Chapter 10

Ronin

A sigh of relief escapes my lips when I grab the windowsill with both of my hands. It took me half an hour to get here from the bed. I can't believe I didn't take one step in days. I haven't done so since I saw my face in the mirror. Somehow … that sight branded into my brain, and the still clearly visible crisscross pattern of my cuts on the wall … have slightly diminished my want to explore my nearer surroundings. What has made me move today is a simple drive – the pirate's longing for the sea and the hope that I might see it from the window. The shirt sticks to my back once I feel the sill's warm wood under my palms. I sweat as if I was in the very fires of hell. Maybe I'd be better off there. When I move my arm to wipe sweat from my forehead, I feel the skin of my back stretch. I hold my breath and prepare myself for the familiar feeling of tearing flesh. But … there is none. After a while I allow myself to breathe again. I feel my back, feel the pins and needles as if a limb was waking again, but it is whole. A soft laughter rises in my throat. I feel further, feel my muscles shaking, but holding me, not upright, but steady, leaning forward on the windowsill. I feel upwards, feel the empty space in my head, but there is no searing headache that makes my whole vision turn.

Alright, I may not feel exactly good, but dammit … this is the first day that I actually feel like I could make it. Not only survive, but make it back to a state that was not a mere shadow of myself. I exhale. And open the window.

And draw a most delicious breath. Fresh air, and the coolness of a breeze on my face. There is a wee tang of brine in it. Or that's what I make myself believe at least. I feel I've closed my eye, but opened my mouth instead, to taste it all.

"It's good to see you breathe."

I turn my head slowly – I have learned not to do things quickly these days. There she is behind me, blue eyes, clear and deep and chilling my mind. Taking my breath for a second. There's a faint smile on my lips when I look back out of the window.

"And it is definitely worth to see you smile."

My smile broadens. "That's what the sea does to me."

She looks out of the window, raising her head a bit. "Can you see the sea from here?"

I chuckle. "Only a little. But," I look at her, "I can always see it in my heart. Blue silk crowned with white lace, dancing this way and that. Stretching from horizon to horizon, all around me, enclosing me as a whole, allowing me in its world. Carrying me, caressing me. No one has ever touched me like the sea. Both on my skin, and in my heart. And when I cry, it is like the ocean is pouring from my eyes, making us one. Reminds me that everything that is me is descended from the sea. And that when I die, that is where I will go. I will become one with the sea again. I will be ocean. That is a soothing feeling. … it might be why I seek death, from time to time."

"You cannot seek death."

"Well I think I learned that now."

My legs weaken, and I feel a rivulet of sweat roll down my back. Realize how much my venture to the window has tired me. "I had better returned to the bed."

- - -

„You want to walk down the aisle to the sitting room. That would be the farthest you walked all week."

„If we go slowly, I can manage."

She tilts her head in that birdish manner, bestowing me with naught but a flutter of her lids. Then she steps into the corridor, her hands folded in her back, with a subtle rustle of the fabric of her dress. I exhale sharply and will my feet to move. The stones are cold under my bare soles. Afternoon shade has cooled the floor.

"So …" I say casually between two labored breaths "… what do you keep in the sitting room?"

"My father's sword collection."

"Oh." I raise an eyebrow on that. "And you think it's wise to bring me there?"

She doesn't look back at me. "You cannot even raise your arm. I doubt you'd be a mortal danger. And if you are, Rashjid will kill you before you do any damage."

I look to my left, to where, out of nothing, the hindu servant has appeared. My heart forgets to beat for a second. Christ, I can't understand how he does that.

"You look better," he informs me.

I force my heart to resume its occupation. "Thank you." Jesus, my hands are shaking. If the infections and the fever won't kill me, he will.

But there is something, something that makes me walk straighter, a little lighter maybe. And we do get to the sitting room, although I'm not sure how. The view is amazing. The walls are covered with swords on hooks and stands. Swords from allover the world. Fine swords. I must stand there like a boy before the tree on Christmas eve.

Rashjid laughs. "Had we known that all we had to do to restore that sparkle in his eye was to show him swords, we would have done it earlier."

I let my gaze wander, across blades and pommels and sheaths. Aye, there must be some sparkling in my eye. Until-

"Holy mother of God!"

There it is!

"That's my sword!" I hadn't thought that I would be able to move so fast, but I'm next to the katana suddenly, wrapping my fingers around the saya in sheer disbelief. Turn around to Margaret and Rashjid.

"Can I … may I?"

Margaret takes a seat on a chair in the corner. "It's your sword."

Carefully, I take it from the stand, feel the weight in my hand. "How did you get it?"

"The Captain wanted my father to have it. But since he is not here, you may have it back."

I smile brightly. But she is not finished.

"The other Japanese katanas he has are by far in a better state."

I throw a sharp glance at her. But she's right of course, my blade is in a bad state, compared to the fine ones on the wall that have barely been used.

"Can I draw it?"

"If you feel like it."

She doesn't need to say that twice. I have never felt more like it. I draw the sword in front of my face. God, there is no sound as beautiful as an emerging blade. Am I getting goose-pimples here? The energy. The energy it puts into me. Cool wood warming under my touch. I feel the steel cutting through the air. Nothing can stop me now.

Ouch, well, maybe the wounds in my back can. I lower the hand with the sword to a tchiburi, stand broadly, the blade's tip pointing towards the floor.

"There." Maggie's voice suddenly.

I look over at her.

"Now you are … beautiful," she informs me calmly.

I sheathe the sword, sliding it over the back of my hand. Return it to its place on the stand with a little bowing stance.

"Well, it is my soul."

One final pat onto the sword's hilt.

It never came to me … a samurai without a master is called a ronin. Since I left Japan, I don't have a master anymore. So I have referred to myself as ronin. But until today, it never occurred to me what the word does mean when translated.

It means "one adrift on the waves".

Now what is that if not fitting for a sailor. One day … one day I'll find my master again. And that day, I'll call myself a samurai. And I'll be proud.