Beauty

Is not less

For falling

In the breeze

He was the strangest person they had ever seen. He was tall, dressed bizarrely yet richly. He walked slowly but ceaselessly, as though he had been keeping up the pace for many hours. But his dress and appearance were of no concern to bandits, who cared only that he was unarmed, and apparently rich.

He began to cross the bridge from the northern island. It was a long bridge, old, worn, immutable. His feet, clad in leather the same blue colour as the rest of his clothing, made hollow sounds against the oaken slats, broadcasting his existence in the silent surroundings, alerting anyone in the desolate but no less beautiful landscape. The sun was not visible, and the sky was an oyster pink, the water of the calm sea similar in shade. The ripples of the tide splashed noiselessly against the steep rocky banks and broad wooden supports that held the bridge above the water, and allowed people safe crossing.

It was that solemn silence that saved him, letting him hear the faint whistle of blade through air. His left foot slid in a backward arc, drawing his body away from the killing thrust. He pivoted, and swung his foot upwards till it was parallel to his body. The bandit blocked the blow with his face, bringing his feet six inches above the bridge floor and snapping his head backwards. He grabbed the falling sword in midair and jammed it into the bandit’s bare ankle, pinning him to wood.

There was rarely, if ever, only one. To either side perched hungry-eyed rogues, balanced upon and clutching to the wide handrails. They were behind also, they could be smelt by the blindest of noses. They numbered in their half dozen a dangerous and treacherous group.

“They say that you took their offer of fifty gold pieces. Is this true?” asked the leader in a surprisingly commanding voice.

“I may have. What business is it of yours?” he replied, nonchalant and ever so slightly bored.

“It is my business for you have killed three of my comrades!” The leader said impatiently.

“I didn’t think, that bandits had sense of comradeship.” He replied coolly, turning to face the ragged looking bandit captain and his broad, scarred face.

The bandit to his left’s reply was an angry shout “How dare you insinuate that we are so low!”

“I’m not insinuating. That is fact.” He replied, his voice even and calm.

The bandit captain let out a furious roar “Kill him!” were his two words. His equally angry subordinates needed little direction, and leapt into the fray.

The two on the hand railings pushed off towards him, one with chipped blade in hand, the other whirling a clawed chain about his head. He stepped backward beneath the bandit’s swirling weapon, driving his hand into the robber’s chest, grasping at the patched kimono. His foot crashed into the other assailants face, halting his leap and punishing him to the ground. He grabbed the freed sword from where it hung and speared the first bandit through. He kicked the already dying man over the edge of the bridge in a fine mist of red.

He slid out of the way of the swing of a crude axe, letting it sever the stunned thief’s leg above the knee, making him cry out with disbelief and abject pain. He slipped around in the growing pool of blood, whipping a blade out from nowhere. He brought it into the shoulder of the axe-wielder, slicing cleanly through his upper body and deeply across the torso of the less-than-fully-legged body on the planks, releasing thick sheets of blood into the air.

He cut through the red that hung between him and his enemies, parting the blood cleanly. He sprang through and clashed blades with the foremost of the remainder. The bandit bounced off the whirling guard and caught a slash from his enemy, his blade was pushed downward and his attacker twisted the sword upside down and impaled it through the bandit’s stomach. He flipped over the bandit’s shoulder as he staggered about and clawed at the sword stuck within the grip of his flesh. He just about danced free of a killing strike and hammered the heel of his palm into the face of the robber, spittle blossoming from his mouth. Another blow released more saliva and a third tainted it with blood. He circled around the enemy, kicking him easily in the stomach before rolling beneath the vicious attack of the other surviving bandit. He tore his katana free and easily flicked aside their frantic blows.

He brought his blade up by his face, clasping the red hilt in both hands. Their screams were so audible as to be heard by anyone with ears.

HIMOWARI

He strode on as shredded flesh smacked wetly to the oak, twirling his sword about violently to free the blade of blood. It traced intricate fractal patterns for a split second before splashing to the bridge. The bandits’ leader stood shivering as he came closer to were he stood. He brought the sword up as though threatening then sheathed it quietly, shoving the bandit to the floor. As he walked on, the last would-be murderer spoke up, his voice shaking more than his face.

“It’s true then? It’s true that you are The Great Shogun Lodge?” he asked, still shivering.

“Perhaps.” Shogun Lodge replied, pushing his hands into his pockets.

The white flask was passed to the old man who hobbled from behind the bar toward a table in the back. His clogged feet, made in the Japanese style so as to make him an inch or so taller, very slowly clapped against the wood floor to make its delivery. The old man was watched by the four patrons at the bar and the owner himself.

“You don’t treat Gramps well enough, Pops.” Said one gravely, turning back to his saké and sipping from it. The others nodded in sage agreement.

“Bah,” Pops scoffed in return “What would you drunks know, neh?”

Gramps finally gave the patron his flask, plain white and made of ceramic. “Domo.” The patron said quietly and Gramps smiled and bowed, his toothless grin both amusing and innocently friendly. Gramps began to hobble back to the bar, his hunched over back bobbing up and down. As he began to climb behind the bar, the shoji door slid open and Shogun Lodge entered, shaking his brown hair free of the light coating of water that had accumulated from the light rain. He sat crosslegged at the closest table to the door, closing the shoji as he went. Pops asked him what he wanted to drink.

“Saké.” Lodge replied simply, sitting his sunglasses down in front of him, and leaning his sword up against the table. He surveyed the inhabitants of the establishment. The four unkempt, yet still neat, men at the bar, the large nosed bartender, the wizened old man who was trying to get Lodge his saké. And in the far part of the room, the ronin with the black-scabbarded katana.

“What’s that?” Lodge asked when he realised that Gramps was speaking to him.

“Your sword is very beautiful.” Gramps replied as he placed the saké bottle down “May I see?”

Shogun Lodge picked up the weapon. It truly was a work of art. The saya had been carved so that the crimson wood resembled nothing much as a scabbard but rather seven interlocked dragons that firmly clutched at the perfect white steel of the blade that shined through in the dull lantern light. The sword was perfect and had never once been sharpened; its age was irrelevant, like the age of its master. In the light of the moon the blade glowed a peaceful blue, and in the midday sun the edge shone silver.

Lodge let his right hand travel up to the hilt. It was gripped tightly and he slid the sword free, the air against its edge whistling with pain. To those who listened the blade seemed to hum with power. He drew it only halfway free and it seemed that everyone who was watching - which happened to be everyone in the room - was in complete awe at the sight of such a weapon.

“They say that she reflects a man’s true soul.” Lodge said amid the silence that was brought on by the presence of his katana “And then entraps them within the steel.” He sheathed it suddenly and without warning, bringing them back to reality with the click of hilt and sheath meeting. The ronin turned away from where Lodge sat and went back to his saké, but the others did not.

“Wow.” Said one.

“It is indeed beautiful Mr . . uh . . “ It appeared as though Gramps was trying to remember Lodge’s name, but he did not yet know it.

“Lodge.” He said to stop the old man’s pained look of thought.

“C’mon Gramps.” Pops said impatiently from where he stood “There is work to be done.” Even though he himself was doing nothing.

“You work him too hard, Pops.” Said one of his patrons, the other three nodding in sage agreement.

“Bah,” replied Pops “What would you three drunks know, neh?”

The rain had not yet begun to cease though it was not very heavy. Shogun Lodge left the drinking house and made his way out into the street. Rain bothered him little, like long distances or powerful enemies bothered him little. He had been in too much rain, walked to many long miles and fought - and subsequently killed - too many powerful enemies to care any longer. But as many nemesis’s that he fought, he found not one that was worthy.

His feet splashed quietly through the mud when he heard a shout. He turned to see to ronin just in front of the bar. Rain didn’t seem to bother him either. Some ronin are very powerful Lodge mused, and others still are worthy opponents. Could this one be it? They walked toward each other, stopping a scant pace apart. They did not speak.

The ronin’s hand snapped to the hilt of his blade with a speed that none could match. He tried to draw the blade free but found the hilt jammed against Lodge’s body, who had drawn his sword with a reverse grip. The tip had not come free of the sheath, but the edge was pushed gently against the ronin’s body with no cruel intent.

Hattori eased the sword back inside the stately black wood of his scabbard as Lodge stepped back and held his katana vertically before pushing it back inside also. He turned and walked away while Hattori stood and watched before he too turned and walked away.

The rain increased in its intensity. The street was dark, like much of the town, and unnaturally silent. It bothered him little and his pace did not slow. He became slightly apprehensive and brought up his blade within easier reach of his sword hand. Lodge began to slow, then stopped. He couldn’t see them. He couldn’t hear them. But they were there. He could smell them.

Lodge’s katana tore free of its sheath in a reversed hold and swung it beneath his arm catching the silent blade with a flash of sparks. Lodge stepped forward and ducked beneath another killing blow. He turned as quickly as he could, bringing his katana up in front of his body, saya with it. There was no one there. It was then that Lodge realised that he was facing no swordsman.

His nostrils twitched and his ears strained to hear. The only sound was rain against mud. He looked up at the roofs to either side of him. There was the hint of movement that he was waiting for and he tossed his katana into a handy wooden post. It thudded home near the top of its height, at the point where the arbour that extended from the walls of all buildings. Lodge sprinted for it then leapt forward. His feet pushed against hilt and the sword bent reliably beneath his weight. Lodge bounced high above the rooftop, then came down, his foot brushing against the ninja’s shoulder, spinning him around violently. With supreme grace and unearthly agility, the ninja righted himself in midair bringing his straight-edged sword down infront of him. Lodge ducked beneath a rapid lunge and rushed his knee upwards toward the ninja’s unprotected belly, who in turned leapt backwards, landing lithely and low to the ground. The blade flew in an upward arc and scraped just past his upper arm. Had Lodge not skilfully dodged to the side, the blow would have taken his left arm off. He rolled across the roof, feeling the wind of an impossibly fast swing fly past him. Lodge leapt to his feet, kicked his assailant once in the side and, while the ninja was reeling from the blow, spun around backwards and kicked him in the face. The black-clad assassin fell from the roof and landed feet and one hand first, in the mud.

Shogun Lodge dropped back down to the street, making just a little noise. He jumped to the side as the ninja swung at him and wrenched his sword free, bringing his blade up to meet the other with both hands. There was a ring of steel and Lodge pushed forward, running his opponent backwards. The ninja’s feet plowed through the mud until he was forced to backflip away. He steadied as Lodge brought his sword in a hissing silver arc and caught the blow, putting his left hand behind the blade at the point of impact. There was a scream and a short spray of white sparks, the ninja was driven backward two or three feet. The ninja flashed forward, throwing Lodge off balance and drawing blood. Lodge gripped his blade in one hand, bringing the other above his head and jabbed forward, rapier style. He drove the tip of the katana forward three more times and made a pair of short strikes at the ninja’s neck.

Lodge found himself too off balance and the ninja pressed home the advantage, breaking the sword from Lodge’s hand. The katana spun slowly about, then landed point down in the mud. Perhaps the ninja grinned in triumph as he brought the sword up. Lodge flicked out his right hand and a tiny silver knife, its blade broad and shield-like, flew between his fingers. He swung his arm, and therefore his handle-less knife, past the ninja’s throat. They stood still for a few seconds and then the ninja dropped the sword, blood spraying from a tiny cut in a wide jet. The ninja’s legs buckled and he fell to the mud. Lodge secreted his knife back into his sleeve and retrieved both his katana and its scabbard. He rolled the sword over his hand and let it slide into the sheath. Then continued on, as though nothing had interrupted his walk.

It was a gambling house like any other. It was never frequented by samurai, who deplored the practice. It was a very easy form of gambling - the guessing of dice rolls. Despite the simplicity, as much as a koban could be won or lost in one night - enough money to buy enough rice to feed three families for a year. That was an immense amount of money for peasants. Shogun Lodge, tired, bored, and feeling uncharacteristically excessive, paid it a visit.

Inside, a young man, Oda, waited. He watched as the caster showed the two dice. “Any objections?” the tattooed man asked. When there were none, he put them into his cup. He slammed the cup down and pushed it forward. “Bets.” The casters demanded. Patrons put forward lacquered rectangles of black wood that represented their money. Oda waited til last, then pushed forward four.

“Odds.” He said with finality.

“Evens.” The caster said, revealing a pair of twos.

“Damn.” Oda muttered as four more of his chits were gone. He looked down. Eight left. He took a deep breath, and decided to stay in. The process was repeated, but this time, Oda put only one down and bet evens. The dice were even. Oda got one back. It wasn’t much of a win. Oda had already lost a dozen. Shogun Lodge entered slowly, and tapped Oda aside with his sheathed sword. He sat down.

“I’d like to see the colour of your money, stranger.” The owner, a withered old man in the corner said. He sat next to an immense pile of chits. Lodge put two fingers into his sleeve and pulled out a gold coin, one koban. The dice casters were silently astounded. One koban was alot of money to pass in one night, let alone from one person. Lodge flicked it at the owner, but the chief caster caught it with incredible speed.

Lodge was passed a pile of chits, which he went about arranging into interesting patterns. “Objections?” there were none, but Lodge wasn’t paying attention. He was building a house. The cup was slammed down and pushed forward. “Bets.” Oda bet two on evens. For awhile, Lodge did nothing except create an impossible roof with some of his chits, making them stand diagonally. “Stranger?”

“Oh, what? Sorry.” He pushed forward his house, which promptly collapsed and spewed black wood across the table infront of the casters. “Sorry.” Lodge grinned cheesily at the chief caster, who narrowed his eyes. But the owner was pleased. Rich and stupid! A rare and profitable combination amongst gambling houses “Odds.”

The result was predictably odds, doubling Shogun Lodge’s money. Triple what the gambling house made in one day. The gamblers looked dry mouthed at Lodge’s stack. Six koku worth of gambling chits. Not one of them had ever seen that much money in one place.

The process was carried out again, this time with Lodge betting a quarter of what he had, this time again on odds. Seven and a half koku. Oda nudged Lodge discreetly, who acknowledged him with a raised eyebrow.

“Can a join you?” he asked, but Lodge had taken Oda’s half a dozen chits before he had finished. He wanted to finish his mosque. Many people would never allow someone as bad a gambler as Oda to join them. By custom, half of everything won by Lodge was now Oda’s. It appeared he didn’t care that much about money, as he promptly bet all the chits on the next roll, which he said would be even. But only after everyone else, more sceptical than Oda, had gone.

“You’re very good, Lodge-san.” Oda said as they left with almost a weeks worth of the house’s money. “Five koban! I’ve never seen so much money.”

“Then it’s yours, so long as you don’t gamble it away.” Lodge replied, dropping the paper-wrapped gold into Oda’s hand.

“Oh no!” Oda said, almost suffering a cardiac arrest at the feel of ninety grams of gold in his hand. “I could only take half!”

“Suit yourself. But two and a half koban is a pittance.” Lodge smiled inwardly, wondering how the young man would react to the knowledge that Lodge could buy the town, which was valued at about two hundred thousand koku.

In repayment for his help, Oda promised Lodge somewhere to stay. His Aunt’s home in fact.

“Lot’s of pretty girls here, Lodge-san.” Oda said, rubbing his coins between his thumb and forefingers. One of the courtesans smiled at him and Oda grinned back at her.

“I have no interest in courtesans, Oda.” Lodge replied, leaning tiredly against a wall.

Oda became intrigued suddenly “What do you have an interest in, Lodge-san?” he asked curiously.

“Now is not the time to speak of such things. I may tell you later.” And left it at that. Oda mused for a moment and nodded slowly.

Even though he had no idea what he was talking about.

Oda did not get a chance to spend his new found wealth. As he was trying to work out what to do with the money, he noticed that Shogun Lodge was bleeding. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he did now. With a supreme strength of will, Oda managed to wrest his mind from money and to the well-being of his benefactor. Oda shoved the gold into his kimono and tapped Lodge on the shoulder. For a moment, Lodge did not acknowledge him, until Oda said: “Lodge-san? Do you wish to leave here for my aunt’s?” Lodge yawned.

“Yes Oda, if you will.”

So they left the company of the light and music of the Tea House and samisen and trudged back into the darker, quieter, and somehow muddier streets that lead from the town. They passed the darkened gambling house, and Lodge saw the dice caster leaning against the wall. It quite clear now that the rain had passed. He looked irritable and Lodge sniffed with amusement. They walked on and the ninja who had fallen beneath Lodge’s hand was gone, save for watery blood - or bloody water, depending on one’s view - that collected in the craters, crevasses and footprints that pockmarked the mire-like road. They passed the drinking house, long-closed, and kept on walking and passed out into the surrounding countryside. The roads became clay-like as they weaved between the trees and the brush. It didn’t take long until they reached Oda’s aunt’s home, a large, yet modest and distinctively Japanese construct. An oil lamp glowed through the paper and cut against the perfectly made tiles. Lodge studied the tiles carefully. He had seen Osaka Castle, and the tiles on its roof were little better than these. In fact, Lodge could have sworn they were the same. He raised his eyebrows above the lenses of his sunglasses, shrugged imperceptibly and followed Oda to the door.

Oda slid the door open and entered, removing his muddy sandals as he went. He laughed at the beginning of his sentence, which was: “Ho, Aunt, I’ve got a-”

“Oh nephew do you need more money!?” Oda’s Aunt appeared. She was a woman who had aged gracefully, whose mind was as sharp as any sword. “And look, you’ve tracked mud inside!” she pointed a finger accusingly at his feet.

“I have not!” Oda replied, spreading his hands wide and looking down. Mud edged his best tabi, his sock-shoes. “Well, yes, I have, but I don’t need more money, I’m going to give you some!” with that, Oda drew out the winnings and brandished the gold about.

“Oh! Nephew! How did you get such wealth!?” Oda’s Aunt hurried forward and grasped Oda’s wrist to peer of the money. She became serious and worried “You didn’t do anything wrong for this, did you?” she questioned severely.

“No Lady, he didn’t.” Shogun Lodge said, stepping inside and closing the door. “Unless you believe gambling to be wrong.”

Oda’s Aunt started at the sight of the tall newcomer inside her home. She composed herself and bowed to Lodge. “So sorry sir, but where my nephew is concerned, gambling is always unprofitable.”

“Ah ha!” Oda said triumphantly “Not tonight, not with Lodge-san to help me. He’s precognitive!” Oda’s Aunt, whose name happened to be Yuriko, raised an eyebrow at them both, before motioning for them to sit down.

Aunt Yuriko gave them food. Apparently, she didn’t sleep very often, and whiled away the time by cooking rice. Lodge was not entirely satiated by the large amount of rice he had consumed, even though he had devoured three or four times more than Oda and his Aunt combined. Oda spent much of that time staring at Lodge as he accepted politely the bowl after bowl of rice that Aunt Yuriko offered, ate it quickly, and then accepted the next. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Oda asked sarcasm tinging his voice.

“Oda!” his Aunt hissed “Don’t be so impolite to Lodge-san!”

“No, don’t chide him.” Lodge replied, yawning “At least two people ask me that everywhere I go. Everywhere.”

“So where do you come from then?” Oda asked, intrigued.”

Lodge considered for a long time. He pulled out a piece of paper and a black quill, licked the nib and started writing a whole set of equations and bizarre symbols that Oda and Aunt Yuriko could not even begin to read, let alone understand. He put the quill back into his jacket, flicked out a compass, studied it and deposited it back. He looked into the middle distance intently for a minute, picked up his calculations and studied them for a moment before turning them upside down. He pointed left and down a little. After quite a time he put away his things and spoke.

“Left.” He said and they blinked.

Shogun Lodge knew that they wouldn’t understand, but it was the truth, and Shogun Lodge rarely lied to good people. Rarely.

“Ah.” Said Aunt Yuriko knowingly “Why have you come such a long way, Lodge-san?” Oda became afraid it would take him just as long to answer this question as the last one. It didn’t.

“Have you heard of the Sunflower Samurai?”

Oda had, as had his Aunt, who brightened greatly at this.

“You search for the Sunflower Samurai?” Yuriko asked eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Then surely - no, forgive my impudence.”

“No, go on.”

Aunt Yuriko looked wistful “Then surely you must The Great Shogun Lodge!” Oda looked surprised “The Lord Protector of Japan from so long ago.” Shogun Lodge narrowed his eyes behind the lenses of his sunglasses. She referred to the first time he had been in Japan, centuries ago.

“Now,” he began, shifting till he was slightly more comfortable “What would make you say that?”

“They say that The Great Shogun Lodge searches for a worthy opponent since defeating the barbarians and their demon masters.” That was too close to his thoughts. “They also say that the Sunflower Samurai is the worthiest of opponents in the world, and that The Great Shogun Lodge would return to face him.”

“That is very, very, accurate.”

Yes. Isn’t it.