A Window Facing East pt. 2

It was a harsh and freezing wind that blew in from the north. Blood caked on chapped lips, a death grip on the hilt of a samurai sword. The way was long. He trudged through the snow with single minded determination. His destination was demarcated by a plume of black smoke in the distance. That which separated them: Okahana Pond. In the frigid winter, the pond was frozen all the way across: a sheet glass of pure ice. He put an unsure sandal on the frozen surface. He felt it creak a little. Oh well. There was no turning back now.

The pond was a mile across. Surrounding it were the dead and barren branches of cherry trees. And snow. White as far as the eye could see. He put one foot in front of the other, sliding with each step. He bent his knees to lower his center of gravity to maintain his balance. With surer footing, he squatted and slid his way across. At the center of the pond, he allowed himself a breath of relief and stood, taking in his surroundings. The desolation had its beauty. A snow owl hooted from a naked branch at the edge of the pond. The air was cold but clean. He breathed it in. For a moment, he felt a peace wash over him. Then, the plume of smoke caught his eye and renewed his resolve.

The demon had lied. He had taken the teeth of the names as he had claimed but not all of them. One name remained unclaimed. That this monster thought he could retire in solitude and peace filled the young samurai with rage. For all the death he had wrought, to retire in such a serene place as Okahana felt like a desecration. He mocked this place with his wickedness. The pure white that blanketed the earth was a cruel facade that covered the stains of blood.

He felt every step of the mile in the harshness of the wind. He thought he would be fine in the cold and neglected to prepare a sheepskin with fresh water. He didn’t realize he lost water with every breath and now he was quite dehydrated. Delirium had set in and he began speaking to himself.

“Howling Shiori,” he shouted but the wind blew the words back down his throat. “You are the last of the names. The Butcher was filled with sweet lies but even he could not protect you from me. Ice and snow does not deter me. Your retirement does not deter me. Madness does not deter me. The wind howls its vengeance. It calls for you in it's anger. And I come with the wind.”

Just then, he placed a foot upon the ice and a crack spider-webbed underneath. He was two feet from the shoreline. He took another step and the ice gave way and he fell into the frigid water. He was under only an instant before grabbing the ice ledge and pulling himself out of the water and onto the shore. But now he was soaked through. The wind kicked up and the chill stabbed at his chest like needles. Despite his claims, the wind was not his ally.

Shiori’s cabin was at the top of a slope that looked down upon Okahana Pond. The young samurai crawled upon the snowy ground inching his way up the slope. His fingertips were numb and turned a deep purple. He growled and shouted when the chimney of the cabin had finally crested the hill.

“Come and face me, madman,” cried the samurai. He crawled up to the door and extended his hand. As soon as he touched the wood, he fainted.

The fire was warm and welcome in the hearth. The man who tended it was old. He was bald on top and had gray hair on the back and sides of his scalp that was pulled into a tight knot. He prodded the fire with his metal poker that sent orange embers fluttering into the air. Hanging from an iron rod that ran across the fireplace was a pot of black iron. He hooked the lid of the pot and rested it upon the stone. In his left hand was a small wooden bowl. He set the fire poker on the ground and picked up a small wooden ladle. He ladled piping hot soup into the bowl and returned to the young samurai who was fast asleep on the cot and placed it next to him.

The young samurai stirred at the delicate aromas that billowed in the steam of the soup. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, taking the bowl of soup in his hand without a second thought. He slurped loudly and rudely for he didn’t much care for the company.

The old man had returned to his fire with his back towards the young samurai. “You’re quite the lucky man that you found my cabin when you did. Had I not taken you in, you would most assuredly have frozen to death. What brings a young samurai all the way out here?”

“I seek a great warrior, one who must atone for his sins in battle.”

“Ahh. But who can judge the sins of battle? What are sins to you are acts of heroism to others. It is a matter of perspective.”

“Killing women and children are not acts of heroism.”

“No, but are you not also guilty of the sins of battle? Have you not also shed blood? What makes you the one to choose who deserves retribution?”

“I’m the one with the sword.”

“Exactly,” exclaimed the old man. “Power! That’s what matters. Not kindness. Not righteousness. But power. You do it because you are able to. What is right doesn’t matter. Not in the grand vision. You want revenge for the wrongs committed against you. And by virtue of your, no doubt, extraordinary swordsmanship, you shall have it. It is not through righteousness that you achieve your goal but, rather, through might alone.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Pretty good soup, huh?”

“Yes, thank you. But as you say, kindness matters not. I will have my revenge on you, Howling Shiori.”

The old man grimaced at his moniker. He turned toward the boy. Wrinkles cut into his face and a large scar over his left eye prevented it from opening fully. His mustache and beard were overgrown, gnarled and knotted. He smiled, which caught the boy by surprise. This old and ruined man did not seem like the mad killer that was whispered of: the howling samurai whose acts of barbarism were shared as scary stories across campfires. In the silence, the air grew thick between them.

“I have not been that man for a very long time. While vengeance carries a long memory, life does go on, boy. Things change. People are loved and lost and those that remain go on. Think of those that you’ve killed. Monsters in their time, yes, but even Akumacho had a daughter. She was five when you killed her father, the same age you were when we burned your village and killed your family. She must be twelve now. In only nine years time she will be the age that you are now. Who’s to say that in that time she doesn’t pick up a sword? Anger is a great motivator, as you well know. In time, she could become a formidable opponent even for one such as you with your exceptional skill. In nine years, who will you be? A husband? A father? Fat and old and slow. Just enough of an edge for her to cut out your heart right in front of your family. To her, she’ll kill a monster. But to them, she will be the monster. And the cycle will go on.”

“But you don’t have a family, madman,” the young samurai retorted. “You are a loose end. One, I might add, that I am eager to trim.”

“And you don’t have a sword, samurai,” the old man said warmly. “It must’ve fallen in the pond when you went through the ice. Now that the act of vengeance is off the table, I suppose we could just enjoy the fire and each other's company. So, while I do know you are from Moon Village, I do not know your name. And if the whispers are correct, Akumacho did not know of you either.”

“That’s correct,” said the samurai, “but the Emperor indicated that he knew me. It could have just been lies, though. My name is Kota. I was born on a ship that my parents were coming in on from one of the islands. My father was a fisherman and we settled in Moon Village because it was near the coastline. In all honesty, I don’t remember much of the village. I only have fragments now. Playing catch with a pouch of rice with my mother. Dumplings that she would blow on when they were too hot. A blue marlin that my father carried on his back. He was so proud. The village elder invited the family over for dinner. After that, all I remember is fire and blood. And you. You see, it was you I remember, madman. You and your screaming.”

“We did horrible things to your village. There is nothing I can say that will make it right but know that I am indeed sorry for what I did. I did not revel in the violence like Akumacho. I didn’t see it’s cold necessity like Jiro. And I couldn’t follow in blind loyalty like Katashi. Madness was my escape. It allowed me to do that which was monstrous without thinking, without feeling. To become a killing machine. That’s what I was hired for and that’s what I did. With each kill, I howled my pain and confusion. I became drunk on blood. And when it was over, I was empty. Empty of all feeling, of all thought. I thought exile was a suitable punishment - to live out my days with only my madness to keep me company. I don’t expect your forgiveness and frankly, I don’t want it. I just wanted you to understand and to know that I am sorry.”

The young samurai reflected upon the old man’s words and nodded. “Seeing as vengeance is off the table,” he started slowly, “how about another bowl of soup.”

Shiori nodded and refilled his bowl. “You are the first guest I’ve had up here. I know it wasn’t your intention, but it is a kindness that you have spoken with me here today. If, in the future, you do take your vengeance, know that your kindness matters to me and that my heart will rest easy.”