Week 32: Ryan Dykes -A Quest to Recover a Rare Bonsai Tree

Full Prompt: “Since we are on vacation in Japan I want to do an idea from here. A Ronin (masterless samurai) is on a quest to recover or protect a rare bonsai tree. Ronin translates a couple of ways- drifter, wandering man, or a person of the waves. The Samurai became a Ronin upon the death of his master or they fell out of favor with their master. Maybe he became a Ronin and to earn back the title of Samurai he has to seek this specific bonsai?”

Story:

“Hehhhh-yyaaaaaaahhhh!!” The young samurai howled as he held his katana to the air in victory. He looked proudly over the battlefield and the slain enemies littered across it. The grateful villagers slowly emerged from their homes. His eyes sought his master’s, whose scanned the area as his chest heaved, inviting as much oxygen as his lungs could take. The young samurai had never seen his master this way. He seemed a tiger, desperate for… something. But before he could paint the mental picture of what, his master collapsed.

Hand over hand, he climbed.

“Do not cast your life away to avenge mine.”

It pounded in his head as he continued to ascend. 

  “Mizuko-kun, listen to me! I have given my life defending these people, do not give yours to anger.”

Still he climbed higher.

  “We are victorious here. I die with honor.”

The final words of his master had resounded in his head for months. Sweat dripped from his brow and blood from his grip. Over years they two had defended countless villages and peoples. Sacrificed much, but saved so many. His master had been known as ‘The Dragonfly’- swift, courageous. He was fearless. They had conquered innumerous foes. Including the ones which ultimately claimed his life. In a battle where they were clearly outmatched, and the village had drastically under-represented the enemy forces, these two had still persevered with intellect, might, and cunning. But Mizuko’s master had fallen. It was only after the last of the thieves had been vanquished, as if his very being depending on victory, it was only after safety was insured to the peoples that depended on him that Mizuko’s master allowed himself to fall to his knees.

Now Mizuko was ronin. At the kasou, when they had lovingly set his remains ablaze, a single dragonfly had engaged Mizuko, catching his gaze and pulling it toward the distance. It had reminded him of the legend of the sacred bonsai. As the funeral pile burned, Mizuko set his samurai armor on the fire. He had laid his weaponry atop his master’s body before the flames were ignited. This ronin kept only his katana. His sword and the straw hat, stained with blood, that the scout bandit had worn to first infiltrate the village on that doomed day.

The morning after the ososhiki, Mizuko rose before the sun, and plotted his journey. He cast his eye toward the mountain range which legend told held the sacred bonsai; a single tree growing from a ledge of sheer stone jutting out the side of nearly unscalable cliff face. It was told, if one could scale the escarpment and reach the tree, they could offer one wish. The mountain range was far. And Mizuko’s temperament was up to the task.

He reached the base of the mountain. He peered straight upward, discerning no immediate pathway. But the fresh memory of his master’s passing provided him the will to proceed. He climbed. Hand over hand, he climbed. His determination gave way to fear, fear to preservation, and preservation to desperation. He soon realized why it was said this climb was impossible. But he also realized it would be just as challenging to retreat as to continue. So he persisted. 

His body spent long ago, his spirit now began to wane. His throat dry, he felt the perspiration flee from his brow, he saw his hands bloody from grasping the sharp rocks over and over, but it was at this moment, in sharp contrast to the red of his hands, he also glimpsed the smallest bit of green. He shook his head to throw off any signs of illusion, but still it persisted. And so did he. There was a branch jutting out from the side of the cliff. He climbed higher. The branch lengthened. As he approached, it gave way to its base; a massive bonsai tree, twisted, but firmly rooted in the rocks. It had crawled and scratched its way through stone to make a home on a ledge just big enough to support it. 

His heaves of oxygen reminded him of the last time he’d seen his master standing. He sat down before the tree and folded his legs. He meditated for what seemed like seconds, yet also hours. He tried to push his true wish to the front of his mind. Did he want revenge for his master’s death? Did he want direction in his life now that his master had passed on? He deliberated as ardently as he had climbed; as ardently as he had been samurai. 

Hours with only slight breeze and rustling of foliage to interrupt him was suddenly upended by a buzzing. The ronin slowly opened his eyes and there, landed directly in front of him upon the trunk of the tree, was a large King Dragonfly. The very insect his master had been known by. The very insect which had pulled his mind toward this very place. He closed his eyes. He realized he did not want revenge, nor direction. He realized the tree had granted his true wish- to understand that it is the journey, the satisfaction of accomplishment, the daring to live, and to die, is what matters. He stood. He smiled. He removed his sword from it’s saya and gently slid it into a crack in the rock near the tree. 

His descent was easy, for the tree, and the dragonfly, had given him what he truly wanted- peace.