Title: Remembrance Day
Story content: © November 10, 2006 by dragonwrangler
Author notes: I was listening to the Remembrance Day programming on CBC Radio 2 (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) today at work and this little story popped in my head when, for some reason, I started thinking about what Kambei might be doing on the first anniversary after the end of the war- it wasn't what I expected but I like how it turned out!
Disclaimer-This story fragment is a non-commercial work of fiction based on the anime/manga Samurai 7. Original copyright of Samurai 7 belongs to Akira Kurosawa, Shinobu Hashimoto, Hideo Oguni, MICO, GDH, GONZO. The spelling used for the character names are from the US DVD and Wikipedia. Absolutely no monetary gain has been made with this work and was written for my entertainment and for the entertainment of anyone who wishes to read it
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The boy had not expected to find anyone in his secret place. He had thought everyone was in the village celebrating the anniversary of the end of the war. The boy was not sure exactly why it was important to celebrate this but it seemed to make everyone happy so he hadn't questioned anyone about it.
He really did not know what the war had been about. He remembered his mother often looking sad and worried when the men of the village talked about the news that they had heard regarding the war. And he could remember she would often hug him a little more than he liked during those discussions, held him until he felt the need to squirm, both at the way she held him as if afraid to let him go and at the need to move closer to listen to what the men were talking about. They spoke of things that interested him- great battles and mystical warriors who did heroic deeds defending the village.
They were telling those stories again today, with big gestures and a lot of cheering; and although the stories still interested him, the boy found himself a little bored with it all. They were the same stories every time and the boy had them well memorized now and had decided it would be more fun to pretend he was one of those warriors and had come up the hill to act out all those stories in his secret place.
But he found the old man who had come into the village a few days earlier already there, sitting quietly like a priest might- straight backed and head up, his hands resting on his thighs and a sword in its scabbard resting on the ground before him. He was dressed as he had been when he had come to the village; white clothing that had touches of brown and black, his hair thick and loose down his back. Everyone in the village seemed to be wary around the man, polite but not as outgoing as the boy was used to seeing them. It was almost as if the stranger was a reminder of something unpleasant but no one said anything to the boy except that he should not bother the man.
Still, the boy could not help but study the man. He was not like the other men in the village, there was something in the easy way he moved and the way he seemed aware of what was happening around him even though he did not acknowledge those happenings. He was something the boy had never seen before and the boy had found himself watching to see if the man would do anything interesting.
So far he had not and the boy found himself wondering what he was expecting the man to do when the man said quietly, "I apologize if I am intruding."
Thinking the man was talking to someone else, the boy turned to look behind him, expecting to see an adult from the village on the trail. But finding no one there, the boy turned back and found the stranger looking right at him with a steady gaze.
"I did not mean to take your spot." The man gave a slight nod as he added formally, "I give you my apologies for intruding."
"Um, that's okay." the boy said hesitantly. He had never had an adult apologize to him before and was not sure how he was supposed to respond. Carefully approaching the man, he bowed once and, feeling the need to explain, said, "It's not really my spot I just come up here sometimes to play."
The man nodded once more in acknowledgement then turned back to watch the landscape change colors before him as the sun set behind him. Not sure what to do the boy stood still a moment them moved closer to the old man to sit beside him, mirroring the way the man sat as best he could.
As the man remained silent, the boy absently blew a lock of blond hair out of his eyes and let his gaze fall on the sword. It was not like the few he had seen in his life- those had been simply straight blades with simple hilts.
This one, the boy could tell, had been carefully taken care of. The hilt was a mix of silver and black and the boy was sure the blade resting in the scabbard would gleam and sparkle in the evening sunlight.
The boy's eyes were drawn to the stranger's hands. They were big- like his father's- but they were not the same. One hand rested palm up on the man's thighs and the boy could see calluses on the fingers just like his father's. But they were not gnarled like his fathers or his grandfather's; they were straight and strong.
On the hand that still rested palm down the boy noticed markings across the back of it. Curious, the boy leaned forward and, without thinking, reached out to trace the mark with one finger. It was not until the hand twitched slightly that he realized what it was he was doing.
Snatching his hand away, he found the man watching him once again. He bit his lower lip for a moment then said in a rush before the man could send him away for being so rude, "What is that mark?"
For a moment he was afraid the man would not answer as he turned his gaze downward to look at the mark. The boy watched as the man absently tracked the pattern a moment before saying, "It is a promise."
"A promise?" the boy asked curiously. He looked closely at it. "It looks like a flower."
"Yes." the man said.
The boy felt confused. "How can a flower be a promise?"
The man was silent, a sad look crossing his face. The boy sensed he had said something that he probably should not have; something another adult would have chastised him for saying. But this man did not and the boy found himself sitting patiently for once as the man traced the flower on his hand once again.
"It reminds me of my comrades and the promise I made to them." the man finally answered in a quiet, calm voice.
The boy thought about the words the man used. He had heard the word comrades used when the men of the village told their stories.
"It reminds you of your friends then." the boy said, trying hard to make it a statement though it was more of a question for him.
"Yes."
"Why are you not with them right now?" the boy asked quizzically.
The man shook his head. "They died during the war."
The boy felt a moment of excitement when he realized that meant this man had been in the war everyone talked about. But then he thought a little more and realized exactly what the man had said.
"All your friends are gone?"
The man nodded and continued slowly tracing the flower on his hand.
"Oh." The boy frowned and fell silent. He shifted in place for a moment then suddenly asked, "What did you promise them?"
A sigh slipped out of the man and he cupped the marked hand within his other one as he looked out over the darkening landscape.
"I promised that I would live."
That statement only confused the boy. "Why would you have to promise that?"
An odd smile pulled at the man's lips and he turned to the boy to say, "I suppose because I had forgotten how to be as wise as you are."
The stranger reached out and gently rested his hand on the boy's head. "It is getting dark. I think it is time for you to return to your family."
As the man dropped his hand, the boy rose to his feet, his thoughts swirling with everything the man had said. He bowed low to the man and started to walk away when he suddenly remembered his manners.
"Do you want me to let mother know when you will be down?" he asked hopefully but somehow he knew what the man's answer would be.
"No." he answered with a shake of his head. "It is time for me to move on."
"To live for your friends?"
The man nodded.
The boy returned the nod and turned away, suddenly hoping his mother might give him one of those hugs that he always tried to get away from.
He would not try to get away tonight.
Shimada Kambei watched the boy walk away and, for the first time in a year, felt some of the sorrow lift from his heart. For a moment it was as if his furu nyobo sat beside him once again waiting patiently for him to reach the proper conclusions.
He would not put it passed Shichiroji to find a way to reach out to him, wherever his spirit may now be.
Grasping the scabbard, Kambei rose to his feet and hooked the sword back into its proper place at his hip, its weight as familiar as the shadows of those he had lost to the war.
But as heavy as those shadows were, they were slowly becoming as easy to carry as the sword at his side. And he found his vision was not as dark as it once was.
And perhaps one day he would find the strength to live once again. Until then, he would simple put one foot in front of the other and see where the road would lead him.
And with that, Shimada Kambei stepped off of the trail and into the welcoming night.