I sheathed my sword unbloodied today. That's the
first time I've ever done that, I think. Yes, I've never done
that like today. I wonder, lying here, if that's an omen. Is it
meaningful? Maybe.
It was most peculiar, now that I think of it. The rain
was falling fitfully, dry in some places, soaking in others. I
think of it because the mud sucked at my sandals in places
but not in all. I had been wondering if the street I was
looking for would be wet or dry. Yes, that was it. It wasn't.
I was standing in an alley, listening to them come. I
had been almost tempted to stand in the street, waiting.
That wouldn't do though. Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency.
In all things with the sword, efficiency must be first. That
was the key to speed, speed the key to victory. Just
standing in a street would neither nurture efficiency or
improve my speed. So I stood, unmindful of the damp,
waiting and ready.
Sure enough, shortly the moment was right. I heard
the footsteps and lunged out to the way. My sword
unsheathed before they knew I was there, I almost cut them
down then. But I didn't.
My skill was not as strong as it could be. I had
grown weak. It was so long since I fought a warrior skilled
enough to give me pause that my highest techniques were
growing slow. Still are, somewhat. But these three men,
already dead though still walking, would be my training.
Perhaps then there would be some purpose to their pitiful
lives.
Examining the blade now, it looks thirsty. Its alive,
we both know this. Lying here as it is, unmoving in my
hands, it makes me wonder, wonder and dread what it
would say if it could speak. What silent, temptuous and
pleading voiced words would it bury in my mind, pushing
them deeper and deeper. What begging commands would I
be issued? I am glad it doesn't, for already the insidious
voice that it doesn't have has told me everything it needs to.
Perhaps more. Perhaps it's already whispered, for I know
the words it would speak. Perhaps it is I whispering to the
blade. My own dark voicings and vampiric tendencies are
the origin, not this animate piece of metal.
Oh, it's silent now. Unmoving, innocent, harmless it
lies here. Its not dead, for it was never alive to begin with.
A cunning, convincing deception that. If I lied to myself
enough, I might eventually believe it.
Only if I never lifted it again, though. If it danced to
the tune of my own soul, played on the strings of the
Honorable Way of Heaven by my hands, not once more,
maybe I could cloud my mind enough to believe that this
thing in my hands was inert. For in my hands, open and
shining or ready and resting, it lives. It sells warnings and
guidance, allowing me to read the wind and light for a sip
of life. A hint of knowledge, to be used before known, is
rewarded with a bath of blood. Sometimes, should it be
especially hungry, I allow it to feed on its brothers, killing
them as they danced in the hands of their owners. Or tried
to, for many could not let their blades come alive. I almost
couldn't understand that, mine seems to force my
concentration to keep it asleep, not to lift it now and let the
river flow. The red rain.
Who was she that said that to me? I cause the red
rain?
I can't remember, and it doesn't matter, not to the
living death that lies fat and satiated in my hands, reveling
in the sensual glow of its last meal.
I allowed every inch of my skill to come out then.
As I looked the three of them down, I adopted my favorite
and fastest stance. It was beautiful. I had no stability, no
balance, no strength of the earth. What I had was raw
potential, the great grain house of speed, waiting to be let
forth. With my weight ready, I was reigned lightning.
They knew enough, I think. They had a skill, and
maybe something approaching the true knowledge. As I
waited, letting them set themselves for the increased depth
of my training, I judged every inch of myself, checking
what was needing improvement. Nothing I could tell; I was
perfect.
The two in the lead, samurai, hatamoto most likely,
drew instantly. As I said, they knew enough to know I was
here to send them on, and they knew that there was nothing
they could do about. They almost rushed me.
"Wait." I'd never heard a fat voice before then. His
was. As corpulent as the owner, the voice wallowed in the
hair, singing those two to stillness. "You are the Battousai,
aren't you?"
I did not respond, did not have to. He knew, and I,
looking down the tunnel or wind and rain, knew that as
well.
"I shall spare you the effort." His knife did the
double slittings perfectly. The crimson that my own blade
thirsted so mightily for spilled across that little tanto,
birthing his organs and life to the outside world. He was
silent, ready to die honorably having already preformed his
reclamation of face. I almost nodded, approvingly.
One of the other two acted as the second. Then they,
unwilling to show less pride than their master, also
deprived my poor blade of its meal. I glid my steel
companion home, back to the land of inanimate dreams and
calmly walked away.
Perhaps my living tongue had reached that point
now. It, I won't name it he, was death, death from afar as
well as near. I could kill by will alone now, my power had
exceeded even my skill.
I'm sure which of us was elated at that. I know it
was pleased but most likely disgruntled that it could not
personally move to the feast.
Perhaps its not reveling, but fasting in great
training. It learns new lore and greater prowess in every
new sip from that crimson chalice. Now, maybe it needed
learn from a different drink. I'm not sure. It didn't tell me.
A practiced and unconscious flick of the thumb has
a finger's breath of fang showing. My eye looks back at me,
perhaps no longer my own. I know I've awoken it, as my
hands bares the rest without orders. The sword is pulled up
to my face, though whether by my hand or its own
uncontrolled power I admit ignorance. I wonder if there's a
difference any more. I wonder if it matters.
So seductive, I am lured ever deeper. But it is a he?
I don't know that either. Regardless, it waits in my hand,
knowing that as I watch it, I'm learning that bit of
previously concealed lore it gleaned from the souls of those
three men.
I think I see. Death is more than I had thought and a
greater servant of mine than I had ever expected. She was
my lady in waiting, a handmaiden romancing my blade both
behind my back and before my face. I believe she is my
attendant as well. It wasn't the blade that seduces. It was
Death's smiling face, beckoning me to come hither through
the looking glass of edged hamon. She's beautiful.
Too beautiful, one small and ignored part of my
mind screams, unheeded and unminded. No maiden is that
beauteous and perfect; all have some flaw. What were the
words of the lady? All women had some fallacy? What's
hers, I wonder.
Christened with a bit of my own soul for a moment,
he is cleaned again and put away. His life is young. I
wonder if he will drink yet more? From who, that I already
know.
It sang today. It sang for just one man. Another
oddity, that was. He was not enough.
I am approaching another lesson. Some secret, some
bit of long forgotten lore is hidden in blood, hidden
somewhere close. I think that's why it sang today. It sang to
lead me forward; it sang to lead me to my next insight. I
grow eager for that wisdom.
That one man did not have it.
He was a fool, I guess. Walking alone in the night,
no guards to protect him, he was an easy mark. He carried
himself as a bureaucrat, not a samurai. The heavy plod of
his tread, his unawareness, that lack of finely honed
dexterity crying out from every part of him, all came out
and he might as well have been carrying a sign instead of
that sword. Maybe his one blade would have been enough
to stop a common thief, some foot pad with a knife and
greed. But why would he not know that when you waltzed
in the politics of the highest circles, it was not the thieves
you must fear?
I came from a small eatery beside the road, swept
past him, and receive no knowledge in his wake. His blood
splattered everywhere, almost getting on me as well, and
bathing my sword in such a way that it had never been
immersed before. The visceral bisection is always messy,
but that was an extreme.
I had thought for a while that there was some lesson
inscribed in that. Anything as unusual as the deluge of
sanguine fluid that came from his innards in such profusion
had to be in some way significant. I do not think so now.
My meditations on the topic have been long and thorough.
No other problem has been so elusive to the mind, so I
assume I search incorrectly.
Why did he fall to me? Why was he judged needing
my personal attentions? It is clearly the case that his skill
was not outside the limits of one of the other assassins.
Still, while he would have been inside their strength, I was
called. Message received, orders listened too, messenger
departed, it was all very normal. His path, habits, and lack
of guards, it was all there. I had assumed that in some way,
this would be a matter like the others. This would be an
affair which demanded my particular attention. I am the
best, the Battousai they call me, and yet I see no reason for
me to be given this.
A reward, perhaps? An easy mark to offset the usual
level of difficulty I interact with? If so, it failed miserably. I
need the lessons that this blood and life drinking blade
teaches me. I need strong ones. Almost I am offended by
this case.
I must not get above myself. Maybe the reasons he
was slated to be killed by me were not based on me. For
whatever reason, he might have been judged worthy of
receiving my personal attentions. An unusual way of
showing respect but clearly understandable. I do not know.
It does not matter.
He is dead, and I am no wiser. I will mention it. If
our foes are so weak, I think I will retire for a few days and
ponder the edge of my blade. There is something it is trying
to tell me. I may be able to pry the knowledge for it without
more tribute. That I doubt.
I must have it. That final piece of information, that
undisclosed piece of lore. My blade taunts me and jumps
from my clutches now. Its in possession, it knows
something. I must have that knowledge.
And I know how I must acquire it. Fine. If it wants
satiation, bribery, to give me that skill, it will have it. I will
purge the world in an ocean of blood. I will make a never
ending font of crimson death that it may nourish itself to
unknown ends. I will find out how much it desires, and
supply it. Streams, rivers, oceans, whatever it may demand.
It will be mine.
Now I understand. They died today, and I learned,
though not the lesson I was seeking.
This was the fourth day in my frenzied attempt on
that bastion of knowledge that was my blade. He danced
and sang as no other could. Like wheat they fell. Bodies
against the walls, hollow blades upon the ground, blood
raining from the heavens, they all fell. I left carnage in
alleys. I sowed the streets with corpses. I ran through the
houses of those I fought and slew everything which lived.
Samurai, high and low, those who learned the arts of war
and those who simply carried the traipsing, they were all
the same. Every one I met came down upon this earth.
I realized that the only way to pry this from my
sword is by glutting it. Thus this I did. I irrigated the fields
of my life with blood. I killed them all. The Hiten
Mitsurugi Ryuu was my fife and drum. It spoke, screamed,
whispered, and cajoled. I was drawn, moth like, before its
shining light. This light, this undeniable light, it pulled me.
Venomous voices whispering madness and wisdom. I
listened.
First was the White Leaf faction. Eighty strong
samurai lived in that mansion. Now there are corpses. I was
unenlightened.
Then the masters of empty hands, a voice for the
peasants they claimed to be. I don't care. I didn't care. They
had taken refuge in their little town, that part of Edo they
claimed as their own. How many were there? How many
empty fists met me on the street? How many servants lifted
knives and clubs and graced the walls with their lives? I do
not know. It was myriad.
Supporters of the Shogun, haters of the emperor,
presumptuous diamyo, and others came. When they would
not come to me, I came to them. I sought them in rabbit
holes and searched through the streets of the training
grounds. I sought them all, and I found.
Oh, the gods look down on me in awe now. For I
have ascended. I fed the kingdoms of the underworld such
that they had bounty like no other. Alone I danced with all.
But through it all, that tempestuous and lying traitor
of my blade remained mum.
The dark sheath is now red. My garments have been
stained. My face bleeds and even that is not enough.
Finally, kneeling before my master, it hit me.
Maybe these were not enough. Hated enemies, perhaps my
blade desired the blood of he who I served. He was saying
something to me, my daimyo, but I paid no attention. I
stared at his neck, watching the veins pulse and throb like
one who was in love.
My blade was at hand. This blood, this sacred blood
was here. It was all I needed to do. I knew the measure of
those I served and knew they would come as the sounds
echoed first. I had no desire to be silent, I wanted my
companions. They too possessed the fuel I needed. I would
make a pyre of them all. And by that light would I read the
tome of mastery.
Would they be enough? I cared not. I had all Edo
before me. More people than the stars of the sky, they
could all be the price of my knowing.
Noticed or not by he who thought himself my
master, I placed my hand upon him who was my sword. I
clenched it in my fist.
And then I understood. Then that bit of lore which I
sought not but was supreme all the same was upon my
mind.
Its never enough. It would never be enough. Should
I give the world to my blade, it would not be enough.
Staring at me as I had my epiphany, my ex-master
spoke something I could not hear. He repeated it. I paid no
heed.
"Good bye," I said. I rose and left, even as he
ordered me to return.
I took my oath today. No more. That path is closed.
Who were you who named me the cause of the red
rain? Why can I not remember either your name or face? It
matters.
I will go and learn. For that knowledge may be
greater.