually he would tip over, and he would be all sour and no sweetness. It was a momentary and fleeting bliss. He would chase it always.

And then a little rag of a girl jumped into his yard, hit the ground hard and lay there panting.

Exciting day. Exciting life. He chuckled to himself, wiping his lips.

Sai stopped his practice, eyes perhaps a touch wider than usual, glancing in the direction of the girl.

“Well? Go on then, see what this is all about,” Miyo grinned over his shoulder at Sai. “I know you're curious, don't give me that wooden look. I know you get curious too. Even you, I know it!” He waggled his finger and nearly fell over with laughter. As though he had told the worlds most marvellous joke. Another half a jug and perhaps he would be crying instead.

Sai blinked, and he did as he was told.

At that moment five other youths came careening over the wall, two landed somewhat gracefully, the other three stumbled and fell face first. They were up quickly enough, and so was the girl. Smaller than the others, and backing up. Wild hair and eyes like a bristling animal, head jerking from left to right and in a crouch. She was hemmed in. Sai was close behind now. Miyo had ceased laughing.

Hoodlums then, Miyo thought, pushing himself up with an unsteady wiry hand. Well they wouldn't find much to steal. The city, like his purse, was getting worse by the day.

The five boys looked a bit lost, but they fanned out, approaching the girl. She sprung, all tension released at once, darting back toward the dojo, and up the step. Her eyes grew wide when she finally noticed the old man she was approaching. Miyo, mouth half open to shout attempted to catch her, flung out an arm, and together they fell through the rice paper wall in a heap. She was up long before him, but he managed to get a hold of her thin arm.

“Wait just a minute,” Miyo growled.

The boys had started to run after her too, but they stopped shy of the step.

“She stole from us!” One of them blurted, and the rest were all quick assurances.

“They're trying to steal from me!” She barked back, jerked free of Miyo's grip.

“Wait!”

“She's lying! Let us take what's ours and maybe we won't take anything else!” The largest of their number said. He was maybe fifteen summers. Filled out more than the rest, and a head taller too. He looked sure, and on his face was his best imitation of a footpad scowl. If he survived another few years he would be among the best of petty bruisers. Perhaps he would get his earnest start this day: robbing an old man, a boy, and a girl. If fortune carried him over the wall, could he consider himself a man if he were to run away now? Meek? Him?

Sai let out a roar.

Reedy, unexpected.

He was quickly among them, practice sword held high, as taught, and it came down on one of them, caught him in the neck. Sai stepped back, took a deep breath, and was preparing to bring the thick piece of wood back down when the other boys wheeled. One of them grabbed Sai by the waist, hauled him to the floor. Sai flailed, elbowed, bit. Another of the boys booted him in the rib but he kept struggling. All but the biggest piled on him.

The eldest knew his chance when he saw it, and he took out a knife from his clothing. Dull and ugly, but it would do whatever it had to.

Miyo was by now back on his feet, and scowling at the spilled jug soaking into the mats. He was thinking of how he might save some of it when he noticed the knife, saw Sai struggling beneath four other bodies larger than he.

Confusion.

Miyo stumbled forward.

Just how did he find himself in this situation? Was he not enjoying another drink on another fine afternoon only a moment before? Slim vestiges of a life once lived? A fine pupil there in the making?

“Not another step old man,” the boy with the knife said.

Miyo ignored him.

The boy balked, and lunged.

Miyo seized the boy's arm, used the teenagers momentum against him and threw him down. He kicked the knife under the house, and winced and danced at a sudden sharp pain in his back. Nothing unusual. He was getting old.

The girl seemed to be dancing on her toes, caught between two acts. Cradling something in her clothes. Whatever tipped the scales, a decision had been made. She dumped a handful of oranges on the mats and rushed forward, to Sai, and began to try and haul one of the other boys away. She received an elbow to the jaw for it. Fell over, but was up and at it again scarcely before she hit the dirt.

Miyo retrieved Sai's fumbled sword. Smacked one of the boys on his rear as hard as he could, which produced a whelp. The boy scampered away, the others began to take notice of the situation. Their leader laying in a heap of himself, an old man with a practice sword looming over them.

One of their number sprung up, tried to take a swing at Miyo, missed and stumbled. Miyo stumbled too. It should have been an easy thing, back up a single step, but for some reason his legs weren't working too well.

“That's enough now,” he slurred. His breath was coming in a bit heavy too. Damn old age. He had to balance himself on his sword.

The boy recovered, swung again. Miyo cracked him on the ribs, again, just barely, stumbling. The boy didn't try a third time. Instead stood off rubbing his arm.

“Let's just get out of here!” The smallest boy said. He was nearly crying. How old could he have been? He looked to be about the same size as Sai, as the girl – no older than twelve. Miyo began to blubber himself. All too often he found himself beating children these days.

They took a moment to look to each other, testing each others courage, and then backed away. They helped their leader up, who had an expression of disbelief, confusion, on his face. Miyo scratched at his chin and looked away. He had not dispatched the kid gracefully. He had bounced the boys head rather hard off the gravel. They scrambled back the way they had come. Helping each other vault the wall. With luck the injury would pass. Miyo had seen that expression before, and sometimes it didn't fade. Just another thing to forget.

Miyo looked at his wall and groaned. He looked at his spilled wine and groaned. He looked at the battered girl, wiping grit and blood from her mouth and groaned. Sai he noticed, had a rather puffy face.

“What an exciting life we lead,” he said, and sat down roughly on the step. Wincing at the pain in his back. “Sai, there's a cellar around the side of the house. Bring me a jug of what you find, won't you?”

Sai had to take his time in getting up. Pain writ large on his battered face. But he didn't groan, didn't protest. He walked, as stiff backed as he could manage, around the side of the dojo. Massaging his ribs.

The girl stood still, plainly unaware of what she should do. Filthy and hurt.

Miyo stared.