Drowned Wolf: A story by Dattatreya
Begin
I wander, lost in this forest of buildings that Kyoto has become. Kyoto, this city thriving with life, this former capital of Japan, this home of the worst bloodshed of the Meiji Revolution, has flourished in these last few years. However, I can also see that some aspects of life are still the same.
It still rains, same as it did back in the revolution, yet the children who play in the streets do not know the manmade rain of the Revol…Restoration. The children neither stumble through the rivers of blood, nor skirt around the murky puddles of a fresh kill, the sign that the wolves of Mibu hunted the night before. These are children of the Meiji era, only knowing the pristine rain that falls from the overcast skies. Now, it only rains blood in the backwater alleys, in the places I patrol.
The packed earth quickly turns to a muddy river in the onslaught of rain. All the young women, out for a stroll or shopping from the bazaar, run with their silk kimonos pulled high, where the mud cannot ruin the delicate material. I smile sadly, for while I have sons, no daughter was given to me. I have no daughter to care for or protect, only a wife who cannot carry anymore children.
I chance a fleeting glance at a growing puddle just outside the izakaya. A venture not worth taking, for, immediately, my reflection showed not only the me of this day but also the image, the specter, I was during the revolution.
The haunting image from the past, bathed in blood that I shed, gazed back at me. Hajime Saito, that's what I was called then, a wolf of Mibu, the Captain of the Third unit of the Shisengumi. I was known for my ruthlessness, my left-handed sword thrust and for being one of the few to go up against the worst assassins the revolution could throw at us and survive. I stare into those yellow eyes, narrowed in suspicion yet burning with ambition and a strong sense of justice. The image was that of a man who lived by "Aku. Zoku. San". I take in the emaciated face, slim from a few too many meals skipped in favor of tactical ruminations. Still, the face is steady, a culmination of the many battles fought, many of them impromptu in the streets of Kyoto. A long and lanky frame, much like the wolf the Shinsengumi modeled themselves after.
I also saw another face, barely glimmering on the surface of the murky waters. Strikingly similar to the one reflected in blood, only much more complacent. He was Fujita Goro, a member of the police; coincidentally, the only one in the entire country allowed swords in this new Meiji Era. The ethereal light was dimmer in his eyes but still not extinguished. The agony, the soul wrenching, raw agony painted on the other face has diminished on this newer version. Perhaps hidden, just out of sight by the good health his body radiated. Gone was the gaunt man of the Bakumatsu.
Now, all I see is someone who has moved on from the deaths, no, slaughter of my comrades and friends. I have moved on but never forgotten. After all, they still bother my dreams, taunting and crying for retribution.
I tear my gaze away from the dirtied water, the soiled life.
Maybe a drink or two will drown these thoughts…Yes, a drink sounds perfect.
A/N: And that's all she wrote.
But here is a note. You may or may not already know this but….
Concerning his death: Saito passed away on 27/9/1915, 4th year of Taisho, at the ripe old age of 72 of a stomach ulcer caused by excessive drinking.