Still don't own Rurouni Kenshin or Highlander.
The Visitor Who Came To Stay – January, 1942
The holidays were over, and everyone was glad they were. While not Christian, the family celebrated Christmas anyway, usually with a tree, presents, and friends over to visit and eat. The children had hung stockings and usually found a present or two on Christmas morning, proof that Santa Claus really did exist, although Cho was starting to doubt that. This year was different. The decorating that Masumi had started just after Thanksgiving had come to a halt with the attack on Pearl Harbor and the outbreak of war. After that, no one felt much like decorating, especially after Sasuke was taken away. As the news of war got worse and postcards from Sasuke were limited, any thought of a joyous holiday disappeared. Sasuke, who usually equaled if not surpassed his children in holiday energy, wasn't there to be the family cheerleader, and Masumi couldn't muster any false joy. She, Tom, and the children put together a box full of sweets, socks, hats, and mittens for him and the other men incarcerated with him. Some of them didn't have families on the outside to help, and enjoyed the treats, warm clothes, and the letters Cho penned to her father, which he read aloud. The family and Tom had dinner together, followed by a few quiet games, and then Tom had taken his leave and the children and Masumi went to bed.
New Years Eve hadn't been any better. They didn't even get together for that. Masumi cleaned her house and weeded out some of the toys and books the children didn't pay attention to anymore, putting them into a box for donation to the needy. The children played games without too much squabbling, and helped Masumi – or got in her way, depending on how 'helpful' they were. Tom puttered around his house with some minor maintenance chores. All went to bed long before midnight.
A week later, Tom was sitting in his favorite comfortable chair in the small living room of his bungalow-style house. It was a cozy room with a mix of western furniture and Japanese fabrics and art. The chairs and sofa were over-stuffed and upholstered in practical blue corduroy, with end tables and a coffee table of polished oak that almost seemed to blend in with the wood of the floor. In fact, they might have if the floor hadn't been covered by an oriental rug in shades of blue, gold, and green. The curtains at the window were heavy blue and gold silk over beige Venetian blinds, now with their slats closed for privacy. A framed sumi-e painting of a tree leaning over a waterfall hung over the fireplace, and a cluster of netsuke figures huddled around the unlit buttery beeswax candles at either end of the mantle. Several pen and ink drawing of scenes around Yosemite were grouped on another wall, the composition of them showing as the work of a Japanese artist, though the subject was uniquely American. A daishō rested on a stand near the chair to the left of the fireplace. Both the katana and its little brother wakizashi had plain, unwrapped wooden grips polished to a golden glow and no tsuba to interrupt the flow of wood down the length of the saya, although the saya of the wakizashi had a delicate pattern of entwined vines and leaves picked out in gold running the length of it. A few magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table, with a Sierra Club newsletter resting topmost. Tom had just added another log to the fire in the fireplace, and with the shades drawn, a book in his hands, and a cup of tea gently steaming on the table near his elbow, most – if not everything – was right in his world.
Then there was a knock on the door. Actually, it was more like a pounding, but Tom was already on his feet and had left the book on the seat of the chair. In a fluid, easy movement, he snagged the katana off the decorative stand and held it casually by the saya with his left hand behind him as he flipped on the outside light and answered the door. The man who stood there was over medium height, but still wouldn't be considered overly tall. He would, perhaps, not be considered handsome by the standards of the day, but his face was interesting and unapologetically English. His curly light brown hair was kissed to gold by the sun, and his green eyes were open and friendly, crow's feet at the corners attesting to a good humor often indulged in. His suit was of good cut and material, but somewhat rumpled, as if he'd been sleeping in it, and a long duffle bag was slung over one shoulder. As the door opened, he flung his arms wide, an affable grin on his face, and proclaimed in a broad British accent:
"Kenshin! My good friend! It's been so long since I've seen you!" His eyes dropped to the katana, barely concealed at Tom's side and he sobered quickly. "That's not really for me is it? We're such good friends." The man's smile appeared a bit more forced, as if sheer determination was keeping it in place.
"Fitzcairn, every time you start stressing what good friends we are, I start looking over my shoulder and hanging onto my wallet," Kenshin – for that really was the name Tom usually went by, though not the one he was born with – said dryly, and stepped quickly back from what could have become a man-hug. Unfortunately, that left the door open, and the other man unabashedly walked in. "What brings you to Berkeley?"
"Oh, you know, traveling the world, seeing the sites, visiting my good friends…"
"A ticked-off head-hunting Immortal, the mob, an angry husband…" Kenshin enumerated other possibilities.
"Hah, well, yes, the last. Out in Napa country and was she as sweet as the wine. Unfortunately, he came back from a growers' conference earlier than expected, and I decided discretion was the better part of valor."
"You couldn't have used the discretion first?" Kenshin asked as Fitz dumped his bag next to the coffee table and picked up the book Kenshin had left behind.
"'The Wonderful Wizard of Oz'?" he asked, holding it out and shaking it slightly, smirking. Kenshin took it from him.
"I thought I'd see how it differed from the movie." He set it on the coffee table as Fitz plopped into his chair and picked up the tea cup, taking a sniff.
"Whew, old son, you taken to brewing grass? I mean, you've never been the richest of us, but I never thought you'd be that poor." He dragged over his duffle and started rooting around in it. "You need a real man's tea. There, that'll do it," he exclaimed as he pulled out a green tin. "Irish breakfast tea. It's a good strong black, it is. Brew a pot of this and it'll put hair on your chest. In fact, you brew a pot of this and it'll come to you when you whistle for it, it's that strong."
"Mine is gyokuro from Uji, near Kyoto, and probably the best green tea you can find," Kenshin said mildly. "And it smells like flowers, not grass. I'm really not sure I want my tea walking out to me, and I've never been overly concerned about the state of the hair on my chest."
Fitz tossed the tin at him and leaned back, crossing his legs. "Well at least you could brew me a cuppa. I am a guest, after all."
Kenshin looked pointedly at the other man's shoes, still firmly tied to his feet. "Most of my guests at least know to take their shoes off. And they don't usually barge in, either."
"Whoops! Forgot about you Japanese and the shoe thing. And I would have called, but time was of the essence, don'cha know. Of course, I wasn't sure if you were actually here. I got this address a couple years ago and MacLeod's been wrong before."
Kenshin shook his head and disappeared into the kitchen to heat the kettle. Fitz was Fitz and it was unlikely he'd changed much over his centuries. The whole world was a lark to him and he didn't put too much effort into hard work, but overall, he was harmless and likeable if you weren't going after his head. Then he could be very serious indeed. In fact, casual sparring sessions with him had helped Kenshin grow more knowledgeable about Western-style fencing and how best to counter it with any one of a number of Japanese and Chinese styles he knew. He'd also taught Fitz a few moves from those styles, but never anything of his principal style. That was a secret he'd never teach. Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu was far too powerful a sword technique to be given to other Immortals, and it was his ace-in-the-hole if things went bad in a fight. So far, he'd never needed to use it. His skill in other sword styles was more than adequate for the few encounters he'd had with head hunters.
When Kenshin came out of the kitchen several minutes later bearing a tea tray loaded with a teapot, cups, cream, sugar, and a plate of cookies, Fitz was sprawled in the chair – shoes off – and idly flipping through the Sierra Club newsletter. He grinned as he sat up and put the paper aside, reaching for a cookie as Tom set the tray on the coffee table and poured tea into the cups. Then he stopped, his hand hovering over the plate.
"These are normal, aren't they?"
"What? I baked them yesterday. They're not stale or anything."
"I mean, they don't have anything weird in them, like seaweed or something, do they?" Fitz asked.
Kenshin laughed. "They're just gingersnaps, Fitz. I'm saving the arsenic-coated tea cakes for later if you tick me off." His humor seemed to make Fitz more suspicious rather than less.
"I'm just checking. Last time it was pinto bean fudge or some such weird thing."
"They were red bean buns and they were really good. Last time I share with you."
Fitz snorted, obviously not agreeing to the goodness of red bean buns, and snagged a couple cookies. "So, Kenny, what's going on in San Fran these days? I heard rumors."
"All kinds of badness, and bound to get worse. And I'm going by Tom Niitsu right now. If you call me Kenshin Himura, we're going to have way too many questions to answer. No one knows me by that name here." Kenshin took a sip of the black tea he'd poured for himself – since his green had gone cold – and wrinkled his nose, adding more sugar and some cream and stirring it into a pale concoction that drew a disapproving stare from Fitz. "As to the current times, hysteria is running rampant. There are rumors of relocating all the Japanese off the west coast so we can't help guide in any planes or sabotage anything. Some of my Issei friends have already been picked up and hauled off to some kami-forsaken place in Montana so they can't aid Japan. Not that any of them have any inclination to do so, of course. We just sent a big box full of warm clothes and stuff to one of them. The FBI pulled him out of his kendo class and shipped him off to Montana in a gi and hakama. He was lucky they let him put on his shoes. Still he was luckier than the guy they pulled off the golf course. He was in a golf shirt and shorts."
"In Montana in December? What were they thinking? And what is Issei? My Japanese is rusty."
"Your Japanese is non-existent, Fitz," Kenshin snorted. "First generation. Just off the boat, so to speak, although some of them have been here for decades. My papers say I'm sansei, which is third generation. I thought at the time it would help explain the odd coloring and give me a bit more claim to citizenship, but it doesn't appear to help much right now. With the hysteria at the level it is, all you need is a Japanese face to be considered an enemy, and it doesn't matter if you voluntarily left Japan for a better life – like everyone else in America except the Indians - or if you've never been to Japan."
"Well, you're not exactly typical looking for a Japanese, and why are you dying your hair? I assume that is dye."
"I'm trying to blend. Actually it does work pretty well as long as I don't go too dark. Then I start looking like the walking dead, with this pale skin. But I am Japanese enough to be noticeably "not white", and that's enough. You know, even if you're only one sixty-fourth "not white", you're considered "colored" in America, and therefore your rights are less. I keep hoping they'll correct that and truly carry out that equality and justice-for-all thing, but it hasn't happened yet. Now there's this. With the attack on Pearl Harbor, it's just an excuse to carry the usual discrimination another step or two farther. It's not just the Issei they want to collect and ship out; it's everyone, right down to the last one-sixty-fourth."
"Looks like it's time to move on, and you'd better do it quick before they lock you down," Fitz said.
"Yeah, but that's the tough part. I can't go. Call me whatever you like, but I can't turn my back on people who need me. And I have family here, Fitz. Real family. The kendo instructor in Montana is one of my grandsons, and his wife and two kids are up on the hill without too many Japanese families around for support. She's got some good white neighbors who are trying to help, but she's still feeling pretty isolated. I can't just abandon them when they might be relocated somewhere and he's not with them. And she's pregnant again, so how much can she do on her own in that condition? The younger kid is still a toddler and he can be a handful."
Fitz whistled. "That is a mess. You know, you're the only one of us I ever met who had kids before the first death. It's got to be rough wanting to protect them all the time."
Kenshin shrugged. "Mostly I have to let them go their own way, which is harder in some ways. I can't interfere or help out or I tip them off that I'm still alive, and I can't do that. Not only do I run all the questions about how I managed to stay so well-preserved, but there's also the risk that they start looking me as if I'm some kind of all-knowing, all-powerful being that will guide them through a flawless life. Like I know what that is. I stumbled across Sasuke and his family by accident, but now that I know they're here, I can't leave them in this mess. He's of the generation that never knew me, so I'm safe enough unless someone…" he dragged the last word out as he stared hard at Fitz, "…lets my real name slip."
"I won't, I promise. I can get used to Tom…which isn't very Japanese, you know."
"Of course not. I was going for American-sounding – third generation, you know. You could call me Tomio, like Mrs. Takamatsu did," Kenshin grinned. "It cracked me up, but I had to pretend I didn't know what it meant."
"Which is?"
"'Splendid man'. Now doesn't that just describe me?" Kenshin's lavender eyes sparkled with laughter.
Fitz almost spit out his mouthful of tea, trying not to laugh until he could swallow. "What, was she blind?"
"Of course not. Almost eighty, but not blind. I always thought her the most discriminating of women. Actually, it would have been a little embarrassing if there had been other Japanese families up here. I am glad the Takamatsu's have already moved to Texas and won't be in this mess. At least, not for now. If this relocation idea really takes hold, who knows how far it'll spread? They're saying it would be for 'military necessity' and to 'protect' us from anyone wanting to do us harm, but it's really a crock of bullshit. If they want to protect us, all they have to do is step up law enforcement and cut the hysterical posturing in the media. I don't think this little house is in a strategic military location, or Japantown, either. If that were a good location for anything, there wouldn't be Japanese there."
"Well, if you need help, I'll do what I can. I'd thought to hang out in California where things were peaceful, as opposed to anywhere near Europe, but the events at Pearl Harbor have pointed out rather emphatically that nowhere is peaceful anymore. Still, California has good weather, so it still seems to be a good place to stay a while. I figured to look around and see if there was work to be had. There must be something in the defense industry if nowhere else"
"There are quite a few used car dealers in Berkeley – you'd be great at it, Fitz," Kenshin grinned. "Where are you staying?"
"Well, I thought I'd stay with you if you didn't mind. Just until I got settled, you know. Still haven't recovered from all my losses in that damned stock market fiasco. Took me more than one decade to amass enough to invest; it'll take me more than one to crawl my way back to that point again." Fitz did look genuinely apologetic.
"That's because you keep spending it on wine and women, not to mention betting on horses, but that's okay. I've got a spare room upstairs, and I've got a feeling I may be needing the help of a good hakujin friend very soon," Kenshin said darkly, all trace of his previous good humor gone. "You know, I'm just so…angry…at the Japanese government right now. This isn't what we were fighting to create eighty years ago. I should have guessed after Okubo-san was assassinated that the grand plan for a nation state would never be realized."
"There was a plan?" Fitz asked skeptically.
"Believe it or not, yes, there was a plan. A government where people could decide their paths for themselves instead of having all the power in a handful of people. The leaders that were left didn't have the vision it took to keep moving forward, or the charisma to keep everyone together. Saito was right – it ended up being a government filled with powerless third-rate idiots and one or two smart guys who grabbed it all. The direction got murky and the next thing you know, there's this. This is worse than anything the bakufu did. It's not like there weren't warning signs - my first death was in Korea fighting China for possession of the peninsula, after all, but the revolution wasn't supposed to be about conquest. It was supposed to be about getting Japan's act together and dealing on an even footing with foreign powers."
"That's why no war is a good war, no matter how righteous you think your cause is. Some damned politician is going to come along and screw things up anyway. Happens time and again. You live eight hundred years like me, you see it countless times. That's why I don't fight in wars. Never was keen on it, and I've seen enough to be even less keen on it now. Best to wait until the dust has settled and then see what can be done."
"To make a profit?" Kenshin asked cynically. He was under no illusions about Fitz's altruism.
"If it happens, I'm not against it," the older man nodded. "But there are benefits that have nothing to do with money. I can do that, too." He pulled his pipe from his pocket, along with a pouch of tobacco.
"Like very appreciative European women?"
Fitz just smiled and started packing the bowl of the pipe.
"If you don't mind, take that outside," Kenshin suggested. "I had enough of tobacco smoke when I worked with Saito. I could smell that man coming, never mind sensing him. Hiko taught me to use all my senses, as well as what to avoid to be sensed myself. Smoke clings, and tobacco smoke doesn't smell like wood smoke."
Fitz snorted. "If someone's coming for your head, they don't need to smell you. They'll know where you are."
"Right now, I'm not worried about head hunters. I'm more worried about my fellow Americans."
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Vocabulary
Bakufu – literally "tent government" – the Japanese government under the Tokugawa shogunate
Daisho – set of katana and wakizashi that proclaim the status of a warrior as samurai
Gyokuro – premiere green tea
Hakujin - Caucasian
Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu – Kenshin's primary sword style, an ancient style of the Sengoku era that pits one against many
Issei – first generation Japanese American
Kami – spirits
Katana – long sword
Netsuke – carved bead that was used to hold purse strings closed, often made to look like animals or fanciful spirits.
Sansei – third generation Japanese American
Saya – sheath
Sumi-e – Black Ink Painting. Black ink on white paper, simple, elegant and serene. Simplicity is the most outstanding characteristic of Sumi-e. An economy of brush strokes are used to communicate the essence of the subject. (Description gratefully borrowed from silver dragon studio - they described it much better than I could)
Tsuba – the (usually) round guard that protects the hand between blade and handle on a sword
Wakizashi – short sword. The saya was usually more decorative because this sword generally could be worn to meetings when the katana was given up for security purposes.
