Glossary:
Bokutō: How people call wooden swords in Japan.
Silk tofu: Really soft kind of tofu.
-san: Honorific to refer politely to anyone who is not a close friend nor someone above your station.
-sensei: Honorific to refer to a master or expert in a field. Also used for teachers.
THE SWORDSMAN (I)
In the bright red darkness behind his eyelids, Kenshin focused on the pulsing warmth on his left cheek. On the cool, soft brush on his right ear. He inhaled, tasting the air down his throat: thick, humid, piney; he could almost taste the damp earth all around. When he exhaled, his own breath tickled his fingertips. Relaxing his grip, he let the crisp, bubbling sound of water, still too cold for comfort, drown everything else.
He opened his eyes. And charged: "HaaaAAAaah!"
And fell. Hard.
Jaw clenched and fists tight around his bokutō, Kenshin stood up. His clothes stuck to his arms, his knees, his shins, all drenched in the stream… "Damn." It hadn't been a good day. Couple of days. Three full moons' worth of them. He glowered at the little white and green buds that now swayed gently from their branches at the side of the brook: Against his will, they started to bloom, no longer bitten away by the cold. Slowly but surely, frost had turned into morning dew, and then into the amber mist that now trickled around his ankles downstream. The next full moon would soon have come and gone, but there still was no word from his Master.
"Why?"
There were some nights when fear won him over; nights when he really thought his master wouldn't come back. It wasn't because he thought anything would happen to Hiko Seijūrō the Thirteenth, but the exact opposite: After hearing Shakkū-san's stories of old—although he'd never say that to his face, lest the man cracked his skull open with an iron rod,—the fact was that sometimes, just some times, he thought his master would not want to come back for a boy that could never live up to him. Those nights he would grab his coat, his bokutō, and he'd sneak away to the forest, to this very brook, to train as hard as he could stand to. That was the only way to make the stupid fear go away.
Then, there were days when it was anger that won: Days of getting up at first light to fetch wood and make coal for the smith. Then, as soon as Shakkū-san came back from the shrine, he'd take him to work the bellows or whatever he fancied that day. The bastard would laugh at how Kenshin couldn't even lift the hammer properly; how he couldn't take the heat of the forge for more than a couple of hours at a time; how he dropped on the snow at the entrance of the workshop and—oh, was he feeling ok?
Those days, he'd wait until dark, and train until the first farmers sauntered their way towards the rice paddies.
But then came the baby, and things just… Changed. The first few days he wasn't allowed to check on Iori-san, let alone get near the newborn—something about purity stuff he didn't understand. He'd go down every day to the midwife's house, quietly waiting on a dry stump just in case it was the day he could finally see them. Unfortunately, he was never alone at it: The old midwife's place was always bustling with kids. They would gather to play pretend—fool around really; how come even the ones his age were that dumb, playing around with sticks and calling themselves warriors? Every now and then, one of the younger ones would come to him wide-eyed, and he would glare at them until they finally turned around and left. When he understood it would be a while before the Midwife let him see Iori-san, he had tried to train there. However, people stared. Both kids and grown-ups, they would follow every move he made, even every one he didn't. They would mutter words and point at him, and he just couldn't concentrate. And so the days passed, one after the other, without him ever knowing why the hell they wouldn't let him in. He just waited. And waited. Until one day, a thick, wrinkled hand called him inside. From that moment on, there was no turning his back on the baby: He was so impossibly tiny! His hands could barely close around one of the boy's fingers, and when he cried, his face turned as red as Kenshin's hair. His master would never shut up about how weak and small the redhead was, but babies were much, much worse.
Once mother and son were allowed home again, Kenshin had no need to deal with any more distractions. Or so he thought. Now, he was no girl to take care of the baby all day, but that didn't mean he could say no to Iori-san. The first days she was exhausted, so why wouldn't he be a good boy and take the baby around the house for a while until she woke up? Then, could he help around the kitchen while she fed the baby? Such a good boy… Before he realized, spring was ready to bloom and he was at the beck and call of the Arai family. But more than anything else, what drove him crazy wasn't all the chores; it was that he couldn't get himself to hate it. At all.
Ok, once more. But this time, do it right.
Eyes fixed ahead, he forced himself to take a deep breath. A big, drawn-out one from all the way down his navel. He brought the hilt of his bokutō around and over his head, the blade itself sliding down the side of his right arm. He turned left slightly, as if using the sword like a shield, and forced his grip to loosen. That's it: Now—don't swing back—go! He hit an imaginary sword as he moved out of its way, his own blade's recoil drawing a circle around his head to come back and hit the imaginary swordsman's flank, now open. He raised the bokutō again, mirroring his movements on the other side of his body. Hands centered. Go! Slash. First a small circle, then a large one, now! Slash. Don't just block dammit! Dodge! Again!
By the time he got it right, his feet had gone numb from the cold; but when he made it, it felt so good he almost forgot how angry he was at himself. Heaving through an ear-to-ear smile, he picked up his neatly folded coat, slid his arms inside—his master was right: it was kind of falling apart—and slid the bokutō into his belt to head back to the Arai home with a new spring in his steps. Finally, progress. He had barely managed to go over the basics for the last month with all the baby-caring stuff, worrying he had forgotten some of it since he was left on his own. But now he would soon be back on track. He would show his master that he was worthy of being his pupil, of wielding the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu sword. But first things first, he thought over the loud rumble of his stomach: Breakfast. He made a bee line to the nutty smell of porridge simmering in the kitchen. He could almost savor it already when Shakkū-san's scratchy voice called from the workshop: "Hey! Kid! C'mere a sec."
He knew better than to give the smith any reason to complain or make fun of him. Taking a deep breath, Kenshin bit his tongue, turned around, and marched towards the workshop. The man was already leaning against the entrance, waiting with a devious smirk—as if he were a devil, mocking the pleated strips of white paper that hanged behind him. He usually send others on any errands that he didn't enjoy doing himself: Fetching deadwood to wake up the forge? Sure thing, he liked taking morning walks! Buying coal? You know, in his times you made your own. Cleaning up, fixing things, going for miso, soy sauce and rice? Oh would you know his back was killing him? But when he'd have to take a blade to the Polisher that same day, no problem! They were pals, don't wait for him before midnight. The redhead braced himself for the worst.
"I've got an errand for ya," I knew it, "catch."
Snagging the parcel on pure instinct, the weight caught Kenshin by surprise, throwing him out of balance. Stopping short of cracking his skull open against the doorframe, he took a good look at what he had caught: A long, hard, heavy thing, thinly bundled in straw and cloth. Could it…? Heart fluttering, he untied one of the ends, revealing the rough metal he'd followed anxiously since it was nothing but a piece of ore, now distinctly shaped as a sharpened, curved edge. His eyes darted back to the smith, beaming: "Thank you!"
"Hoo! Don't get ahead of yourself," the man cautioned, his smirk now turned into a fully-fledged grin, "Seijūrō still needs to pay every single copper for that. Besides…" the smile disappeared, "no matter what your intentions are, a sword is a tool for killing."
All blood drained from Kenshin's face.
"When it's finished, that edge will cut through flesh as if it were silk tofu. Whenever you unsheathe, you're bound to draw blood and then some. You follow me, kid?"
Swallowing hard, Kenshin nodded.
"Good."
The boy lowered his gaze back to the unfinished sword: Sobered up by those words, the metal now looked much darker, rougher, almost to the point that every flake of it could dig into his skin even from its cradle of straw. "It's heavy," he muttered, more to himself than to be heard by the smith, but the man still replied: "Yeah, had to: If I had made it any lighter, as soon as you try any of that Hiten-stuff you do, it would be the end of it."
"But enough with the lecture! Seijūrō will drill that into that thick skull of yours," the man poked Kenshin's forehead, snapping him out of it. "Just take that to the polisher, will ya?"
Carefully wrapping the sword once more, Kenshin secured it to his back. He took the down payment, fastened it to his belt and bowed respectfully before taking his leave. As he walked past the kitchen, Iori-san's voice made him pause: "Wait, Ken-chan!" The woman emerged carrying parcels and a wooden bucket, the baby's beading eyes peeking from behind her back. "Shall we go grocery shopping?"
There was no saying 'no' to Iori-san.
He walked one step behind her. It wasn't because he couldn't keep up with the woman's easy steps, but because from there he could make some faces at the baby on her back—to its cooing delight. He cheered Kenshin on with a gurgling giggle. An infectious giggle. One that had never seen a cold night. One that made him smile back in spite of the weight on his own back. He didn't remember enjoying himself that much when traveling, but then again, he only did so with his master. Not the kind of person to laugh at a face… unless he was tormenting someone, that is.
By the time they arrived at the village, the sun stood directly above in the sky, casting stark, maze-like shadows on the gravel path at his feet. Vendors announced their wares at the top of their lungs, competing with the loud chatter of old ladies that tried to gossip over their loud calls; carts and palanquins joined the ruckus, the strained creak of wood so crisp under the weight of fish as large as him; trays of vegetables laid right and left along the street, like rainbows at his fingertips; and bushels of rice, stacked to the very roofs, adorned the insides of the shops. The air was warm, thick, pungent and fragrant, all at the same time. It bustled with life. Although it wasn't his first time at the market, it never failed to amaze him. And yet, just out of the corner of his eye, he could feel the hunger following everyone around, bleeding from the depths of the alleys. He'd better stay close to Iori-san.
He took as much of the load as possible, but fell short once the wooden bucket filled with tofu threw him off his balance. With a smile, the woman lifted the weight from his hands: "You don't want to fall over that, do you?" she gestured at the sword on his back. Embarrassed, Kenshin was about to protest when the world came to a halt: First came the impact, then the cries to stop the thief. His eyes widened as he saw the woman collapse, her knees buckling when the cowering shape of a boy with a checkered kimono slammed them on his way to the ground. The baby! In the chaos of flailing arms and scattering groceries, Kenshin lunged forward.
He dove chin-first into the ground holding the baby above his head. The sting of gravel digging into his skin made him close his eyes, just in time to shield them from the flurry of dirt the thief kicked around as he fled. "Seikū!" A pair of desperate, loving hands lifted the weight from Kenshin's hands, "Seikū, are you ok?"
The redhead sat up, watching closely even as he spat the dirt stuck to his teeth: heart lodged in his throat, he waited for Iori-san while she checked the baby's face, his arms, lifted his legs in search of the smallest of cuts. Please be ok, please be ok, please be ok…
"What's happening here?!" A man cut through the small crowd that had gathered around them, not one but two swords in his belt, and a pair of severe eyes that made people take more than one step back. "Kamiya!" He called someone behind him, "Good g—what have I taught you?— Help the woman!"
Two other men with their own pair of swords made their way behind the one who called for a Kamiya-guy: One was younger, with big, round eyes and a really, really odd hairstyle with just the crown of his head shaved clean; the other, taller but not as old as the first man, showed the beginnings of a beard and a tinge of annoyance in his gaze.
"Alright! Shall we get up, miss?" the youngest rushed towards them,—Kamiya, he guessed,—pushing aside the now empty bucket of tofu to kneel beside Iori-san. "Oh, hello baby!" He greeted at the sight of baby Seikū. Instinctively, Kenshin moved in between them, just as the woman hugged her baby even closer. "Don't worry, I'm not here to hurt you," Kamiya smiled softly, thick brows furrowed tightly upwards like one of those funny red-faced drawings they handed around in the village, "You can call me Koshijiro by the way."
The young man started to lead Iori-san away, as people gathered around, growing more and more agitated. A few raised their voices loud enough for Kenshin to follow over the tangle of angry voices: That was far from the first time the thief had escaped. In fact, it was a whole gang of thieves that were behind this and other crimes; young delinquents that had no regard for the merchants' honest work. They all came from a rat's nest on the outskirts of the village, to the north or perhaps north-west, like all them lowlives were from. Honest men had tried to find their hideout, but the brats scurried away like their father did when they started to weed out the traitors. A treacherous bunch, all of them. So, honorable warriors like them swordsmen there, would surely consider bringing justice to the innocent, lowly merchants, right…?
"We've got no time for that!" Protested the annoyed, bearded man. "We're doing our best to protect your safety, and you want us to lose our time with petty theft?!"
"On the contrary, Maekawa," interrupted the oldest swordsman, and the glint in his eyes made Kenshin squirm, "If we allow our own people to take what's not theirs, what does it say to the outside-people, the world beyond our country?"
It was a second, but when the man's gaze paused on Kenshin, the disdain in his eyes sent a chill down his spine.
"Kamiya!" The man's command startled Kenshin and Koshijiro both, "Make sure the woman and her child get home safely; Maekawa and I will go ahead and start searching."
"Yes, Serizawa-sensei!"
Hello there! Sorry for the long wait and hope this is worth the while!
I planned and wrote and re-wrote this chapter a couple of times, hit a wall a bit more, and wrestled with four-legged fluffy editors as they walked on my keyboard. I finally decided to split this chapter in 2: better get something done than none at all haha.
Please feel free to give your feedback! I'm still learning and everything counts. Thank you for your time~
[Dec 14] Made some small adjustments and will be adding glossaries and historical notes to the chapters. I try to limit foreign words, but sometimes there's just no good alternative.
Historical notes
• Until 1947, girls were employed by other families to babysit their children; that's what Kenshin is referring to with "he was no girl".
• If I understood correctly, people in Kansai used to cook fresh rice for lunch and you only cooked rice once in the day, so... breakfast was leftovers (if you were lucky). In addition, white rice was a rich stuff thing, so it was actually a mix white or brown rice with toasted barley in this case. After 3 years of Hiko cuisine though, anything was a delicacy for poor Kenshin.
• Finishing a sword was more likely than not done by someone else, not the very same that forged it. There were professional polishers who, with jobs like these, wanted to be payed in advance. Except Shakkū with Seijūrō: they be buddies.
• The "weed out the traitors" part makes reference to the Ansei purge. Think cold war-ish but within Japan: People supporting the emperor were tortured and executed, and that meant their families probably shared the same fate.
• Unlike the pre-Tokugawa era, not everyone could carry a weapon; only samurai did. Hence Kenshin fixing on the two swords each man carry (a normal one and a shorter one for indoor combat).
• Couldn't find how Wakashū or young samurai apprentices are supposed to refer to their teachers, so I settled for the Sensei honorific for Koshijiro.