Refraction of Light (RK/Tokyo/1878)
Cherry blossoms blanket the ground and permeate the morning air. In the stream, swirl and dance the tender petals of spring. But amidst all this gentle sweetness of morning and life, an old scent of death could be detected, that is, if one had the sense for such things. Upon the bank of this stream is one who has such sense and more apparent is that distinct scent on him. Lingering in the air around this man are the undeniable and morbid traces of a scarlet smell: the scent of blood.
I
The dream has been recurring through the years. Although it paled and flickered at times, when he thought that he had finally moved beyond it, the dream would come back in full force and tear asunder what little comfort he may have gathered for himself. He is always walking in the dream, as if he has been walking forever. Tired and weary, he often found that he had to lean on his sword to press on. And the path was always dark, until a faint light from a distance ahead of him slowly creep upon his slow and lonesome journey. With this feeble illumination, the first thing that becomes visible is the blood that covers his path. And always at this point of his dream it seems inevitable and compulsory for him to look with straining eyes and pierce the engulfing dark all about him, eventhough he knew what he would find time and time again.
All around this man, covering both sides of his path, are the corpses of all he has slain. His unseen burden becomes heavier and something slips away from his eyes. There are no tears, for he has shed all tears ages ago and his body no longer knows how to weep, except to bleed. He trods on and lays much of his weight upon his sword now acting as a cane. Each step he takes is marked in blood, each step reminding him of the blood-letting of his youth, and the corpses that paved the way of his life made themselves felt through his scars borne out of battles. He feels the night cold and thick with blood wrapping around him; before the dread fully engulfs him, a certain warmth kept the awful rush at bay somehow. Forcing himself to move forward, he lifts his bowed head and immediately a wave of relief washes over him. His eyes have become accustomed to the pitch and low light, and he sees a little ways off before him the people he cares for the most: Kamiya Kaoru, an affectionate and passionate instructor of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu Swordsmanship; Myojin Yahiko, a thoughtful and diligent apprentice of Kamiya Ryu--he is a boy who had a difficult childhoodand is fast coming of age; Sagara Sanosuke, a remnant of the revolution who has given up his ways as a fighter for hire; Takani Megumi, a medicine woman who used to be in the bonds of an elite band of criminals; and Seijuro Hiko, the master of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu Swordsmanship who trained this benighted man in the way of the sword. Suddenly, his burden seems to have lightened and he found that he could breathe a little easier. The notion that things may turn out all right was slowly manifesting itself. But no sooner than all these have started to ease off his gloom, that an overwhelming sense of discomfort, anguish and sorrow grew heatedly in the air he breathes. The closer he got to his friends, the more he noticed that their expressions were slowly changing from one of warm-hearted joy and slight anticipation to that of grim and unhindered sadness. The weariness he felt before returned and amplified. He thought he could drop right there and drown in his own sorrow, but he pressed on ever-closer to the only family he has who are still alive.
Finally, he closes the distance, but before he could say anything, he notices and sees in the sets of eyes before him his own bloodied reflection and that there were, in the background, more shadowy figures aside from his own. A voice calls out from behind him like a gentle wave, forceful, but resistable. The voice somewhat familiar to him remained undistinguishable to memory. It sounded like everyone of his victims spoke in the voice of one. It spoke the name he was notoriously known for in the days of the Bakumatsu.
"Hitokiri Battosai." The sword-bearing master assassin.
The Battosai turns around as of a man prepared to face execution with a willful acceptance of his guilt. The bloody and mutilated corpses that covered the ground were gone and before him stood the countless people he has murdered. They stared at him with dead, blank, empty eyes as blood slowly slid down and covered their faces. In shock, in horror, in remorse, in sorrow, he returned their gaze. It wasn't unlikely that he thought of suicide right at that moment. But he knew that his death in payment for theirs would never ever be enough. The words that were always spoken in the same breath as his name in the last days of the Tokugawa filled his ears and echoed in his brain.
Manslayer.
Demon.
Master of murder.
Cold and cruel death.
"Kenshin..."
"Tomoe?!" Kenshin could hardly believe the voice he heard nor the faint smell of white plums amid all this grime.
"Kenshin...you promised me."
Yukishiro Tomoe, Kenshin's late wife, who had also died by his hands, was a vision among his crowd of victims. Closer and closer she approached him, and he could do nothing to stop the tears welling in his eyes. He blinks away the tears and in the instant he closed his eyes, all who stood before him disappeared.
Silence. And Kenshin falls into an emptiness deep inside himself. He knows that he's dreaming, but he doesn't wake up. He lingers there in the dark focusing himself. He fails to do so as he is distracted by voices he could hardly hear. The voices slowly become clearer and more audible as he tries to hone in on the source. He realizes that they're coming from behind him, so he spins around and beholds three faces from his childhood.
"Shinta...listen...
...you did not choose your life.
Listen to me.
Our fate has been decided tonight,...
...but you still have choice.
Please...
...live...
...for me."
Kenshin relives in dreams the painful memories of his past. The recurring dreams are part of the relentless suffering he has grown to accept and live with. The blood and misery of his past is the burden he carries and will carry until his dying day. He continues to live by his sword, although his principles have greatly changed. The past eleven years can attest to his renewed form of life, since he has done nothing but help and protect the lives of all those around him; forever, he has renounced the murderous aspect of swordsmanship. He carries the sakabato-- a reverse-bladed sword -- as a constant reminder of his vows. The life he now leads is one that he hopes to be of honor, of strength and courage, of benevolence and humility, and most importantly, of atonement.
II
Long before the cock crowed, Kenshin awoke with a start. Heartbeat racing, pulse ringing in his ears, a layer of cold sweat moistening the contours of his face, and the cloudy poignant remains of a dream that seemed so real it made reality somewhat fantastical; these are some of his immediate luxuries upon waking in the wee small hours of a still darkened morning. With his hand, he wipes his face and slowly, as if making sure it was still there, traces the slight bulge of a cross-shaped scar on his left cheek.
In a room adjacent to Kenshin's, Kaoru lies awake listening intently to the stirring next door. He's had one of his awful dreams again. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine the pain that he carries. There's so much in his past that he might not ever move beyond his sadness. The fact that he's still alive is a feat by itself. Yet somehow,
he manages to smile and hide that pain. I will always smile for you Kenshin; I'll make sure you make it beyond the other side of your sadness. She listens to him roll up his sleeping mat in the other room, and wonders if today would bring a song of a new wind, or if it will be just another day of deafening silences and half-hearted smiles. She rolls on to her side and stares into empty space. Her hopes were not that bright this morning.
Kenshin took his time getting dressed and afterwards, he knelt in front of his sakabato. Then with an acquired grace from having done as so everyday of his life, he traces the length of the scabbard with the fingers of his right hand stopping at the hilt. Lightly, he picks up the sword from underneath, raises it then stands it up. With the sword by his side, he rises from his kneeling posture and once standing, proceeds to slide the sword through his obi. His sakabato is a part of him as much as any part of his body.
The mild glow of candlelight extinguished as Kenshin slid open the door and a breeze entered his room. He pulls out a pair of sandals from a nearby drawer before stepping out. Once outside, he slipped his feet into his sandals and slid the door close. He breathed deep the fresh morning air and savored the dew that has yet to settle. Then with the lightness of a shadow, Kenshin walked across and out of the dojo's courtyard.
The dojo remained still and quiet as Kaoru listened to Kenshin, subtle as a ghost, walk out into the twilight. No one else would be awake for at least another hour. She hears the gate click shut as a tear rolls down the side of her face.
III
Cherry petals float and drift along the sluggish water of the stream. Pensively, Kenshin sat on a log staring into the crystalline water. Like these petals aimlessly floating and going wherever the current might take them, I had allowed myself to throw this life upon chance. I let myself be dragged along a bloody current thinking it was the only way to a new world. Countless lives have been lost before I realized the value of life. Even so, I remain responsible for the murders, the suffering, and the hatred I've caused in this world. We may have fought for what we believed in at the time, but that is no excuse for the lives that we have destroyed. What must I do--how must I live to atone for all the wrong I've done?
As the sun rose and dyed the sky red, orange, and then gold, Kenshin remained seated by the stream, eyes closed, deep in meditation. Focusing on his breathing, he centers himself, slowly clearing his mind of all thoughts and vanquishing all emotions. Then he opens his inner self to the calm, the nothingness, the void.
The wind raised melodies from the scattering blossoms and petals, from the swaying of bamboo, from the clearing mist, from the dancing of the trees, and from the creek that shivered at the touch of the wind. A mild breeze cooled Kenshin's skin, jostled the folds of his kimono and hakama, and coursed through his long red hair tied in a ponytail.
The clicking sound of a sword's hilt being freed from its scabbard, ready to be unsheathed, rips through the wind's melody.
Kenshin's eyes open with sudden intensity, yet the calm he was torn from returns to him in full posession as his left hand unites with his sword.
"Himura Kenshin"
A stranger's utterance of his name drifted along the wind like a cherry petal softly falling to the ground.
Rising from his seat, Kenshin heard the stranger secure his sword back into its sheath. He stood on guard facing in the direction from which the sounds came. The next time he heard the stranger, he tried guessing which one of the trees that lined the bank upstream did the man hide behind.
"Please forgive my rude interrruption, but I felt that I needed to jolt you out of your reverie."
"That's quite alright, although a simple and casual greeting would have sufficed."
"Again, my apologies."
"I appreciate that, but I'd prefer that you come forward and announce yourself." A gentle wind brushes Kenshin's hair from his face. A crane flies by atop the trees heading upstream. The muffled sounds of families waking up in nearby houses join the medley in the morning air. The stranger stepped out from behind a tree thirty paces away. He was wearing a grey kimono with a matching hakama and black obi, dark socks with leather soles made for travelling, and a pair of sandals to match. He was probably an inch taller than Kenshin --and Kenshin's height has no significance whatsoever-- though they were of the same build. His hands looked rough and calloused, the ring finger on his left hand was missing, and there was quite a number of scars highly visible on the skin left exposed by his sleeves. The stranger's long black hair was worn in the same fashion as Kenshin's. His face was common enough to be undistinguished amongst a crowd, yet somehow unique due to the subtle prominence of features that can only be recognized --if one knew what to look for-- as gai-jin. It had a weary and almost grim expression, but the brown orbs of his eyes spoke of a different story.
The stranger walked towards Kenshin with confidence in each stride. He looked straight at him undaunted and with due respect, but also remained observant of his surroundings. His hands were at his sides and beginnings of a smile creeped into his face, then took form as a grin. Kenshin guessed this man was no older than he was, maybe even a couple of years younger.
The stranger said, "I didn't think a man like you would give the slightest consideration to fashion, but that kimono of yours --as the Europeans would say-- very much accentuates your red hair, which by the way is very, very uncommon in Japan."
Kenshin remains silent and still as a stone; gazing at the stranger, he furrows his brow, uncertain of what to make of the man's irrelevant words.
"If I were to guess, I'd say a woman gave you that kimono. And also, intuition tells me that one of your parents was gai-jin...
...your mother, maybe?...
No."
The stranger stopped ten paces from Kenshin. He stood there, tilting his head to one side as if deciding a conclusion to his observation. "The facial features are subtle, but that red hair is just screaming. Your mother, perhaps?...
...Yes. Definitely."
"I ask that you tell me who you are. And if I may say so, one of your parents was gai-jin as well. As far as I can tell, it was your mother." Kenshin let his hand drop from his sword.
"I am Shuzaku Kyuzo." The man replied bowing deeply. "It is a great honor to finally meet you, Mr. Himura. And yes. My mother was gai-jin."
"I wish I can say the same about meeting you Mr. Shuzaku, but I'm afraid I've never met nor heard of you before."
"Of course not, Mr. Himura. The fact is that no one has. I was a spy in the bakufu working for Master Katsura. Out of professional necessity, I took great pains and tedious measure to hide my true identity; then whatever was required and suitable for the cause, I took on identities that were often ruthless and obviously none too significant."
"Katsura never mentioned to me his employment of spies. How can I be sure that your words aren't just tales of your manufacturing?"
"First of all why would you know of Katsura's espionage activities? You were in a different field of operations, Mr. Himura. And you did not need to know."
"I think, therein lies the inherent problem with spies: the uncertainty of information they provide which may be great or grave proves to be difficult in discerning whether it is false or of truth. In the end, it comes down to a matter of trust." Kenshin patiently awaits response, as Kyuzo considers his words.
"Very well. I understand all too clearly your reactions; they're only natural and logical. In providing you with proof of my credibility, it should also make it easier for you to ascertain the purpose of my visit."
"Go on."
IV
"1867..."
Kenshin's ears prick up at the mention of the year.
"...I was working deep in the shogunate then...retained for assassinations that were so common back then and dealings for the activities that made the regime so vile. They also assigned me the task of recruiting specialists of the sinister kind who remained somewhat loyal to the shogunate. I answered directly to the chief of operations, so it was only a matter of time before I found out the traitor's identity whom Katsura sought and plagued me for months. You know what I'm talking about. As soon as I found out, I passed along the information to Katsura, prompting himto send Katagai to follow Iizuka and, unfortunately, also to his demise.
Eversince you made a name for yourself, I kept tabs on you and observed you from a distance. I thought to myself: now there's a man who defined purity; even the essence of his art and actions, murderous though they may have been, remained pure.
I believed I caught a glimpse of what Katsura and , as I have no doubt, your Master, Seijuro Hiko, saw and valued in you."
Kenshin looks away as if taking offense to what has just been said. "If that is what you believe, then purity is as red as the blood that flowed from all the men I have killed."
"You misunderstand me."
"I think it is you who misunderstands. Nonetheless, I believe what you have said. Now, why are you here?"
"No. We can't start like this." Kyuzo lowers his head slightly and pivots it from side to side, obviously dismayed at something that Kenshin couldn't possibly know.
Still puzzled by Kyuzo's incomprehensible mood, Kenshin instinctively reacted to the blur of movements accompanying Kyuzo's unexpected alteration of composure.
In the blinkof an eye, Kyuzo drew and held his sword underhand then immediately pulled the sheath out of his obi. A fluid motion resulting in an unorthodox stance wherein the blade is hidden from the opponent's view as it is held inverted and parallel to the back of his right arm, and the sheath held overhand is directed at the opponent with the tip at eye level.
Kenshin, not missing a beat, gripped his sakabato with his left hand and used his thumb to release the sword. He takes a step backwards with his left foot and his right hand hovers above the hilt of his sword, ready to draw. He knows he hasn't done anything to provoke this hostility, but the past couple of seconds didn't make any sense. Just walk away. I should just walk away. "This is senseless. I have no quarrel with you, nor do I wish to fight you. Whatever reason you have in approaching me remains unclear. As far as I can tell, there is nothing between us that should incite any anger nor violence." Kenshin's face turns into a question as Kyuzo breaks up into a gentle laughter. Is this man insane?
"Let me assure you, Himura, that I feel the same way. I have no quarrel with you and I do not wish to fight you."
"Somehow, your gestures and behavior tell me otherwise."
"Bear with me; it will all become clear in the end. As for my intentions...well, in all its simplicity, I'm here to deliver a message."
"If that's the case, then drop the hostility and give me the message."
Kyuzo replies with more laughter. "It's not that simple."
"But it is. Who is the message from and what is it about?" The calmness of Kenshin's voice has taken on an edge, hardening his words.
Kyuzo reverts his laughter into a smile as he replies, "You'll see." And then all emotion drained from his face.
V
The tension brewing between the two swordsmen got so thick and heavy that the air occupying the ten paces between them could have exploded. The sun has completely dissipated the mist and the morning dew has settled and began to evaporate. More petals from the cherry trees rain down at the behest of a slight gust of wind. The calm whisper of a flowing stream gently caressing rock and stone imparted a sign of an impending storm.
Kenshin, holding the scabbard to his left, and his right hand barely touching the hilt, was coiled and poised to strike. I should have walked away. I should walk away right now. But I can't turn my back on him; I can't leave this madman unchecked. He's leaving me no choice. I'll just have to disarm him.
Staring at Kenshin through the tip of his scabbard, Kyuzo arches his back as he takes a step forward with his left foot. He centers his weight by shifting on the balls of his feet. His mind has such a terrible affinity with death; he doesn't offer himself much of any options. Walk away, Kenshin. Just walk away. You do have a choice, even if I'm not giving you one. I've always tried to imagine what it would be like to clash swords with you, Battousai, but that was a long time ago. This is not why I came here. I think it's time we open our eyes a little bit wider.
Time may as well have stopped at the cherry blossomed covered bank of the stream. As with most skilled adepts of the way of the sword, the senses take on an acuity during combat surpassing normal human capabilities. Information gathered by the five senses are processed incredibly faster and in greater detail, allowing for a seemingly slower progression of time. A few minutes spent on a regular activity could seem like hours in combat. The sentiment, living in a moment, couldn't be more appropriate.
Kyuzo lunged forward with a yell, and in an arc, raised his scabbard over his head and tightened his grip on the inverted sword as he rushed towards
Kenshin, replying with a similar fiery and energy-filled retort, tightly gripped the hilt of his sword while slightly twisting at the hip. He bends his knees to center his weight and balance.
Two flashes of light collide. And time stopped for the next fifteen minutes.
Cherry blossoms blanket the ground and permeate the morning air. In the stream, swirl and dance the tender petals of spring. But amidst all this gentle sweetness of morning and life, an old scent of death could be detected, that is, if one had the sense for such things. Upon the bank of this stream is one who has such sense and more apparent is that distinct scent on him. Lingering in the air around this man are the undeniable and morbid traces of a scarlet smell: the scent of blood.
I
The dream has been recurring through the years. Although it paled and flickered at times, when he thought that he had finally moved beyond it, the dream would come back in full force and tear asunder what little comfort he may have gathered for himself. He is always walking in the dream, as if he has been walking forever. Tired and weary, he often found that he had to lean on his sword to press on. And the path was always dark, until a faint light from a distance ahead of him slowly creep upon his slow and lonesome journey. With this feeble illumination, the first thing that becomes visible is the blood that covers his path. And always at this point of his dream it seems inevitable and compulsory for him to look with straining eyes and pierce the engulfing dark all about him, eventhough he knew what he would find time and time again.
All around this man, covering both sides of his path, are the corpses of all he has slain. His unseen burden becomes heavier and something slips away from his eyes. There are no tears, for he has shed all tears ages ago and his body no longer knows how to weep, except to bleed. He trods on and lays much of his weight upon his sword now acting as a cane. Each step he takes is marked in blood, each step reminding him of the blood-letting of his youth, and the corpses that paved the way of his life made themselves felt through his scars borne out of battles. He feels the night cold and thick with blood wrapping around him; before the dread fully engulfs him, a certain warmth kept the awful rush at bay somehow. Forcing himself to move forward, he lifts his bowed head and immediately a wave of relief washes over him. His eyes have become accustomed to the pitch and low light, and he sees a little ways off before him the people he cares for the most: Kamiya Kaoru, an affectionate and passionate instructor of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu Swordsmanship; Myojin Yahiko, a thoughtful and diligent apprentice of Kamiya Ryu--he is a boy who had a difficult childhoodand is fast coming of age; Sagara Sanosuke, a remnant of the revolution who has given up his ways as a fighter for hire; Takani Megumi, a medicine woman who used to be in the bonds of an elite band of criminals; and Seijuro Hiko, the master of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu Swordsmanship who trained this benighted man in the way of the sword. Suddenly, his burden seems to have lightened and he found that he could breathe a little easier. The notion that things may turn out all right was slowly manifesting itself. But no sooner than all these have started to ease off his gloom, that an overwhelming sense of discomfort, anguish and sorrow grew heatedly in the air he breathes. The closer he got to his friends, the more he noticed that their expressions were slowly changing from one of warm-hearted joy and slight anticipation to that of grim and unhindered sadness. The weariness he felt before returned and amplified. He thought he could drop right there and drown in his own sorrow, but he pressed on ever-closer to the only family he has who are still alive.
Finally, he closes the distance, but before he could say anything, he notices and sees in the sets of eyes before him his own bloodied reflection and that there were, in the background, more shadowy figures aside from his own. A voice calls out from behind him like a gentle wave, forceful, but resistable. The voice somewhat familiar to him remained undistinguishable to memory. It sounded like everyone of his victims spoke in the voice of one. It spoke the name he was notoriously known for in the days of the Bakumatsu.
"Hitokiri Battosai." The sword-bearing master assassin.
The Battosai turns around as of a man prepared to face execution with a willful acceptance of his guilt. The bloody and mutilated corpses that covered the ground were gone and before him stood the countless people he has murdered. They stared at him with dead, blank, empty eyes as blood slowly slid down and covered their faces. In shock, in horror, in remorse, in sorrow, he returned their gaze. It wasn't unlikely that he thought of suicide right at that moment. But he knew that his death in payment for theirs would never ever be enough. The words that were always spoken in the same breath as his name in the last days of the Tokugawa filled his ears and echoed in his brain.
Manslayer.
Demon.
Master of murder.
Cold and cruel death.
"Kenshin..."
"Tomoe?!" Kenshin could hardly believe the voice he heard nor the faint smell of white plums amid all this grime.
"Kenshin...you promised me."
Yukishiro Tomoe, Kenshin's late wife, who had also died by his hands, was a vision among his crowd of victims. Closer and closer she approached him, and he could do nothing to stop the tears welling in his eyes. He blinks away the tears and in the instant he closed his eyes, all who stood before him disappeared.
Silence. And Kenshin falls into an emptiness deep inside himself. He knows that he's dreaming, but he doesn't wake up. He lingers there in the dark focusing himself. He fails to do so as he is distracted by voices he could hardly hear. The voices slowly become clearer and more audible as he tries to hone in on the source. He realizes that they're coming from behind him, so he spins around and beholds three faces from his childhood.
"Shinta...listen...
...you did not choose your life.
Listen to me.
Our fate has been decided tonight,...
...but you still have choice.
Please...
...live...
...for me."
Kenshin relives in dreams the painful memories of his past. The recurring dreams are part of the relentless suffering he has grown to accept and live with. The blood and misery of his past is the burden he carries and will carry until his dying day. He continues to live by his sword, although his principles have greatly changed. The past eleven years can attest to his renewed form of life, since he has done nothing but help and protect the lives of all those around him; forever, he has renounced the murderous aspect of swordsmanship. He carries the sakabato-- a reverse-bladed sword -- as a constant reminder of his vows. The life he now leads is one that he hopes to be of honor, of strength and courage, of benevolence and humility, and most importantly, of atonement.
II
Long before the cock crowed, Kenshin awoke with a start. Heartbeat racing, pulse ringing in his ears, a layer of cold sweat moistening the contours of his face, and the cloudy poignant remains of a dream that seemed so real it made reality somewhat fantastical; these are some of his immediate luxuries upon waking in the wee small hours of a still darkened morning. With his hand, he wipes his face and slowly, as if making sure it was still there, traces the slight bulge of a cross-shaped scar on his left cheek.
In a room adjacent to Kenshin's, Kaoru lies awake listening intently to the stirring next door. He's had one of his awful dreams again. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine the pain that he carries. There's so much in his past that he might not ever move beyond his sadness. The fact that he's still alive is a feat by itself. Yet somehow,
he manages to smile and hide that pain. I will always smile for you Kenshin; I'll make sure you make it beyond the other side of your sadness. She listens to him roll up his sleeping mat in the other room, and wonders if today would bring a song of a new wind, or if it will be just another day of deafening silences and half-hearted smiles. She rolls on to her side and stares into empty space. Her hopes were not that bright this morning.
Kenshin took his time getting dressed and afterwards, he knelt in front of his sakabato. Then with an acquired grace from having done as so everyday of his life, he traces the length of the scabbard with the fingers of his right hand stopping at the hilt. Lightly, he picks up the sword from underneath, raises it then stands it up. With the sword by his side, he rises from his kneeling posture and once standing, proceeds to slide the sword through his obi. His sakabato is a part of him as much as any part of his body.
The mild glow of candlelight extinguished as Kenshin slid open the door and a breeze entered his room. He pulls out a pair of sandals from a nearby drawer before stepping out. Once outside, he slipped his feet into his sandals and slid the door close. He breathed deep the fresh morning air and savored the dew that has yet to settle. Then with the lightness of a shadow, Kenshin walked across and out of the dojo's courtyard.
The dojo remained still and quiet as Kaoru listened to Kenshin, subtle as a ghost, walk out into the twilight. No one else would be awake for at least another hour. She hears the gate click shut as a tear rolls down the side of her face.
III
Cherry petals float and drift along the sluggish water of the stream. Pensively, Kenshin sat on a log staring into the crystalline water. Like these petals aimlessly floating and going wherever the current might take them, I had allowed myself to throw this life upon chance. I let myself be dragged along a bloody current thinking it was the only way to a new world. Countless lives have been lost before I realized the value of life. Even so, I remain responsible for the murders, the suffering, and the hatred I've caused in this world. We may have fought for what we believed in at the time, but that is no excuse for the lives that we have destroyed. What must I do--how must I live to atone for all the wrong I've done?
As the sun rose and dyed the sky red, orange, and then gold, Kenshin remained seated by the stream, eyes closed, deep in meditation. Focusing on his breathing, he centers himself, slowly clearing his mind of all thoughts and vanquishing all emotions. Then he opens his inner self to the calm, the nothingness, the void.
The wind raised melodies from the scattering blossoms and petals, from the swaying of bamboo, from the clearing mist, from the dancing of the trees, and from the creek that shivered at the touch of the wind. A mild breeze cooled Kenshin's skin, jostled the folds of his kimono and hakama, and coursed through his long red hair tied in a ponytail.
The clicking sound of a sword's hilt being freed from its scabbard, ready to be unsheathed, rips through the wind's melody.
Kenshin's eyes open with sudden intensity, yet the calm he was torn from returns to him in full posession as his left hand unites with his sword.
"Himura Kenshin"
A stranger's utterance of his name drifted along the wind like a cherry petal softly falling to the ground.
Rising from his seat, Kenshin heard the stranger secure his sword back into its sheath. He stood on guard facing in the direction from which the sounds came. The next time he heard the stranger, he tried guessing which one of the trees that lined the bank upstream did the man hide behind.
"Please forgive my rude interrruption, but I felt that I needed to jolt you out of your reverie."
"That's quite alright, although a simple and casual greeting would have sufficed."
"Again, my apologies."
"I appreciate that, but I'd prefer that you come forward and announce yourself." A gentle wind brushes Kenshin's hair from his face. A crane flies by atop the trees heading upstream. The muffled sounds of families waking up in nearby houses join the medley in the morning air. The stranger stepped out from behind a tree thirty paces away. He was wearing a grey kimono with a matching hakama and black obi, dark socks with leather soles made for travelling, and a pair of sandals to match. He was probably an inch taller than Kenshin --and Kenshin's height has no significance whatsoever-- though they were of the same build. His hands looked rough and calloused, the ring finger on his left hand was missing, and there was quite a number of scars highly visible on the skin left exposed by his sleeves. The stranger's long black hair was worn in the same fashion as Kenshin's. His face was common enough to be undistinguished amongst a crowd, yet somehow unique due to the subtle prominence of features that can only be recognized --if one knew what to look for-- as gai-jin. It had a weary and almost grim expression, but the brown orbs of his eyes spoke of a different story.
The stranger walked towards Kenshin with confidence in each stride. He looked straight at him undaunted and with due respect, but also remained observant of his surroundings. His hands were at his sides and beginnings of a smile creeped into his face, then took form as a grin. Kenshin guessed this man was no older than he was, maybe even a couple of years younger.
The stranger said, "I didn't think a man like you would give the slightest consideration to fashion, but that kimono of yours --as the Europeans would say-- very much accentuates your red hair, which by the way is very, very uncommon in Japan."
Kenshin remains silent and still as a stone; gazing at the stranger, he furrows his brow, uncertain of what to make of the man's irrelevant words.
"If I were to guess, I'd say a woman gave you that kimono. And also, intuition tells me that one of your parents was gai-jin...
...your mother, maybe?...
No."
The stranger stopped ten paces from Kenshin. He stood there, tilting his head to one side as if deciding a conclusion to his observation. "The facial features are subtle, but that red hair is just screaming. Your mother, perhaps?...
...Yes. Definitely."
"I ask that you tell me who you are. And if I may say so, one of your parents was gai-jin as well. As far as I can tell, it was your mother." Kenshin let his hand drop from his sword.
"I am Shuzaku Kyuzo." The man replied bowing deeply. "It is a great honor to finally meet you, Mr. Himura. And yes. My mother was gai-jin."
"I wish I can say the same about meeting you Mr. Shuzaku, but I'm afraid I've never met nor heard of you before."
"Of course not, Mr. Himura. The fact is that no one has. I was a spy in the bakufu working for Master Katsura. Out of professional necessity, I took great pains and tedious measure to hide my true identity; then whatever was required and suitable for the cause, I took on identities that were often ruthless and obviously none too significant."
"Katsura never mentioned to me his employment of spies. How can I be sure that your words aren't just tales of your manufacturing?"
"First of all why would you know of Katsura's espionage activities? You were in a different field of operations, Mr. Himura. And you did not need to know."
"I think, therein lies the inherent problem with spies: the uncertainty of information they provide which may be great or grave proves to be difficult in discerning whether it is false or of truth. In the end, it comes down to a matter of trust." Kenshin patiently awaits response, as Kyuzo considers his words.
"Very well. I understand all too clearly your reactions; they're only natural and logical. In providing you with proof of my credibility, it should also make it easier for you to ascertain the purpose of my visit."
"Go on."
IV
"1867..."
Kenshin's ears prick up at the mention of the year.
"...I was working deep in the shogunate then...retained for assassinations that were so common back then and dealings for the activities that made the regime so vile. They also assigned me the task of recruiting specialists of the sinister kind who remained somewhat loyal to the shogunate. I answered directly to the chief of operations, so it was only a matter of time before I found out the traitor's identity whom Katsura sought and plagued me for months. You know what I'm talking about. As soon as I found out, I passed along the information to Katsura, prompting himto send Katagai to follow Iizuka and, unfortunately, also to his demise.
Eversince you made a name for yourself, I kept tabs on you and observed you from a distance. I thought to myself: now there's a man who defined purity; even the essence of his art and actions, murderous though they may have been, remained pure.
I believed I caught a glimpse of what Katsura and , as I have no doubt, your Master, Seijuro Hiko, saw and valued in you."
Kenshin looks away as if taking offense to what has just been said. "If that is what you believe, then purity is as red as the blood that flowed from all the men I have killed."
"You misunderstand me."
"I think it is you who misunderstands. Nonetheless, I believe what you have said. Now, why are you here?"
"No. We can't start like this." Kyuzo lowers his head slightly and pivots it from side to side, obviously dismayed at something that Kenshin couldn't possibly know.
Still puzzled by Kyuzo's incomprehensible mood, Kenshin instinctively reacted to the blur of movements accompanying Kyuzo's unexpected alteration of composure.
In the blinkof an eye, Kyuzo drew and held his sword underhand then immediately pulled the sheath out of his obi. A fluid motion resulting in an unorthodox stance wherein the blade is hidden from the opponent's view as it is held inverted and parallel to the back of his right arm, and the sheath held overhand is directed at the opponent with the tip at eye level.
Kenshin, not missing a beat, gripped his sakabato with his left hand and used his thumb to release the sword. He takes a step backwards with his left foot and his right hand hovers above the hilt of his sword, ready to draw. He knows he hasn't done anything to provoke this hostility, but the past couple of seconds didn't make any sense. Just walk away. I should just walk away. "This is senseless. I have no quarrel with you, nor do I wish to fight you. Whatever reason you have in approaching me remains unclear. As far as I can tell, there is nothing between us that should incite any anger nor violence." Kenshin's face turns into a question as Kyuzo breaks up into a gentle laughter. Is this man insane?
"Let me assure you, Himura, that I feel the same way. I have no quarrel with you and I do not wish to fight you."
"Somehow, your gestures and behavior tell me otherwise."
"Bear with me; it will all become clear in the end. As for my intentions...well, in all its simplicity, I'm here to deliver a message."
"If that's the case, then drop the hostility and give me the message."
Kyuzo replies with more laughter. "It's not that simple."
"But it is. Who is the message from and what is it about?" The calmness of Kenshin's voice has taken on an edge, hardening his words.
Kyuzo reverts his laughter into a smile as he replies, "You'll see." And then all emotion drained from his face.
V
The tension brewing between the two swordsmen got so thick and heavy that the air occupying the ten paces between them could have exploded. The sun has completely dissipated the mist and the morning dew has settled and began to evaporate. More petals from the cherry trees rain down at the behest of a slight gust of wind. The calm whisper of a flowing stream gently caressing rock and stone imparted a sign of an impending storm.
Kenshin, holding the scabbard to his left, and his right hand barely touching the hilt, was coiled and poised to strike. I should have walked away. I should walk away right now. But I can't turn my back on him; I can't leave this madman unchecked. He's leaving me no choice. I'll just have to disarm him.
Staring at Kenshin through the tip of his scabbard, Kyuzo arches his back as he takes a step forward with his left foot. He centers his weight by shifting on the balls of his feet. His mind has such a terrible affinity with death; he doesn't offer himself much of any options. Walk away, Kenshin. Just walk away. You do have a choice, even if I'm not giving you one. I've always tried to imagine what it would be like to clash swords with you, Battousai, but that was a long time ago. This is not why I came here. I think it's time we open our eyes a little bit wider.
Time may as well have stopped at the cherry blossomed covered bank of the stream. As with most skilled adepts of the way of the sword, the senses take on an acuity during combat surpassing normal human capabilities. Information gathered by the five senses are processed incredibly faster and in greater detail, allowing for a seemingly slower progression of time. A few minutes spent on a regular activity could seem like hours in combat. The sentiment, living in a moment, couldn't be more appropriate.
Kyuzo lunged forward with a yell, and in an arc, raised his scabbard over his head and tightened his grip on the inverted sword as he rushed towards
Kenshin, replying with a similar fiery and energy-filled retort, tightly gripped the hilt of his sword while slightly twisting at the hip. He bends his knees to center his weight and balance.
Two flashes of light collide. And time stopped for the next fifteen minutes.