Week 24: James Moser- A Young Samurai Kneels in a Clearing
Full Prompt: “A young samurai kneels in the clearing of a bamboo forest. He contemplates his next move as his blade drips with blood”
Story:
The wind gently swayed the branches of the trees as the sun shone through their leaved canopy. Brush crackled underfoot. Birds chirped and swooped throughout the forest, offering sweet song and playful banter. He could detect small ground disturbances about him, from small creatures tending to their daily tasks. He walked peacefully along until he detected a larger disturbance. At best it was a tiger, curiously stalking him. At worst it was something much more vicious, something he had been warned of since childhood, something he had prepared to face his entire life.
He heard a similar disturbance from an opposing direction. Something darted just outside his eye line. His hand moved toward and rested upon the tsuka of his katana, still in its saya. His keen senses perceived another rustling followed another. This sort of clustering, this formation was that of no pack animal. He now knew this animal to be his latter fear. The crook of his thumb and forefinger cradled the bindings of his sword, readying its draw. This more vicious foe was man.
For as far back as stories were told his bloodline was trained to defend against The Fusei. Corrupt, depraved, and ruthless, The Fusei had been beaten back generations ago by the very sword the young samurai’s hand lay upon. As his foes encircled him in the thick bamboo forest, he recalled warnings of this fight. As his father had been warned, and his grandfather before him, all the way back to when the sword was first crafted. Every man in his family had trained life long for the very moment that lay before him, none before seeing this day. In the same way he had been prepared to train a son. But as the ‘pit-pat,’ ‘pit-pat’ of rain hit against bamboo, against leaf, and hit against man, before slipping toward a dampening earth, he knew that would no longer be necessary.
His eyes slowly shifted from left to right as he turned his body in strong balletic manner. He mapped the horde which surrounded him. As he drew his blade his left foot glided to rest behind his right, maintaining an arch in the ready. He faced his hips straight toward his first target and relaxed his spine. He grasped his sword in both hands and angled it toward the ground behind him, leaving his left shoulder seemingly defenseless. He invited this target to attack.
Long, bloody minutes into the battle all creatures in the forest that day knew the young samurai was out-numbered. He had fought well and defeated many but their volume would out last his stamina. Eventually, he would be overcome. Blood trickling from his mouth the samurai once again looked left to right. He lowered his body’s posture as his legs went into a strong bend, while simultaneously raising his blade overhead, perpendicular to his torso. He readied for another attack and when what was left of The Fusei rushed the young samurai he pointed his katana straight toward the heavens and put into practice for the first time in generations: the call. “KAMINARI!!!” he cried.
***
Long ago this very katana was forged at the base of a mountain out of the finest tamahagane. The old sword maker’s name was known throughout the lands as unparalleled in his craft. For the better part of a year, he had poured all of his strength, all of his power, all of his love into what he called his final blade. His young son enthusiastically watched and imitated his father’s movements. One day, The Fusei descended upon the sword maker’s village and claimed it for themselves, killing many of the villagers in the process. They imprisoned the sword maker and his son. Until one evening, the guards distracted in revelry, the old sword maker escaped with his son up the mountain, his final sword in tow. As they traversed the mighty mountain the sword maker told his son many stories. Stories of kindness, of generosity, of honor. Just before they reached the peak of the mountain he turned and knelt toward his son. He told him that he had made the sword to give to him. That the sword would protect him and their people. He told him that he knew its creation would take his life. The boy began to cry.
“Keep this sword with you, and through it I will be with you. I will protect you. Do not be afraid… I love you always” The sword maker gently whispered to his son before touching his nose to his own.
With that, the sword maker rose to his feet, raised the katana overhead and smiled at his son. “Kaminari,” he uttered and a mighty bolt of lightning struck the sword, hardening its’ steel beyond measure.
***
The young samurai, now kneeling in a scorched clearing, felt a searing pain throughout his arm and running up through his eye. Moments ago he had been surrounded in thick vegetation, a dozen men seeking to claim his life. Now he was the only living creature. He wiped the blood from his blade before returning it to its sheath.
The power of the Kaminari Katana had not been evoked since its creation. Its tales falling to legend long ago, save for the young samurai’s family. Every child in his lineage had been trained the way he had. Trained in the ways of fighting. Each one had been bestowed this sword by their father, in patient and watchful guard against the return of The Fusei. The calling of the sword grants dominion over lightning, but in return demands utter devotion from its wielder.
The young samurai rose from the ground, having walked into the forest prepared for the many paths life may present, but he strode out in singular purpose. Fore the most important lessons that were passed down with the Kaminari Katana were that of its maker. Stories of kindness, generosity, and of honor. The story of how to wield great power in benefit of those with little.
