SAMURAI

Story by “one of the staff at Onpoint”

The night was wrapped in a chill.  The chill promised misfortune, ominous and foreboding.  Streaks of thin clouds interrupted the harmony of the deep dark night sky.  The moon was bright, silhouetting only the demon’s breath and illuminating the dusting of snow on the trees and ground.  Snow had come early this year.  From an outcropping overlooking the village the demon calculated a series of actions to come.

Intuition had led the search here.  The demon would find it’s prey, it always did.  Revenge, a dish best served cold, was the motivation.  Past transgression, betrayal and abandonment was the reasoning.  Here the Oni sat.  The actions to come would serve the demon’s purpose.  The demon would draw him out with violence.  Leverage his sense of honor against him.    

The demon’s body did not shiver with the chill or anticipation of the events to come.  Its armor, mute red in color, worn but sturdy, made no sound as the demon moved.  The armor’s condition betrayed it’s tailored and rich origins.  The demon’s weapons were pristine, deadly sharp and well tended.  Instruments of demonic will and unyielding malice.  The mind of the demon was focused, precise, without hesitation.  Fluid and smooth were its movements, reflecting a horrifying elegance.

Movement in the shadows would conceal the demon’s path and intention.  The mountain village homes were neatly aligned, orderly and clean.  The roofs of varying pitch formed the appearance of a tortoise shell.  The night, being cold, the  village was quiet, cook fires and candles illuminating the windows and cracks around the door frames.  Enough light to ward off the demons of legend, but not the one descending now.  A soon to be disrupted peace lay on the village like a warm blanket.

An old man walked the dirt paths between small houses, a self assigned keeper of the peace.  He plodded his course, a small torch in one hand and Ono tucked in his belt.  The light from his torch threatened the veiled corners holding the mundane objects ignored by day.  As the old man turned the final corner in his circuit around the village, the light exposed the position and unleashed the action of the demon.

No sound. No mercy.  A swift and precise stroke.  The torch and the old man fell, the Ono still in his belt.  The old man’s last breath escaped into the cold night air as the demon stepped over him.  Unsatiated, the demon unleashed a hungry wrath on the village.  Like a cold wind the demon moved in and out of the houses.  The spaces in between were filled with just as much violence.  The fury of the attack chased away the stillness and replaced the silence with screams, dread and woe…

Kenshi woke from his slumber with a start.  The ditch he found himself in was shallow, but water logged from the melting snow.  He was naked and covered in mud, or at least he hoped it was mud.  It was always this way.  He had not known healthy sleep in what felt like years.  His over indulgence of alcohol played into this, but demons were the true culprits.

He hurt.  He did not remember how he received the cuts and bruises now on his body.  They were not there the night before.  Somewhere a scrap had transpired and he wondered if he had hurt someone as they had hurt him. To the west he could see smoke lazily drifting up.  From what, he did not know.

Doshi appeared out of the ether, as he was apt to do.  Lumbering up to Kenshi he inspected the sad state before him.  He sighed, scratching at his scalp then placed a tattered blanket around the shoulders of his dirty and beleaguered master.  He had always been a sensitive and caring boy and he deserved prospects, a better life, a better master.

“I wondered where you had gone this time, master”, said Doshi.

“I too am wondering where I have been, Doshi.”, returned the Samurai.

“Here are your pants, but where are the remainder of your clothes, master?  Please tell me you have even the simplest idea of the direction I should start looking.  You remember it took me two days searching to find your effects last time.”, Doshi said with ample respect and far more worry.

The samurai rubbed his head, shivered and stared into the dirt as if the answer to the question was somehow buried in the ditch with him.  “I…I faintly remember Saki, a village tavern, a village tavern owner and some vigorous discussion about unpaid debts.”

“Master”, Doshi hesitated.  He pawed the ground with his foot, looking down at the same dirt as his master, possibly looking for buried solace like his master.  “It has happened again.”

“Where? When? How many?”.  The samurai pressed, desperate for answers.

“Could this be Mongols?”, asked Doshi.

“You did not answer my questions, squire.”, replied the samurai, sharply but gently reminding the boy of his station and service.

Doshi, while shorter than most boys of 15, was thick and sturdy.  He had come to serve his master at the age of seven and loved him as a father.  His own father surrendered Doshi in partial repayment for debts owed to the local lord.  The next spring his father died and his mother was lost to raiders a month later.

Doshi had witnessed his master, a once highly revered samurai, slowly descend into self pity and subsequently obscurity.  The misplaced blame of a defeat at the hands of Mongol raiders had taken its toll on his master’s soul and reputation.  General Takeda, once Kenshi’s immediate superior, had engaged in a public campaign blaming Kenshi for the defeat. This campaign had since evolved into the direct pursuit of Kenshi, hoping to capture or kill him. 

Kenshi glanced towards the boy as he pressed himself up and onto his feet.  His aches began to loosen as he stretched his arms to the sky.  The arch in his back, let the blanket fall from his shoulders, revealing more than what was appropriate.  His naked body, lean and chiseled possessed many scars.  Scars that told the story of his time in battle and his time on the run.

Kenshi began to put on his leggings.  Doshi instinctually moved to cover his master’s nakedness and block the view of the public.  To his relief, there was no one around to be offended.  Feeling weary again, Kenshi slumped into the muddy ditch hoping a few more minutes would refill his strength and will to begin the day.

“The rumors are of demons, my lord.  Or I should say, a demon, to be precise.”  Doshi uttered, a sense of familiarity and urgency in his voice.

“The village…the people…my lord, it all burns.”  The boy was battling his fear. 

“My lord, we should really continue on our journey.  We are still leagues away from the promised city and General Takeda’s men are closer than comfort allows.  We have been evading them for two and a half years and I would hate for that record to come to an end.”

“We will not go further until I have seen what was done at the village.  Now go and find my clothes.”

Check back soon for part three!