A Window Facing East

It moved with the wind: a carpet of gold and brass. It stretched for miles until it died on the horizon. It moved with the wind: a head of jet black hair, shoulder length. The face it attached to, a cold steel grimace. It moved with the wind: a strand of rope. Affixed to his waist, it held the sheath of a samurai sword. He flicked his thumb on the hand guard, revealing an inch of the cold steel blade. Across the field was his opponent - a samurai of considerable renown though one of old bones. He gave thanks that youth was on his side and drew the length of the blade as he charged. He moved like the wind.

They clashed swords that glittered in the sun like lightning bolts. The young man thrust his sword and hit nothing but air. The old man brought down his blade like a mighty cleaver but only cleaved the marigolds. The young man pivoted around the attack and jabbed his elbow in the old man’s side. He hit the floating rib and felt it crack. The attack was super effective!

The old man dropped his blade to the dirt, clutching his side. He disappeared into the thick carpet of marigolds and rolled out of sight. The young man padded backwards with deliberate pace. He cocked his head left and right hoping for a flutter or a sound to indicate his enemy. He tightened his grip on the sword handle.

“Coward,” he said. “Come out and face me!”

“Do I know you, boy,” the old voice asked from nowhere and everywhere. The young man wheeled around, scanning the field for a sign but there was none. The old man had decades of wile and skill.

“No, but I know you,” he called back, “Akumacho, the Butcher!”

“I do love my old title,” replied Akumacho. The amusement in his voice tore at the young man’s heart. “You might not know this about me but my father was a pig farmer. Long time ago. In fact, I come from six generations of pig farmers. We always had fresh bacon on the breakfast table. I had a pig of my own as a pet. I named him Debu. When he got fat enough to eat, my father demanded that I slaughter him. Alas, I couldn’t do it. My father was so upset, he shunned me and said he would not leave the family’s pig farm to me, that my heritage would be sold to the state for auction. It was him throwing me out and disowning me that caused me to pick up the katana and become the samurai you know today. You see, I didn’t get my nickname from my family’s legacy. I got it because I once slaughtered a pregnant baker for overbaking my morning bread.” Akumacho cackled like a wild hyena.

“Hold your tongue, Demon. I do not wish to sully my ears with your boasts of bloodshed. They are well known to me. I was there the day you arrived at the village that once stood here. I was there when you slaughtered the innocent. I was there when you set the fires. I saw all of this when I was just a child. Their blood watered these fields where we now stand. From their ashes, these flowers bloomed anew. Today, you will offer your blood in kind. Today, you pay your debt!”

“Then, come and take it, boy,” growled Akumacho, who then sprouted up from the flowers with his sword held aloft. The young man expected the attack and rotated on his back leg to face his opponent. His sword was blinding hot steel as it carved through the air. The two blades clashed and slid across one another as the boy deflected Akumacho’s attack. Sparks flew from between the blades with the friction. The blades clashed again with subsequent strikes, one, two, three! They grew hot, sending more sparks into the air. Then, a spark landed on one of the marigold petals and an ember caught flame. A single plume of smoke warned of imminent doom.

“Ah well, my boy,” said Akumacho, beaming. “It seems we shall have to delay this little scuffle for another day. Pity.” He coughed fiercely into his palm. A trail of blood from the corner of his mouth dripped down his chin. His fractured rib was causing damage. If the boy could hold on for just a while longer, he would win the fight through Akumacho’s injuries.

“Scared of a little smoke, Butcher,” mocked the boy, “or are you frightened of me?”

“Petulant brat,” spat the demon. “I have killed scores of warriors far more skilled than you. I have the teeth of the names around my neck. Jiro, the Tidal Wave. Katashi of the White Lotus style. Howling Shiori. All of them fell to my blade. And you? Who are you? Some nameless warrior like in the fairy tales. Come to take me out? Nonsense. Even at my old age, I have more than enough skill to handle you.”

“Show me,” said the young warrior. Akumacho spat out a mouthful of bright red blood and charged. He was slower now and choked on the growing smoke. The fractured rib dug into his lungs as the first flame appeared from the flowers. Despite his debilitation and age, he still had his skill. His strikes were lethal in accuracy, beautiful in their grace. But the boy was a step ahead. He was faster and stronger by a slim margin but it was enough to evade the old samurai’s attacks, to wear him down. A final strike from the demon hit nothing but air. Akumacho slid to a halt, his sandals digging into the dirt. Fire roared around them as the marigolds burned. He tried to catch his breath but the blood had flooded his lungs. Before Akumacho could take another step, the young man moved with blinding speed and was upon the old samurai. With a single slash, he dissociated Akumacho’s head from his body. And the battle was over. The young warrior took Akumacho’s necklace of teeth. He wedged his dagger in between the gumline of the old man’s canine, popped out the tooth and pocketed it. He left that place, as he had so long ago, in a pile of smoldering ruins.

Two weeks later, the young man arrived at the mountain on horseback. He disembarked from his saddle and combed the steed’s mane. She whinnied with satisfaction. Before him, steps carved into the rockface winded up the mountain. Atop of which sat the castle. He pulled his shoulder-length black hair into a taught ponytail and began his long ascent.

The way was hard. Each of the mighty stone steps rose a foot before leveling out. At twenty feet up, he was already winded. There were still another nine hundred eighty to go. At a hundred feet, his legs began to wobble. At two hundred fifty feet, his sandals had rubbed the skin away from the soles of his feet and they bled into his socks. At seven hundred feet, he could no longer stand so he threw himself upon the stone and crawled up the remaining steps. Finally, he reached the one thousandth step. His fingers trembled and bled. His knees were scuffed and the blood from his feet seeped from his socks. He pushed himself up and swayed as if about to topple over. The entrance to the castle stood before him. He approached and pushed his way in the large wooden door.

There were no guards in the palace. The thousand steps were the guards. The foyer was huge and empty. “Hello,” called the young man and his voice echoed off the walls. “I seek counsel.” There came no reply. “Emperor,” he called again. "I know you hear me. Answer me!”

“Yes, I hear you,” came an old and haggard voice. “Down on your left.” The young man followed the voice down the side hall on the left and slid open the door. The emperor’s quarters were quaint consisting of a single futon, a small wooden chair to the side, and chest of drawers in the corner. The young man took a seat at the wooden chair.

“Do you know who I am,” asked the young man.

“I know who you are,” replied the emperor. “It’s my job to know who you are.”

“And do you know why I’m here?”

“To kill me,” said the emperor. “It was twenty years ago that my samurai came to your village - a village, I might add, that was of no particular significance. We needed it demolished to establish a trade route through the southern tip of the country. You think me a cold and callous man but, in truth, I offered a handsome sum for your people to relocate. They chose to defy me. They thought to test my resolve and they lost. When they refused to give up their land, I had no choice but to send in my warriors. And now you want revenge? For what? Your people’s mistake. Your people’s arrogance. My hands are wiped clean of you. You have come to kill an innocent man.”

“No, Emperor,” replied the boy, “I have come to repay a murderer.”

“I only acted in the good of the land,” pleaded the Emperor.

“It was not your land to take,” the boy said, screaming. “It was ours. Our land of our crops tilled by our people! You offered us a sum? Through what, an envoy? It wasn’t you, Emperor, because you don’t see us. You look down from your tower on that which you think is lesser. We’re ants on a map. And you brushed us off. Never mind the carnage. Never mind the heartache. Never mind the legacy of that which you destroyed. My people. My heritage. Gone. In. Flame!”

“Do what you must, boy, but know this: killing me will not ease your spirit. It will not bring back your family. And with my nephew in place to succeed me, it won’t even end my empire. All it will do - the full extent of your accomplishment - will be to leave you here in an empty room.”

“I already told you,” replied the boy, “I didn’t come here for peace. I came to repay you.” In a flash, he was on his feet and drew his sword. He plunged the length of the blade into the old man’s chest and all the way through until it stuck in the wood floor. The old man coughed and gurgled as a volcanic eruption of blood bubbled and spat from his mouth. And he was dead. The young warrior removed the necklace of teeth, now with Akumacho’s canine affixed to the string, and tossed it upon the dead man’s chest.

He wobbled, still delirious from his climb, and sat back down in the wooden chair. Through the slotted window, the sun began to rise. As the warmth from the rays touched his cheeks, the young man wept into his hands in the empty room.