AUTHOR'S NOTE: Nothing cool happens here. I'm just warming up. Same disclaimers apply. Also, the tankas written by Jin I "borrowed" from the Tanka Splendor contest, hosted by AHA Book Company. Please don't kill me for it.

CHAPTER ONE

"So, I've been thinking…"

"Guess there's a first time for everything."

Mugen ignored him. "We've been sleeping out on hard ground for ages. Why don't we start staying someplace nice?"

It was nearly sunset again. Mugen, Jin, and Fuu had been walking down the road all day. Nothing remarkable had happened, except one very fast, furious fight that was provoked when Mugen began chuckling at the memory of shoving Jin's face in the dirt. They were now really in the woods, far away from the village, hopefully making their way toward a place with cheap food. They probably could have walked another few miles, but hunger was making them tired, and Fuu had found a clearing that was only a short distance away from a stream. She was leading Mugen and Jin to it; both their faces were obscured by piles of firewood.

"We don't have any money for that," said Fuu patiently.

"Well, why can't you sell yourself? I mean, come on, you're hot…"

"I've met grubs with better manners than you, Mugen," said Jin behind his pile. "And better taste, for that matter.

"HEY!" cried Fuu. He was practically dancing in his attempts not to trip over unseen tree roots. Mugen was stepping heavily, like he could simply stomp out any lumps on the ground. Fuu skipped ahead, without firewood to weigh her down.

"Look, I'm just saying, we need money bad, and we have a resource here we're not using…"

"Screw you, Mugen," said Fuu politely, stopping. "Okay, just drop it here."

Both Mugen and Jin dropped their piles, on opposite sides of the small clearing. It was only as large as perhaps a very small restaurant, but the overreaching tree branches had blocked sunlight from reaching the ground, and the fact that there was no tall grass was a redeeming quality. They could hear the stream gurgling, unseen, to their left.

"Can you move it to the middle?" asked Fuu.

"No way. I'm going to take a bath," said Mugen flippantly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking off into the trees toward the river.

"Again, I guess there's a first time for everything," muttered Jin. He bent down and began picking up twigs. Fuu started moving Mugen's pile.

"So…" she began.

Jin's face was hard and motionless.

"You're not still mad about last night, are you?"

Jin heaved a heavy log up and dropped it over the carefully built pile Fuu had made. It smashed every little twig she'd stacked for the fire.

"Well, I'm sorry, Jin, but we need that money!" she said in a high voice, color rising into her cheeks.

"I understand if my dignity is worth less than one momne to you," said Jin. He dropped a second log angrily.

"Arrgg," growled Fuu with frustration. She and Jin moved all the wood, and Fuu set her back against a tree and began scribbling furiously inside her own diary while Jin stared the fire.

After a moment he pulled out his own book and flipped through it slowly. Fuu looked up for a moment before returning to her writing. She kept glancing up, though, at Jin; he stared at the blank pages as if reading something invisible.

Finally, she asked, "Are you going to write in it?"

"I don't have anything to write with."

"You can borrow mine." She tossed him a small jar of ink before he could protest. He caught it in one hand, but kept staring at the page blankly.

"Having trouble getting started?" asked Fuu sympathetically after a long time.

Jin didn't answer, but met her eyes.

"You should write about yourself, first."

Why? wondered Jin. He already knew about himself; there was no need to write it down if he already knew it. And it wasn't like the book needed to know. And no one else would ever read it.

He watched Fuu for a moment. She had already written far more than had happened that day.

As if reading his mind, Fuu said, "You don't just have to write about what's happening. You can write about your dreams and your hopes and everything." She beamed. Jin wondered why she was so happy. Maybe she was hoping to get him to start writing, and then read it, like he had once read hers.

Anyways, he thought, her advice wasn't bad. Writing about himself would at least be better than writing "I hate Mugen," which is what he had been contemplating before. Mugen didn't deserve to be written about at all. He couldn't even read.

"And you can write about memories and the future and your thoughts," Fuu continued.

"Why?" asked Jin finally. "Why would anyone write down their memories, if they already remembered them?"

"I don't know… you just do. It helps you think," said Fuu weakly.

Jin sighed at her foolishness and began careful, even strokes.

My name is Jin.

He paused to consider. What else was there to say, really?

Jin means "compassion." I am not sure why my parents named me this. Perhaps they were hoping for a girl rather than a boy. This is just one example of the cruel irony that

He stopped, as if disturbed by his own momentum.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," said Fuu, without looking up. "You can cross stuff out and add stuff. No one cares if it's not perfect. See?" She displayed a page. Her handwriting was thinner, hastier, but its form was perfect from practice. A few things here and there had been crossed out on the page, in wide X shapes. "Of course, you already know that, from reading mine," said Fuu with a scowl.

While she buried herself back into her own violated diary, Jin considered. It was true; it didn't have to be perfect. He would have liked it, but he'd only paid one momne for it, and it wasn't like anyone could read it, except maybe Fuu, and what did he care about a fifteen-year-old, critiquing his style?

I have never kept a journal before, because it has always seemed to me like a waste of time. But now that I've bought the journal, it would be a waste of money not to use it. Fuu keeps one. She acts foolish but is much more intelligent than she lets on. She has been giving me tips, most of them worthless, about what to write. She said I do not need to record what happens, only what I think.

I think that my brain is perfectly capable of thinking and doesn't need my hand or a book to help it. I also think this quest is as worthless as writing down thoughts on paper, thoughts that will never even be read, and that it's only a matter of time before Fuu realizes how foolish she is and gives up entirely.

"And sometimes, I write poetry and songs and things," said Fuu. Jin crossed out the last paragraph and started over.

I wonder why people write down thoughts that will never be read by anyone but themselves. Do they worry they will forget them? I do not worry. If I forget something, then it was not worth remembering.

Fuu says she writes poetry. I saw some in the margins of her diary but didn't bother to read it. I wish I had, now. Mugen would not have appreciated it but I might have.

Jin stared at what he wrote a long time, as if hoping it would change itself and give him some great insight. But it did not, so he tucked his journal back into his kimono, leaned his chin onto his chest, and was asleep by the time Mugen returned.

Today I went to the stream to bathe, before the sun had risen. I practiced my kata afterwards, while the sun rose over the tops of the trees. The reflection of the light in the water made it look red.

Fuu said she peple write memories in their journals. I have nothing else to say about my morning, so I'll remember something instead.

I remember being six years old, and climbing a peach tree. It was a small tree that leaned beside a house. The house was low to the ground, with a thatched roof and painted screen over the windows. The house was wood, but the wind had worn its color off, making it a drab gray. The tree was rich brown and leaned very far over, so that its branches shadowed the path that led from the house, and blossoms dropped there in the spring. In late summer, I hugged the rough bark and pulled myself into the top of it, where I could see the thatched roof of the house, and beyond it, a hill that lead down to a village. The village was all brown and gray, and even the trees and grass were drab. But the peaches in the tree were bright orange, and the blossoms pink, the same color as Fuu's kimono. I remember reaching for a peach that was far out. There were others, closer, but the one I wanted was on the very tip of a branch. I stretched as far as I could, and of course I fell onto the path and tore open my knee, covering my leg in small rivulets of bright red. I sat beside the tree and sucked on scraped hands and waited for my mother to come. When she found me, she asked, "How did you fall?" I told her I was reaching for the peach on the end of the branch and had lost my footing. "You are a very foolish child," she told me. "There were other peaches that were much closer, and they all taste the same." She reached up and plucked the peach I'd indicated, which she was tall enough to reach, because it hung down so low. She handed it to me, wiped my leg, and took my hand. We walked inside, and the sun setting to my right was the same red as my knee, and the same orange as my peach.

Fuu said she writes poetry. I cannot write poetry. Fuu said anyone can write poetry, even people who cannot. Sometimes I wonder if she knows what she's saying at all.

Without a word

Remaining between us

With a sharp knife

She cuts the soft yellow peach

To the ragged bloody pit.

"So, hey, know what I've been thinking?"

"Thinking again? Aren't you over-reaching yourself?" asked Jin coldly. Mugen took no notice of him. He and Jin were walking side by side, about seven steps behind Fuu. Jin was walking as if his entire body was bound with thick ropes beneath his kimono; his hakama hid all movement of his feet, so it looked like he was gliding along stiffly. Mugen was swinging out his arms and legs, like he was swatting bugs away, and indeed occasionally he broke his own stride to clap at a fly in the air.

"We've got ten momne, right?"

"Nine," said Fuu.

"Ten momne…" repeated Mugen. "Next place we come to, I say, we buy ourselves something nice."

"Like food?" asked Jin cynically.

"Food and girls, that's what. I've been thinking, and the reason we never get anything to eat is, we're not looking in the right places. I think we ought to start looking in cheaper districts. We'll get a lot more. You know, I'm sick of all this stupid getting-expensive-food-just-because-it's-less-likely-to-be-spit-on stuff. I say, next town we come to, we buy some crab cakes and some girls and just have ourselves a good time."

"That's ambitious of you," said Fuu scornfully.

"No, really, it'll work. You take three and we'll take seven. You buy some food, cheap, and me and my buddy Jin here can hit the brothels and pool our money and share a meal."

"How can you think of girls at a time like this, Mugen? We haven't eaten in ages." Fuu was starting to fall back; she was almost beside Mugen, so that she could better glare at him. Their strides were similar; she swung her hands out as she walked, only the tips of her fingers showing past the sleeves of her bright kimono. Mugen's swings were less elegant.

"Ah, come on, we've gotta have some fun once in a while!"

Without warning, he reached over and slung an arm around Jin's shoulders. In an instant Jin had drawn his sword.

"Put it away," said Mugen breezily. "Come on, we're pals, aren't we? I'm gonna show you a night on the town, Jin. We're gonna have some fun for once."

With a look of confusion, disgust, and annoyance all rolled into one, Jin sheathed his sword. Mugen pretended not to notice his stiffness.

"We can find a cheap place, I bet. They said there was a big city this way, didn't they? Cities always have cheaper places. We can each get a girl for one, maybe two momne…"

"Mugen, I really don't think that's a good idea," fretted Fuu.

"…and we'll have at least five left, we can get some seafood or something. You like seafood, right, Jin? I could really go for something… fried, yeah, and crunchy and swimming in sauce, with some fruits and some sake and…"

Fuu cocked an eyebrow, directed at Jin. Jin ignored her, looking peeved. But Fuu thought she knew what Mugen was doing; in his own bizarre way, he was trying to make up with Jin for shoving his face in the dirt. He would never apologize; but getting Jin a whore was the closest he could bring himself.

"…while we're out, you can buy something nice for yourself too, Fuu. And, hey! Me and you, we'll have a place to stay for the night, Jin. What do you like of that? No more hard ground!"

"And what about after we've spent all our money on cheap, diseased girls and cheap, diseased food?" asked Jin calmly.

"Hey, don't worry about that," said Mugen, patting Jin's chest. Jin looked like he could have bitten Mugen's hand off. "We'll get more. Maybe Fuu can look for jobs, huh? Or sell herself."

"I will not!" cried Fuu.

"Okay, okay, whatever. Look for jobs, pick-pocket old ladies, I don't care…"

Fuu rolled her eyes, but didn't protest as much as she would have. Even though she was in agreement with Jin, and thought the idea of blowing all the money in one night was a bad idea, she thought it was nice that Mugen was at least trying. Besides, what were the chances of even being able to find anything for so little money?

"And plus, Fuu, you'll have the whole night to yourself to ask about your sunflower samurai!" He grinned. She rolled her eyes very obviously at him.

"When do we get to this city?" asked Jin. He looked over the top of his glasses to Mugen as he said it, implying that he didn't care how far away the city was; what he really wanted to know was when Mugen would remove his arm from around his shoulders.

"Well, I guess, in theory, we could reach it tonight," said Fuu slowly. "But I'm really tired…"

"Stop being such a girl," sneered Mugen.

"Excuse me, but I am a girl and I'm tired and I say we're going to stop and sleep and get there tomorrow!"

Mugen took his arm from around Jin's shoulders, and he and Fuu began bickering. Jin floated beside them serenely, his limbs swaying a little more with his step.

Fuu says we will reach the next city tomorrow. In the past week, all we have eaten is a few rice cakes each, and some berries we found in the woods. Mugen is certain we can get food there for only a few coins, but at the last town, they said it was impossible to buy anything for less than twenty. But food doesn't matter to me. At the last town, I heard an interesting rumor of a samurai in glasses passing through. For all I know, I could find him in the next town. But it could be anyone. There are probably more than a few samurai in glasses in the world. I shouldn't get my hopes up, like I have so many times before.

There was a sharp crack. Jin jumped, accidentally making a large blot on the page. He looked up sharply at Mugen. He was climbing a tree like a child, swinging around a bit stupidly. Jin shook his head and turned back to his writing.

Today Mugen is acting more juvenile (he crossed it out) more loutish (he crossed it out) stranger than usual. Writing each night has become rather amusing for me. Fuu and I sit with our backs to trees, warming by the fire. Mugen, who cannot read or write, is left out of this intimate moment and resorts to some very childish and completely uncalled for tactics to call attention to himself. Fuu is far less patient than I, and glares at him frequently over the top of her page. I wonder what Mugen imagines we are writing. He probably thinks we're writing about him.

Jin paused and scratched his nose, then crossed out the last two sentences.

Fuu writes a lot of speculations in her our journal. I dislike speculations and prefer solid fact. She is always wondering who the sunflower-smelling samurai is. She has many theories which contradict each other. More and more I think this task is impossible…

"Ahh!" cried Mugen. He fell from his tree and crashed to the ground, sending leaves wafting up and then floating back down delicately. Mugen popped up with leaves in his hair, smiling brazenly.

Fuu and Jin both rolled their eyes and turned back to their journals.

Mugen just fell out of a tree, probably to impress Fuu, as if his antics are endearing rather then extremely annoying. All he wants is attention.

"Hey, Jin!" Mugen held out his sword.

Now he's challenging me to fight. I will ignore him.

"C'mon, Jin. Scared? Huh?" Mugen slid closer. "Think I'll beat you again?"

"You didn't beat me," said Jin calmly. He brushed a bit of hair behind his ear and leaned so close to the page, his glasses threatened to fall off the edge of his nose.

I will not waste any more ink or paper on him. He's not the company I would choose to keep, but fate sometimes works in strange ways.

For example, I may meet a woman one day and fall in love, find myself willing to give up my life for her the next day, and then be back on the road with Fuu and Mugen less than a week later. A lot can happen in a short amount of time. The more that happens in a short space of time, the more powerful the moment is. This is why speed is the most critical skill a samurai can learn. This is why Mugen will not ever beat me. His skill is much like a crude, improvisational dance. But once I learn the pattern of his moves—and there must be a pattern—then he will fall. As yet, I can see no pattern. But then, I confess I purposely am very ignorant of his style, champuru-kendo. In any case I am sure it is a trend which will eventually fade out. Mine will live on, just as it has for centuries…

"Ji-i-in," called Mugen. He was practically singing, pulling out the "ee" noise in Jin's name to create an annoying, pining sound. He swung his sword a few times at the air, like he was fighting Jin's ghost, pulling a few impressive moves for Fuu's sake.

Jin repositioned himself against the tree, so that the fire was to his right and Mugen was to his back.

This happened to me once, falling in love. Looking back, it was very foolish. I knew very little about her. I, like any other man, have my weaknesses. Love is one; unbridled anger another. In general, emotion. Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves, like Mugen, come to very sticky ends. Some say that a fight is a good time to unleash all emotion upon the enemy, but the very opposite is true; a fight is a time when one must carefully guard his emotions more than ever, or else lose control of himself, his sword, and his environment.

He crossed out Mugen's name.

"Are you actually writing anything?" asked Mugen. He'd inched up behind Jin and was leaning over as far as he dared to see his writing. "Or just crossing stuff out?"

"I'm crossing out unimportant, dull words. Like your name."

Mugen squinted. "What're you saying about me?" he asked suspiciously.

"I wrote than you are a fool who wears his heart on his sleeve."

Fuu snorted into the sleeve of her kimono. Mugen's head whipped around and he glared at her. The color rose in her face and she shook.

"Stop laughing!"

Fuu turned away and had a coughing fit that sounded a lot like giggling.

"Gambling."

"What?"

"Gambling," repeated Mugen. He'd climbed back into a tree and sat there, one leg drawn up, the other dangling down and knocking against the flat of his sword's blade. "That's how we'll get money."

"No, Mugen, we've already thrown a lot away, and I'm not going to blow it on something risky—"

"Listen, why not pitch me or Jin in a fight with someone and then bet on us to win? You know we'll win."

"No, Mugen!"

Jin traced his upper lip with his finger and tuned out the arguing.

If I find him in the next down, I'll have to leave her. I will feel bad leaving Fuu with Mugen, but it can't be helped. Her quest for this Sunflower Samurai doesn't seem to have a point. At least my quest does. In any case, she's not my charge. She isn't paying me, and the only thing keeping me bound to her is my own sense of honor. If Mugen betrays her, it's entirely her own fault for associating with scum like him.

Mugen burst out laughing at something Fuu said. Jin's head jerked up. His action was so sudden that Mugen stopped laughing immediately.

"Man, Jin, you really get into that, huh?"

"No," said Jin defensively.

"What're you writing?" asked Fuu, scooting over and craning her neck.

"Nothing!"

"Know what your problem is, Jin?" asked Mugen, dropping from the limb and dangling by his knees. "You care too much. You never say anything interesting, you never do anything, you never have fun. That's why we're going to have the time of our life tomorrow night."

"Oh no you're not!" snapped Fuu, eyes blazing. Jin allowed them to fight.

Sometimes, I find it's

easier to turn away,

detaching myself

from these people, who say so

little in so many words.

He heard his name and looked up.

"…but that's not everything," finished Mugen, giving Jin a very wise, appraising look.

"I didn't say it was," replied Jin, having no idea what he meant. He must have looked surprised, because both Fuu and Mugen burst out laughing. He lowered his head and put his journal away.