bluespruell Spruell

1

SWORD OF THE SAMURAI

Kai Province, New Year’s Day, Year of the Monkey

Once upon a time—” the story began.

The boy cradled the loosely bound book in his lap, enchanted by a brush-and-ink drawing of the full moon rising over majestic Mount Fuji. Tiny figures stood in the foreground, a humble woodcutter discovering a princess in bright, flowing robes in the middle of a feathery bamboo forest. In Japanese script the title read, Tale of the Bamboo Cutter.

“Tarō!” a woman’s voice called to the boy, disturbing the cold quiet around him.

Tarō hunched over his book. He did not want to be found. Cold as it was, he had thought to hide himself outside and fled the warm confinement of the castle in search of a peaceful place to read—his secret retreat—for stories carried him away, far from the harsh life to which he had been born. In a time ruled by the sword, Tarō read books as the horseman gallops and with a marksman’s focus that far exceeded his practical ability in such skills as were to be expected of a boy of his birth and age. He longed for greatness only in a boyish way, naively, effortlessly, and often out of spite when he growled how he would show his father someday.

“Be careful what you wish for,” his mother warned whenever he ran off in protest, but Tarō paid no heed.

Climbing into the wintry sky, the sun had just crested the castle wall. The air frosted his breath and made him shiver in his light robe. He slid across the veranda to a warm patch of sunlight. One hand in salute, he shaded his eyes from bright Amaterasu as the Sun Goddess melted the shimmering snowfall over the stone garden. Camellia trees with dark green, waxy leaves and bright red blossoms grew along the castle wall and around the garden, the crimson heads of their fallen flowers littering the borders. Four massive rocks, the centerpiece, marched across a rippling sea of glittering, snow-laden gravel. When Tarō winked, a trick of the eye fused the four stones into one.

“Smaller stones will sink beneath the Sea, but one great stone may withstand the tide,” his father once said.

At the time, his father had been speaking to his vassals. Tarō crept close to the audience chamber to listen—but not too close, so the stalwart guards at the closed doors did not see him.

“Lord Oda holds too much influence over the young Emperor,” his father continued his rant. “He abuses his position to sanction his brazen conquests, and these petty rivalries among the provinces only weaken the country, exposing all of us to his devilry. And Hashiba, that scheming sandal-bearer—”

“Tarō!” the voice came more sharply than before from somewhere within the castle quarters, recalling him from his daydream. He glanced over his shoulder, frowning as the voice drew near, accompanied by the sound of footsteps hurriedly thumping on the wooden veranda.

“Tarō! Wake up!” his mother said sharply. “What are you doing out here in the cold—you’ll catch your death!”

Tarō turned as his mother shuffled up to him, her elegantly patterned kimono of richly colored silk whispering around her feet as she fought to keep her trailing gown from tripping her up. She was already out of breath, but she did not stop. She grabbed his shoulders gently but firmly and gave him a reproachful shake as a prelude to a real scolding, but he hung his head to save her hand.

Looking him over, she could not resist a smile. She adored her boy, thinking him so handsome with his bushy eyebrows and thick, black bangs. She pinched his pudgy cheek, and Tarō winced.

“Wake up now, this is a big day! No time for daydreaming,” she said, taking him firmly by his arm. “What will your father say!”

She led him off the way she had come, while Tarō protested, dragging his feet as she shuffled down the paneled corridor, pulling on him with one hand and doing her best to keep her unruly kimono at heel with the other.

“Why do we have to go now?” he groaned.

“Tarō, now don’t be difficult,” she chided, tugging on his arm.

“This is an important day, your seventh birth day, and we must go to the shrine, and that is that.”

[Child mortality was common, and children were considered offspring of the gods until they attained age seven, so a vital rite of passage for samurai boys included visiting a shrine to expel evil spirits and pray for a long, healthy life.]

Tarō’s mother ushered him into his room where his nurse was busily arranging his clothes for the big day. A sumptuous kimono of golden silk, a matching jacket with a golden, brocade clasp, and handsome, pleated hakama trousers lay spread upon the tatami floor. The room smelled grassy from the tatami mats.

“There you are!” his nurse said upon seeing him. She bowed to her mistress. “Off hiding with a book again? I’ve never seen such a bookworm!” she said, taking his treasure and setting it aside. “Just a moment and I will have him ready for you, my Lady.”

Tarō’s mother gave him another reproachful look, then disappeared to attend other matters in preparation for the big day.

Tarō liked the look of the golden silk, and he marveled at the matching brocade obi sash his nurse unfurled for him. His dour matron stripped off his checkered robe and quickly draped him in a light undergarment before clothing him in his golden kimono.

“Hiding yourself away again,” she scolded, “Lord Takeda won’t be pleased, you know!”

Tarō fussed and fidgeted as she bound him with the golden sash, frustrating her pains to dress him in his finery. The more she tugged and tucked, the more Tarō growled like a tiger cub.

“If you don’t stand still—” his nurse complained, suddenly warning,

“Yama Uba will come for you for sure!”

At this, Tarō stopped fidgeting, not for fear but because he loved his nurse’s stories.

“Tell me!” he demanded.

“Oh, she’s a terrible witch,” his nurse said, as she tugged and tucked on his kimono, “with wild white hair and black eyes. She just loves plump, undisciplined little boys! She will steal you away and carry you off to her lair, and then fatten you up and—” she paused for effect, pinching his cheek, and teased, “eat you!”

As Tarō yowled and rubbed the sting from his cheek, she ordered, “Now, off you go! You must not keep your father waiting any longer or he will have your hide—and my head!”

太

“Where is my son?” Lord Takeda roared.

With a furrowed brow, Tarō’s father rapped the low table with his bamboo sensu folding fan, rattling the slate inkwell in front of him. Seated on a zabuton cushion on a raised portion of the floor overlooking the room, Lord Takeda wore his formal Buddhist kesa draped over his kimono. His squire sat in silent attendance behind him.

Only a little natural light filtered through the cypress transoms, but tall ikari candles lit the corners, their shadows falling across the tatami floor and upon the plastered walls and sliding doors partitioning the room. A magnificent painting of a tiger decorated the wall in the alcove behind them, its eyes glowing fiercely in the candlelight. A stack of two kagami mochi, “mirror” rice cakes, food of the gods, topped with a small, bitter orange, sat on the shelf in the alcove as an offering to the New Year.

An attendant bowed nervously at his Lord’s displeasure, humbly displaying his tonsured bald spot and topknot as he backed away to investigate, but when the nervous fellow pushed aside the sliding door, Lady Takeda was already seated just outside the room, her two ladies-in-waiting and Tarō’s nurse behind her. She knelt beside the door, carrying herself as if she had been there for some time, and bowed her head so elegantly that Lord Takeda quickly forgot himself. Although they had been married nearly eight years, his consort was still pleasant to behold, her porcelain face delicately framed by the long black tresses of her hair.

“Ah! My lady,” he sighed. “Where is my son?”

Tarō appeared from behind his mother, jumping forward to strike a confident pose in his golden kimono, legs straight and arms raised as if he were about to somersault into the room.

“Yesterday in rags, today in gold brocade,” Lady Takeda quoted the old saying, thinking herself witty, but it fell flat on her husband’s ears.

Lord Takeda inspected his son for a tense moment until Tarō forgot himself. He was small, and his father was an imposing figure, even without his armor and sword. Tarō wore his hair in a ponytail since he had not come of age to shave his head and wear a topknot, nor did he have the nearly perpetual scowl that only aggrandized Lord Takeda’s fearsome appearance, but anyone could see where Tarō got his bushy brows and piercing eyes.

“Kin Tarō!” Lord Takeda said at last in an equally fearsome voice, as he beheld his golden boy. “Already seven years old?”

Tarō nodded timidly.

“Then what are you thinking?” his father roared suddenly, slamming his fist on the low table, the inkwell rattling once again.

Tarō flinched. The servants quickly bowed their heads.

“Always idle,” Lord Takeda blustered, “always absent-minded, sticking your head in books when you should be training with the General! Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“My Lord—” His wife tried to speak, but he cut her off.

“Nothing! Not a word! You should attend my son better!”

His stab hurt her deeply. She quickly bowed her head and tugged on Tarō’s kimono, prompting him to do the same. Tarō immediately complied, kneeling with his head bowed so it touched the floor. His backside knew well what came of non-compliance.

“Tarō is the heir to Yōgaiyama Castle and the whole dominion of Kai Province,” Lord Takeda pressed his rant. “He should be attending his training, and you should not be filling his head with all your books and stories. Fairy tales! Nonsense! You are both soft! A soft samurai will not do!—” He beat the table again, rattling the inkwell once more. “Not in these times,” he trailed off, muttering and shaking his head. For reassurance, he glanced at his katana, the sword on the rack beside him.

Following an awkward silence, Lord Takeda waved for his son to come to him. Cautiously, Tarō slid forward, keeping his head down until he sat next to his father. After a tense moment and another flinch from Tarō, Lord Takeda pulled his boy into his arms, feeling guilty for having lost his temper. Lady Takeda smiled and relaxed.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” Tarō lied for he knew better than to fight the Tiger.

[Lord Takeda’s given name was Nobutora [信虎], “Trusty Tiger.”]

“Good!” his father growled. “But first—” he added, reaching beneath the low table to find a long, slender package wrapped in purple crepe.

Tarō’s eyes grew big and round at the sight of it.

“Congratulations on your birth day!” Lord Takeda grunted, intending to keep his son humble as he handed him the gift.

“Is it a scroll?” Tarō asked eagerly but his question fell flat.

“A scroll?” Lord Takeda repeated, frowning at his wife.

Lady Takeda averted her eyes. Her husband exhaled noisily.

“Go on,” he said, prompting Tarō to open the package.

Tarō tore at the knotted cloth, which fell away to reveal a handsome short sword with black and gold lacquered fittings. He gasped. Although neither expected nor desired, the sword was no ordinary gift. Lord Takeda glanced at his wife just long enough to perceive her displeasure and smiled smugly.

“It’s okay,” he said, urging Tarō with a nod.

Tarō held the sword close for a better look. Then, remembering his lessons, and surprising both of his parents, he cradled the sword as if making an offering. Holding it up, he bowed his head reverently. Although it barely showed on his stern face, Lord Takeda gleamed with pride to see his son behave with such martial maturity. Only his wife could have detected it, but she took no notice, too busy hiding her sad recognition that her son would soon outgrow her when he assumed the harsh mantle of manhood.

The sword was short, a wakizashi or shōtō, in keeping with the custom, since Tarō would not receive a longer matching daitō until his genpuku, the coming-of-age ceremony when he attained fifteen years of age. The gold lacquer sheath shone like polished mirror inlaid with the Takeda family mon in black lacquer—four separate diamonds arranged in a single unified diamond crest, their coat of arms. A cord of woven black silk attached to the scabbard. Tarō took hold of the hilt, which had been wrapped tightly in ray skin and braided black silk and fitted with an iron handguard wrought with a gilded dragon. The scabbard held the blade as snugly as a glove. He had to pull harder than expected, so the sword surprised him when at last he managed to free it.

“Careful now,” his father cautioned, as Tarō unsheathed the razor-sharp blade.

Lady Takeda bit her lip. She knew better than to challenge her Lord’s pleasure openly, but she could not help but worry for her boy, while Lord Takeda studied his son with high hopes for the samurai he would become.

Tarō held up the naked blade, all the elements—earth, water, fire, and wind—masterfully forged by hammer, anvil, and the skill of the swordsmith and his guiding spirit, into the supreme physical and spiritual embodiment of the samurai. Tarō marveled at the temper line, delicately wrought to resemble floating clouds.

“Every sword must have a name,” his father said. “The smith Masamune named this one Murakumo no Hoken, the Gathering-Cloud Treasure Sword, just like the one Susanō no Mikoto the Storm God hewed from the dragon’s tail.”

Tarō’s eyes grew large in amazement for he knew the story well. As he turned the blade in his hand, the edge caught the candlelight, and a mystical flash made him blink. He thought he heard a faint whisper, as if the sword were calling his name, “Tarō!”

“That’s enough now, put it away,” Lord Takeda said.

Tarō nervously sheathed the blade, thinking he had somehow displeased his father again. Taking the sword and pushing to make sure it was secure, Lord Takeda tucked the prize neatly in the folds of Tarō’s brocade sash so only the hilt showed. Tarō felt awkward, uncertain of how he should carry himself.

Lord Takeda slid the inkwell on the low table to one side. He took up a strip of pure white cloth and spread it on the table.

“Today we will present you to Hachiman no Kami, the God of War, and pray that you grow up big and strong to serve your Emperor and your clan honorably,” Lord Takeda said, reaching for a stick of charcoal and grinding it purposefully in the inkwell until he produced a dark pool of ink.

Tarō watched, his eyes riveted to his father’s hands as Lord Takeda took up a brush and dipped it into the inkwell. His father raised the brush, poised over the pure white cloth. Then briskly, in just a few confident strokes, he wrote in elegant kanji script: 日本一

“Ni-hon ichi,” Tarō read the words aloud.

“You will be a great leader someday, first in all Nihon.”

“Foolish woman, do not tempt the gods! That is not what it means,” Lord Takeda snapped. “You will fill his head with dangerous thoughts! Tarō is samurai, born and bound to serve and protect his Lord and his Emperor unto death.”

Lord Takeda took up the cloth and tied the auspicious hachimaki around Tarō’s head. He admired his son for a moment, reseating the sword in Tarō’s sash and tugging sharply on his kimono, as if dressing his boy in a suit of armor, checking to make sure it was straight and secure.

As Tarō rolled his eyes upward, trying to get a look at his cloth crown, Lord Takeda leaned close.

“The Takeda family was meant to unite this land,” he whispered. “It is your destiny.”

Lord Takeda paused thoughtfully, then corrected himself.

“Only the gods can see your destiny,” he said aloud. “On your birth day, this auspicious New Year’s Day, we will ask their blessings at Fuji Hachiman Shrine.”

Not prone to indulgence, Lord Takeda dropped his guard for an instant, exchanging a look of quiet pride with his Lady, while Tarō thoughtfully rubbed the handle of his new sword, trying to look the part of a samurai.