It is said that the sword holds the soul of the warrior who owns it, and that even after the soul passes on, moves forward into reincarnation and future lives, some piece of the warrior will remain with the blade. If the warrior were particularly strong some piece of him would linger with that sword forever, coloring the destiny of the blade even after it passes on to other wielders. This is where cursed swords come from...but also blessed swords, and enchanted swords.
And yet the tale I bring before you opens in a time and place that has all but forgotten swords. In a country called America, year 2004. America has all but forgotten souls, as well, though most of her proud and free spirited people at least pay lip service to one of the faiths that attempts to tell what happens, one way or the other, to souls. It has forgotten, too, things like magic and honor and blood. And in this country and time, a man or woman can go their entire lives without ever knowing whether or not they are a coward.
And yet one should not judge this country too harshly. Its children are free spirited and energetic, creative and resourceful. The soul of the country, as it were, holds itself to high ideals, even though the hands of the country often dirty themselves. Countries, you see, are very like men. Conflicted. Noble and ugly at the same time. Lacking understanding of their own nature.
Ah, but you are kind to indulge me. I had forgotten, Gentle Reader, that we are past the time when one is supposed to address the Reader at all, or wax philosophical when there are stories to get to. If you have indulged me, I thank you, and will get on with the telling of the tale.
It was autumn. The wind blew harsh and cold across the streets of Williamsburg, Virginia, sending cascades of red and gold, orange and brown, twisting and twirling in slow lazy ballets to the streets and sidewalks below. The skies promised rain, heavy and pregnant with billowing grey clouds, and the air was moist and chill with that promise, but none had yet come. Most of the tourists who came to this small city to immerse themselves, however briefly, in the memories of their nation, had gone home.
Tourists were not a major issue in the Akabedo Shopping Center, though it was only two miles from Colonial Williamsburg. The Akabedo was named for the owners, who also maintained a fairly successful Japanese restaurant of the same name in one of the spaces. The others were taken up by the Kamiya Ryu dojo, Shane's Antiques, and Crystal Memories, a quaint New Age store that sold trendy coffees and teas along with crystals and incense. Of the four of them, Shane's saw the least amount of business, but the store struggled by year after year just the same.
Katie Kamiya arrived every day at 4:00 p.m. She slipped off her shoes as she fumbled her keys. She was an athletic brunette with rather huge brown eyes. Blonde highlights kissed her ponytail; the Kamiya line had intermarried rather far afield of their Japanese origins. Katie was usually singing some rock song or another, though her voice was ill-equipped for it; she was a cheerful young lady.
Today, though, her songs were cut short by a rare sight. A delivery truck was parked in front of the shopping center, and Kenneth Shane was out arguing with the delivery man.
The fact that he was arguing was what made Katie stop; Kenneth was one of the most amiable men she'd ever met. He was handsome as well, so the excuse to stop and look did not go at all amiss. He was half an inch shorter than her, but compact and well fit. He didn't own a car, which was what had done it; he walked to and from work every day. Katie had tried to entice him to come try martial arts, but he had demurred. Kenneth didn't care for violence, and even when she explained that her art was about defending others above all, he had simply smiled and stated that was what police were for. He had a shock of bright red hair, left long in front to hang a bit in his face but cut short in the back. He was always impeccably dressed, as well; today it was a nice blue turtleneck and black slacks. She also enjoyed his little hint of Irish accent. He was born American, but Shane's parents had naturalized, and he still bore the pepper of their speech on his tongue.
"I don't sell swords, sir." Kenneth was explaining. "It's mostly furniture. You know. Chairs. Tables. Wardrobes." The man had always, in Katie's experience, been unfailingly polite, no matter what the circumstances.
The delivery boy was bored. "I was told to deliver it here. What do you care? Says here it's paid for."
"Well, sir, I refuse to sign for the package. I can't even sell that, it's not authentic."
The sword in question, Katie saw, was housed in a very intricate wooden case with a glass top. It was resting on a bed of black velvet. Japanese, she saw, though she couldn't have said what era. And there was something funny about it, though Katie couldn't put her finger on it. Her art had been born in swords, she knew, but nobody went around with swords in modern America, so Katie didn't spend a lot of time on them. Back in the 40s Kamiya Ryu had changed its focus a bit, deciding that being as effective as possible in the pursuit of defending others was more important than the tools the art had begun in. She taught her students to use whatever was to hand, or their hands if there was nothing; that they themselves were swords that protected others.
"You don't have to sign." The delivery boy said, and he thrust the case at Kenneth. Kenneth was forced to take it or let it drop. He chose to take it, just a hint of annoyance playing about his dark blue eyes.
He let out a sigh as the delivery boy left, and Katie walked over to him. "You can put it on your mantle," she suggested. "Someone will buy it."
Kenneth shook his head. "I won't price it," he said. "If it was authentic I guess I would just because I could use the money." He gave her a little grin, which she returned. Neither martial arts schools nor antique stores were exactly money makers; both of Katie and Kenneth had other, part-time jobs that helped them pay the rent. "But see? The blade is on the wrong side of the sword. Everything is pretty consistent on it for it to have been forged, oh, late Tokugawa or so, maybe early Meiji, but...you'd have had to be pretty foolish to forge a sword like that, or wear one, that you would have. It was a bloody time."
There was something about that sword that stirred something in Katie though. "I don't think it's silly," she said at last. "It would have been someone who wanted to defend others without doing harm." She paused as a word floated into her mind, unbidden. "Sakabato."
"Oh, is there a word for it?" He smiled at her. He had a lovely disarming smile. She really wished he'd pick up on all her hints and ask her out, but whenever she flirted too much Kenneth merely blushed and let out this little sound. It was an adorable sound, but hard to capture. The closest I can come, Gentle Reader, is something like "oro." "I'd forgotten, Miss Katie, that your style was built on such things. Would you like the sword? How did you call it again? Sockbat?"
It seemed wrong to her, to take it, like it really belonged with him, but she also sensed an opportunity. She beamed at him. "I might be persuaded to take it off your hands, since I know how you feel about weapons. If you could be persuaded to come have dinner with me tonight."
It was the first time she'd ever come out and asked him. She'd always been afraid of the brush off, he was a little older and she couldn't tell if he could read her about her earlier advances, and was simply politely ignoring them, or whether he really was oblivious. It was the sight of the reverse blade sword that prompted her to find out once and for all. Something about it gave her courage.
He blushed as scarlet as his hair. "Ahhh...you want to have dinner with me?"
"That's what I said."
He gave her that wonderful smile again. "I'd be honored, Miss Katie." He held out the box for her.
She took it, but said, "Oh, and you have to quit calling me Miss Katie. We're on a first name basis and this isn't 1890 or something, ok?" She was pretty sure that was around the time of the Old West, the only time she could think of where men drenched women in "Miss" and "Ma'am".
He mimed tipping a hat at her, winking. "After your classes then."
"After my classes," she agreed, and opened the trunk of her car to place the reverse blade sword carefully inside. She'd bring it home with her, she decided, rather than leave it on display at her school. Her first students were arriving, so she gave him a cheerful wave, pretended like she didn't want to jump up and down and squeal like a little girl, (she had a date with him at last!) and finally got the door to her school unlocked.
Author Notes: Nope, don't own Kenshin & Co.