The Return

The rain began to pick up as Kanaye made his way home on foot. Gnarled trees rose up from the green hills beside hime, and he paused and glanced skywards as the temporal fog broke over his face. He took off his helmet, letting the ran fall freely on his head. It felt good. It felt right.

The sun would soon set behind an impenetrable wall of clouds, and it seemed as if the very fabric of the world was dissolving in a haze of mist and shadow. Kanaye brushed strands of wet hair from his face, tucking them neatly behind his ears. His grandfather’s sword, seeming unusually heavy, hung in a sheath at his side. He was alone; his horse had been ridden to near death and was currently recovering in stables near the outskirts of Osaka. Kanaye had been at war for months, and had ridden his steed with the same fervor of battle on his frenzied way home.

She was waiting.

He had been out campaigning for Tokugawa, leading samurai into battle against the forces of Tokugawa’s rival lords. He had killed many men, at first remorsefully, but it soon turned into a sick contest as he tallied their deaths on the sheath of his sword. After his service of the last for months, he had ultimately lost track, but estimated his kills to be a bit short of 150. It was his duty to kill if Tokugawa ordained it; such was his karma. If he did not serve his lord he was dishonored; his life was without purpose and thus worthless. His lord decreed that he kill. He would do so with honor.

Kanaye was 21, a young man. His blood was always racing, his mind always quick, his sword always ready. Tokugawa had told him that he should slow down, that he should be master of his emotions rather than slave to them, that his brashness may well be his demise. Tokugawa was wise, but he was old and fat. Kanaye was quick to anger and quick to please. His wife was the same way.

He remembered the spring that he first met Machiko; she was a passing courtesan in the streets of Osaka. He was a samurai of humble origins: his grandfather had been a weaponsmith, and his grandfather’s forebears were peasants. Such a common lineage was rare among samurai of his stature, and usually a mark of dishonor. Machiko was different, descended from a family of noble blood. He knew this the moment he met her; it showed in her carriage, her grace.

Her eyes had shined at him behind her yellow fan, laughing at him. He paused, dumbstruck, until she moved the fan away, revealing her crimson lips pursed in a grin. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he figure stunning, her face alluring. Every man who looked upon her desired her, and Kanaye was no exception. He knew the day he first laid eyes on her that he had to make her his own.

Kanaye made many enemies while wooing Machiko, envious men and women who sought to come between them. Every man sought to challenge him, to embarrass him in front of her, but Kanaye maintained his honor. Some of her friends slandered him behind his back, saying he was too low-born for the likes of Machiko. Kanaye merely swallowed his pride, and, through time and patience, won her over. He fought hard to get her and was eventually rewarded, though he was at her mercy ever since. Kanaye would do anything for her. He would have killed for her just as quickly as he killed for Tokugawa.

Machiko had cried when he left for battle, but Kanaye consoled her, vowing to return to her arms before winter. Kanaye had kept his vow. He would be home soon.

The rain subsided to a soothing drizzle, and Kanaye stopped to admire a family of deer nibbling at the grass near the side of the road. He approached slowly, with the stealth of a hunter, and ducked down to the road to watch them as he inched forward. They were tiny deer, a mother and two fauns, with soft white spots on their coats. Kanaye shifted forward and his armor rustled. The deer, startled, raised their heads, spied Kanaye, and began bounding off down the hill. Kanaye grinned to himself, stood, and resumed his walk home. Soon Machiko would be greeting him, pouring him sake, making love to him. It would be a glorious homecoming.

Night had fallen and the rain had picked up to a torrential downpour when Kanaye reached his home, nestled in the forested hills. Lamps were lit in his garden outside, protected from the heavy rainfall in cases of bronze and thick, waxy paper. The pool outside his home rippled in the shower as huge drops pooled on leaves of plum and bamboo. A shrine to the Buddha sat amidst the plants, its face mostly shrouded in darkness. Kanaye looked at it in passing.

How is your karma, young samurai? Where are the spoils of war? The bronze hands of the Buddha were faintly illuminated in the warm lamplight.

The spoils of war lie inside this house, wise one. Kanaye bowed before the statue, a slight smile playing on the sides of his mouth.

He is a foolish man, one who is chained by desire. The statue loomed amidst the rain and flickering lamplight as Kanaye gazed into the shadows.

He is a greater fool still, one who doesn’t enjoy life. Kanaye’s face rose in the darkness, chisled and proud.

Do not forget, young one, that all life is suffering. The statue remained immobile as light and shadow danced around its head.

Kanaye turned away, treading up the few stairs to his balcony as the crashing rain raged behind him. He slid open the door to his house and walked in.

Machiko was not waiting for him at the door. The rain poured outside; perhaps she had not heard him approach. Kanaye set his helmet near the door and proceeded to their quarters.

“Machiko-chan?” He thought he heard her voice, softly murmuring from inside.

He slid open the door to their room.

Machiko’s kimono was torn open, revealing her snow-like skin. She lay spread under the heaving figure of a tanned and hairy man who grunted in a beast-like fashion as she moaned. Her eyes flew open and she saw Kanaye silhouetted in the doorway, the light from the hallway streaming into the darkened room.

“Kanaye!” she gasped.

No. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Kanaye?” the man turned in surprise, his mouth partially open. His hair was tied in a small topknot, a thin, well-groomed beard framing his face. He was Yoshi Masakazu, a general of Tokugawa’s, and thus Kanaye’s superior officer. Masakazu had not been present for the last two months of the campaign against the Hojo. Kanaye had thought he was in Tokyo.

“Kanaye, I- I- I didn’t know you’d be back so soon!” Machiko awkwardly pushed Masakazu off of her and fumbled to tie her kimono back in place.

Not like this. I love her! I thought she loved me! How could she betray me like this?

Kanaye’s jaw clenched tightly as he trembled with rage, his mind screaming messages of pain, blood boiling under the surface of his face. He tried to breathe but he couldn’t find any air. He tried to speak but the words weren’t there. His eyes began to swell, as if they had been saturated with the rain that fell outside. His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing.

“Kanaye,” Masakazu had risen, reaching for his clothing and belt. “I’m sorry, neh? You know how long this war has been…”

“I… know… how… long… this war has been.” Kanaye’s voice was a grating whisper. This bastard. Of all the samurai I know, it had to be this bastard, defiling my wife, climbing on top of her like the hairy ape he is.

“Good,” Masakazu smiled snugly. “And I don’t know how you peasants relieve the strain of battle, but most of the time we samurai settle for good companionship.”

Kanaye’s sword flew out of its sheath, cutting a line from Masakazy’s shoulder down to his hip. Masakazu touched his stomach with his now bloody left had as his entrails began to fall out, his right had clenched on a knife he had apparently hidden beneath his clothes, which fell from his arms to the floor. A second swing of Kanaye’s blade cut Masakazu’s mouth open from ear to ear. The general fell to the ground.

“Kanaye, no!” Machiko panted, sweat coursing down her body. Even as she lay disheveled, paralyzed with fear, she was still beautiful.

But she was just another whore after all. I should’ve known. Everything about her was just an act, a fleeting illusion. She will dishonor me no more.

Kanaye swung his sword and her head fell from her heaving shoulders and rolled onto the floor. Blood sprayed on Kanaye’s face and armor, and a deep, red pool began to quietly grow on the floor.

Kanaye had never expected such dishonor.

Thunder crashed as Kanaye burst through the doors into the cold rain outside. His body felt like it was on fire. Blood began to wash from his armor, his hands, his still naked blade, running down the ivory and jade handle, filling the etched surface with veins of red. Rainfall and blood rolled down from his brow into his eyes, and were met with tears as he sobbed, falling to his knees on the stones.

His cry was a scream of pain, an animal sound of torture and unspeakable horror. Lightening flashed in the distance; the raindrops and garden were momentarily illuminated in a flicker of white. All of his deepest fears had been realized. His wife had dishonored him with a samurai of higher standing. There was no limit to his shame.

He had been honor bound to protect his name, but he had been too hasty. Now his own wife and his superior officer lay slain. He was no longer a samurai; he was now merely a common murderer. He was eta, an outkast, a man without honor. He tore off his armor and shirt in rage, throwing them to the ground.

Kanaye turned the point of his sword towards himself as he began the ritual of seppuku. When a samurai was severely disgraced, ritual suicide could be a last resort, a way of maintaining any modicum of honor he might still possess. Kanaye could not live with pride after this day. Death was the only way to hide from his shame.

He muttered prayers to himself as tears and rain washed down his face, his body wracked with sobs. The cold steel of his grandfather’s sword touched his chest and his temples stopped pounding. His mind was cleared. For the first time since seeing Machiko again, Kanaye felt harmony.

“Kanaye-chan, what are you doing?” she asked, laughing.

He was cursing; he had been splitting wood and a sizable chunk had fallen onto his foot.

“Kanaye-chan, come inside for a minute. Let’s have some tea.”

He looked up at her smiling face and his pain dissipated. There she was, the most beautiful woman in the world. And she was his. By some act of god, she was his.

“Kanaye-chan? Why are you staring at me?” She cocked her head to the side and her hair fell about her face. She was adorable.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Come on, Kanaye. The fatigue has gotten to your head.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She laughed and walked inside, leaving the door open. “Come on, baka.”

Kanaye had forgotten the pain in his toes. He walked inside. She had a pot of tea ready. He knelt with her and they drank, sipping slowly out of the cups.

“Stop staring at me, Kanaye-chan!” Machiko laughed. “You’re making me nervous!”

Kanaye laughed and set down his cup. He leaned towards her, raising a hand to her cheek, and they kissed gently, as if for the first time.

The rain poured down, incessant, unstoppable. Kanaye watched the drops collect on his sword as he held it perpendicular to his torso. In the distance he heard the gallops of an approaching horse. The blade dug into his skin, and he saw the first drops of his blood begin to pool on the tip of the sword. The blade was perfect, crafted by his grandfather and passed down through his father to him. The handle was ornately carved, depicting scenes from myth in ivory and green jade.

Such a beautiful sword, he thought as he began the cuts that would end his young life. Such a beautiful sword. He closed his eyes as the sky flashed, cutting himself off from the bitter pain of reality. He felt his warm blood flow down his stomach as the sword sliced into his flesh. It would all be over soon.