The Fallen - Memoirs of a Young Samurai

“Michi? What are you doing?”
The boy’s eyes took in nothing except the knife and the metre-long stick in his hand; his ears, nothing but the sound of the edge of his knife whittling away at the wood. He wanted this one to be perfect.
“Michi?”
He was semi-aware of the footsteps of his mother softly approaching and sliding open the paper screen door to the room.
Tomoé Yashira, retainer to the daimyo of Musashi and soké of the local Eishin-ryuu kenjutsu dojo, stepped inside to see what her son was doing. Either training or working on carving his latest bokken – in today’s case, it happened to be the latter, and he was concentrating especially hard on it.
So far it looked like a standard weapon, but closer inspection from Yashira showed that Michieru had been adding his own personal touch: the “blade”, rather than being round or oval, was shaped exactly like a katana, and even appeared to have a cutting edge in the finished portion.
He set aside the small knife he’d been using to fine-tune the edge and picked up a larger one, meanwhile dipping the bokken in the container of water to keep the wood fresh and pliable.
“Very nice work so far, son. It almost looks like a shinken,” she noted, using the kenjutsu term for a live blade as opposed to a bokken or the bamboo shinai. “Is this one meant to be used as such?”
Although there had been a slight joking tone in her last question, Michieru took it seriously.
“Not until I become one with it,” he replied in his soft, almost effeminate voice.
She watched as he started carving away neat strips of the wood to make the structure and sharpness the same over the whole of the blade. Once or twice he stood up and pointed the bokken straight out and sighted along its edge to be sure it was aligned perfectly.
“Anyway, I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but we need some more taméshigiri. We used up the last of them in today’s lesson.” Michieru opened his mouth to protest, but Yashira quickly interrupted. “I’ve already ordered them; I want you to go collect them. A little outside time would do you a world of good, neh?”
Yashira had to badger her son constantly to get out of the house, and today was no exception, especially as intent as he was upon finishing his project. Even so, he lightly coated his bokken with water, set it aside, wiped off his knives and went to make himself presentable.
Michi peered at the face reflected from the spring water: unusually pale, round, framed with just-past-shoulder-length black hair. He pulled this back into a high ponytail, tied it and doubled it back over itself to make the classic samurai topknot.
“Don’t forget your makeup, son!”
I wish she wouldn’t call it ‘makeup’. I’m not a geisha or courtesan. Enough people think I’m female as it is without it being said that I wear makeup. thought Michieru wearily to himself as he went through the routine of scrubbing his body with oil that darkened his skin tone enough to avoid suspicion whenever he went amongst other people.
Shortly he got out and put on simple black hakama pants and a light blue kimono adorned with five white bamboo-spray designs.

A few minutes later, he was in the main hall in which students of Yashira were still training. Bowing to the group, he walked past the rack of spare bokken and shinai. Selecting his favourite red oak bokken, he slid it into his sash and walked out.
A practical concerto of nature sprang to life: the wind sang its flutelike melody through the just-blooming cherry trees in the courtyard, while the miniature waterfall in the Zen rock garden complemented it with the parts of percussion instruments. Michieru’s own footsteps kept time as the pebbles of the pathway crunched softly beneath his sandals.
This soft music faded when Michieru left the dojo grounds and stepped into the street, to be replaced by the clamour of many voices carrying on conversations with one another and the occasional cries of merchants advertising their products.
“Taméshigiri…where would those be? I wish I had an idea where to go,” the boy muttered to himself, looking up and down the hard-packed dirt street. People were everywhere, it seemed, swarming about like so many ants. Then again, it was likely due to staying in the house alone so much that even a small amount of people was too much for comfort.
But duty superseded all, neh? Besides, the sooner this was done, the sooner he could resume his work.
As he looked from right to left and back again, he absently crossed his arms and began tapping the first two fingers of his right hand against the hilt of his sword. Had he forgotten already where things were to be found? Oh, it was going to be horribly embarrassing to have to go back inside and ask…
Yashira’s voice sounded from the doorway: “Michi!”
He turned about to see his mother pointing up the street to his right with a slight grimace on her face. “Try that way, perhaps?”
Well, there it was. He set off in the indicated direction, brushing past the throng of people and always careful to look downward and keep his eyes reasonably hidden. If someone saw his eyes…there was no knowing what the consequences would be.
Then again, the consequences of not watching where he was going had their problems too – as he found a few seconds later after bumping rather solidly into someone. After bowing and muttering a quick apology, he made a beeline straight for the booth of the merchant whose products looked most similar to weapons-related items.
“Good day to you, girl,” greeted the heavyset man stood behind the counter. He eyed Michi up and down. “To what do I owe the honour of your business?”
He let the ‘girl’ remark pass over. “Pardon my rudeness, but I’m here on behalf of Tomoé Yashira of the Eishin-ryuu dojo…she ordered some taméshigiri and sent me out to collect them,” he swallowed nervously. “Would you happen to know who has them and where he would be found?”
The merchant held up a hand for silence and walked away from the counter, where a particularly large bundle leant against the wall of the geisha house. Hoisting this onto his shoulder, he thrust it into Michieru’s arms.
Although taméshigiri were quite light, the boy still staggered slightly under the weight of the ten straw test cutting dummies.
Michieru’s ears burned at hearing the next thing the shopkeeper said to his departing back: “…why doesn’t Yashira-san make her good-for-nothing son come out hiding every once in a while?”

The young samurai’s self-imposed rule of looking down was broken when he saw a group of four other samurai down the street, crowded about something as compared to the hustle and bustle of the rest of the populace. Curiosity got the better of him, and he moved toward the group.
Suddenly raucous laughter came from one of them, the tallest, who was swaying quite dangerously on his feet. Looks like he had a bit too much of the local saké…and the other three are a little unsteady as well. I hate to think what their daimyo would say.
“…they don’t make them like this in Edo! Hey, girl, let’s join my Yang to your Yin, if you catch my meaning!” More laughter, and the girl in their midst cringed away, her eyes wide with fright. “Do as we say, eta!”
“Don’t you think that’s a little rude, making a scene like this?” quietly asked Michieru, staring at the group. “It’s also obvious that she dislikes your advances, indeed it is.” These words brought a surge of anger from the men.
“She’s a woman and therefore obligated to be subservient to us! We’re samurai, she’s not!” the leader of the group took an aggressive step forward and put a hand on his katana hilt, while one of the other three gave a lewd glance downward and roughly squeezed the girl’s breast. She let out a small scream, but rapidly stifled it. Unless Michi was mistaken, by her expression, she was pleading for help.
“Likewise, I am samurai as well. Tomoé Michieru of the Takashima line, and I am ordering you to let her go about her business!” he snapped. “You disturb the harmony of this town of Anjiro, and I will not tolerate it!”
The lead samurai slowly turned away from the girl, glaring at Michieru. He walked toward him, slowly drawing his katana.
“’You won’t tolerate it’, eh? And what do you intend to do about it?” On the emphasis, he clumsily slashed, but it went almost two feet in front of the boy.
Michi laughed aloud. “I’m sorry, was I supposed to counter that? I was under the impression you were joking; your cut wobbled so much the sword would likely have bounced off my neck. Care to try again, and this time aim for me?”
Another cut came, much to the same result. The boy half-closed his eyes and leaned back out of the way of three more similar attacks.
The other three, who until this point had been watching, decided to join the fight. They shoved the girl to the ground and waded forward, drawing their swords.
Michi, as easily as he had avoided the first warrior’s attacks, likely couldn’t do the same against four simultaneously, no matter how drunk they were.
His bokken practically flashed into his hands as he settled into Chuudan-gamae, the default centre stance, and waited. The samurai formed a relatively close circle about him, their swords at Jodan-gamae, the high stance.
He swept his gaze at each of his opponents in turn, watching for telltale signs in movement that would prelude an opening strike. Eishin-ryuu, or at least his particular style, was focused on defence, not to mention if he made the first attack he would legally be at fault and therefore obligated to commit seppuku, no matter who in the conflict had drawn his blade first…
Luckily, the man to his left took the leading strike with a diagonal cut; as if on cue, the others likewise followed.
Michi gave himself over to his instincts; parrying, countering each strike in turn, dodging, stepping in and out of range, using momentum to his advantage.
A vertical cut came at the boy from the side; he moved backward out of its path and dashed the offending sword into the dirt, came back up with a hard shomen strike into the next man’s chin and snapped back to a ready stance. The victim fell unconscious, clutching a broken jaw. At this point, two were directly in front, side-by-side, while the last was slightly left of his back. Michi, cycling through all the stances in one fluid motion, slapped away the rear sword, came around and down with a solid men strike, then back across to send two of his opponents sprawled into the dirt. Now it was just the last samurai.
This one abandoned his katana, instead hurling himself at the boy and pressing in close. He wrapped one arm about Michi’s neck and with the other drew his wakizashi, the shorter sword that was ordinarily used in seppuku. It was pointed directly at Michi’s heart, but before it could find its target, Michi quickly but carefully seized it by the mune and placed his other hand on the free portion of the tsuka. In the same motion, he turned it so that it was aimed back at its owner. Luckily, the man twisted enough to avoid being impaled.
Nevertheless, the edge sliced across the samurai’s left forearm, drawing a thin line of blood. Michi pulled back along the same stroke, sawing further into the wound and causing the man to scream in pain yet again as his other arm was cut. In an instant, the edge of the sword was at his throat as Michi gripped by the cloth of his kimono.
“You’re not worth the honour of my first kill,” Michi growled. “I prefer my opponents to be true samurai, not eta wearing the topknot and dai-sho!” With a flourish, he flipped the weapon in his hand and smashed it hilt-first into his victim’s trachea. With a violent retch, the samurai crumpled to the ground, writhing and clutching his throat.
With a snort, he slowly turned on the other three.
“I think it’s clear who the gods blessed with skill. Count yourself fortunate that I feel merciful; otherwise rest assured your heads would roll in the dirt where you lay.”
“Y-you insolent little…!”
What word was to come after ‘little’, never came. The boy had silenced the utterance with a blow to the man’s crown, driving him into the dust at Michi’s feet.
After a cursory glance at his fallen assailants, he disdainfully dropped the wakizashi to the ground, sheathed his weapon and started for the girl, who had clapped her hands to her mouth in fright. Any of the people who happened to be near suddenly seemed to remember an urgent appointment elsewhere and gave him a respectable amount of space. Casually he flicked stray bangs from his eyes as he approached, then moved his hands back to the topknot and pulled it tight again.
“Are you all right?” Michieru quietly asked, not being presently in the mood for the usual ‘hello, I’m honoured to meet you’ formalities.
Her hands, which, Michi noted with interest, were far too dainty to be those of a farmer’s girl, dropped slowly as she tilted her head, letting a black fringe of hair droop on either side of her eyes. After a few moments of hesitantly looking at her rescuer, a pearly voice came forth from her lips.
“Y-yes...I think so…” she peered at him, then without warning flung herself to the ground in a deep bow. Michi shook his head and knelt to pull her up.
“Stand up, I’m not the Emperor.” Even so, she kept her face hidden as she stared at the ground. Custom dictated that a female was never to look a man directly in the face until both have been introduced properly to one another.
“Seriously, there’s no need to stand on formalities with me. I am Tomoe Michieru of the Takashima. What is your name?” the boy wanted to put a hand beneath her chin and tilt her face to look at him fully, but such an action would be considered quite forward.
“I am Uketai Yaori – it’s an honour to be speaking with such a skilled warrior.” She replied more confidently; he had broken the ice, so to speak, and helped Yaori to get over her fear of samurai. In fact, she raised her head to make eye contact. Well – eye-to…eyelid…contact, anyway. Michi remembered himself and quickly closed his eyes to avoid causing fear, leaving them open enough to see.