MANNA

By: Alexander Rivera

“Some are born in the human womb,
Some are born evildoers in hell,
those on the good course go to heaven,
while those without effluent:
totally unbound.”

The Buddha, Dhammapada IX: Evil - section 126.

I. Baptism of Solitude

Emerald eyes were bloodshot as the beaten prisoner lay on the cold stone floor of the inner chamber, barely stirring as the rain poured from the clouds, seeping through the cracks of the ceiling and the bars of the open windows, high above. The constant pour created a small stream of water to trickle into the isolation of his incarceration.

A small dragonfly zipped through the window to land on the edge of the prisoner’s metal clamps. Beneath a tortured grimace, lay a sleeping, fallen creature, deep in a dream of writhing rage, rough skin, and blood dripping from a flurry of seraphim wings.

From the soft click of a sword and whisper of his mind, his dream was interrupted. His emerald eyes snapped open to see only the shadows of his weakly lit prison cell. He heard the dragonfly’s wings buzz for a second, interrupting the silence.

Another shadowy presence was felt in the dispiriting stone wall chamber, inhaling the same pervasive smell of must and dust and creeping rot. The dragonfly quickly fluttered back out the window, as if it intuitively knew a fight to the death would ensue.

To the side, there was a thick click of a latch being undone. A sword. He swallowed softly as he heard the smooth blade slide from its home. The sound of air splitting…

The prisoner threw himself up, despite his arms being tied down as the shadowy figure didn’t even emit a gasp of surprise, merely pounced with the quickness of a cat on the stone floor and swung at him. The prisoner quickly used his enchained means to prevent the blade of intense sharpness to slice through his flesh.

He wondered for about three seconds where the guards had gone, due to the clanging brawl in the dreary prison cell.

He sent a flying kick towards the shadow, barely striking it. Again, the blade attempted to suede through his torso, as the prisoner quickly sent both chains to trap the flung sword in his enchained, metallic spider’s web.

The faceless assailant fumbled with his sword as the tortured prisoner managed, barely, to grab it by the blade and flip it into the air skillfully. Carefully, he caught it, his blood seeping into the wrapped leather of the hilt. Then something slammed into the wall next to his head. He jerked away, only to find a small twisted dagger had scraped the side of his face, warm blood dripping down his neck and on to his shoulder.

Quickly, the prisoner scrambled to position the blade for an inevitable counter attack. The shadowy assailant this time, attacked with full force, along with a twisted, Methuscia dagger in hand, shaped from the horror that was the Greek myth of the Medusa.

Both forged, metallic blades met with a loud clang, as the shadowy assailant attempted to make a deathly finger and palm technique to be used upon the chained criminal.

With a burst of energy, the prisoner wrapped the shadow with his own chained bondage around the neck and proceeded to pull, choking the life out of the creeping, would be assassin. With the twisted dagger, the darkly ghost attempted to piece the prisoner within the solar plexus until the prisoner’s blade arced through the air, laying open the throat of his adversary. A cry tore its way from his throat, a bellow of indecipherable rage and anguish from the stealth ninja’s enwrapped mask over the lower-half of his face.

He marveled still at how easily the dagger slipped in between the discs in a human spinal cord, inflicting immediate paralysis, loss of speech and finally the great blackness of death. Beneath the red haze that clouded his mind, the prisoner wondered briefly which one that had been, how many he had killed, even as he added one more to the tally; but he could not remember, having long ago lost count in the bloodlust that had gripped him for so long.

The cellar door of the prison cell opened by a lean figure adorned with exquisitely designed shogun-like armor only fit for royalty or for the most astute warlord of the noble caste. From the shadows, he emerged, with the fetid stare of a reaper or an Angel of Death, arriving to collect a soul filled with anguish.

He clapped his hands together as if he just witnessed a theatrical play end with several solemn bows, “Orwasi-san, very good! I commend your bravado.”

Reeling from his freshly rendered kill, Orwasi knew instantly what he faced, recognizing the near androgynous features of the armor clad creature, as his one eye studied the prisoner, while the other blocked by an elongated bang of sable hair, drifting downwards.

He was Ichiro, the notoriously merciless fighter and magnate of a criminal syndicate, known for his acts of pure, unhindered barbarism. He stepped over to the blood-splattered prisoner as Orwasi threatened to strike him down, branding the Bushido blade, if he took one step closer.

“He was sloppy…and yet here you are, chained like a dog, and able to defeat him. Nothing more than a lowly assassin.”

“You did this?” Orwasi grumbled quickly at the man’s curt tone in a blood curdling tone of voice, filled with vengeance.

“Did what? Letting in a killer to test your prowess? Forgive me, but I must test before I make my investment!” Ichiro then drew his long black silver blade, curved into a hook for slaughtering, a light glisten of moisture emitted from it.

In a blink of an eye, Ichiro quickly made a thruster with his hooked blade at Orwasi’s direction, as the prisoner attempted to block and counter his attack, next only to realize his clutches were shaken without a means for defense or offense, save perhaps his chains but they were no match for this vagabond of bloodlust. The sheer intensity of the clang, knocked the samurai sword away from Orwasi, as Ichiro laid his cold, deadened eyes upon his own filled with furious fire.

Ichiro grabbed him by his dingy rags and placed the curved blade underneath his unshaven chin, feeling the cold steel threatening to puncture his throat, “Do not move, or I shall surely render you forever silent. You lack conscience when it comes to the killing of worthless bags of flesh. You do not rest, your blade is your source of rest. Whenever it drinks deep of the souls of dead men, you find respite, master-less reaper. It is said no assassin can match the skill of your own, Angel of Death. That is why I am here, Orwasi!”

Quickly, he let go of him, taking a few steps back, paying witness to the wretched creature, dejected to a lowly underfoot of a prisoner.

“I’m here to offer you redemption from this hell--in exchange for an opportunity to work for me. You are a slave to your past--to this wretched prison of the shogun. I can free you from this bondage, if you’d like.”

“You lie,” he said, anger seeming to win out. “What are you, a Shinigami?” Orwasi asked, in a muddled tone of voice.

“If you want me to…I could end your life at this very moment.”

Orwasi shook his head, “That was my job…” his eyes clouded with anger for a moment before he continued heatedly, “to be rid of miscreants and enemies of the clientele.”

“Then why do you desire to sit here and rot, wasting your talents on drudgery sadness?” Ichiro went on, “Let me help you, in turn you do a small favor for me. There is a fool that is indebted to me…in more ways than you can imagine.”

“Why don’t you kill him yourself?” Orwasi barked, mustering whatever energy was left at his disposal.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” He quickly let go of him, backing off into the darkened corner. Ichiro continued on, “He is a regent of a long missing ally within the trades. I cannot afford any more mistakes. If a certain trail of blood would lead to me, my head would be served on a platter. You are known for your ‘perfect’ hits. I’m sure you can be able bodied to handle this menial task at your own disposal.”

The drowsiness slowed his mind to a crawl, but he understood the essentials of what Ichiro was saying; that he offered him a way out and disbelieved his proposal as the intruder continued, “But I say, what is blood for, if not for shedding?”

Carefully, Orwasi answered him, “If I agree, I will work, but only on my own accord. I refuse to be your murderous dog.”

Orwasi’s reply to Ichiro’s assault was a beast like roar followed by a close range swing of the fist which the stranger avoided before placing an uppercut into the gangster’s chin which seemed to the ungrateful recipient to wedge both sets of teeth into the opposite set of gums.

“Even a beaten down, pathetic creature still has an egoist mouth fit only for a spoiled, puppet Emperor! If it is your wish to escape this prison, they you shall do what I have suggested. Kill the baron and you shall have your freedom.”

Accepting the man’s curt tone, Orwasi wheezed, “…Well said…” Ichiro’s chain-mail armor made a chime as he forced Orwasi to rise up, clenching onto his neck, “Fight with honor or not -- hardly my concern. The regent’s name is Tamigorou Shizuma, a not-so-minor noble, but hardly famous the entire empire over. He usually visits a well-to-do teahouse in Kyoto. I am sure you will be able to find him there,”

“Let go…” Orwasi grumbled. Ichiro finally followed the simple and mundane request as he walked over to the cellar door and opened it for Orwasi’s exiting escape. Outside the cell, there were two blood-splattered, dismembered corpses of the shogun prison guard, laying on the floor as Ichiro gestured him to follow with a simple sideways nod.

Orwasi grasped onto a fallen blade upon the dirty, blood and urine stained floor and proceeded to follow his dark redeemer from this sordid hell.