noticed a
nanten
bush growing south of the farmhouse, something usually planted next to a privy as a symbol of ritual purification, so he was sure that’s where the facilities were. But the charcoal seller was walking west, not south. That meant he was walking into the surrounding woods.
Kaze lay still, slowly listening to his breathing, and tried not to be curious about the strange nocturnal journey of the charcoal seller. He counted over a thousand breaths before Jiro painstakingly slid the farmhouse door open again and crept inside. In the dark, Jiro made his way back to his spot on the farmhouse’s platform floor andsettled back to sleep, congratulating himself on making his nightly trip without the samurai noticing.
The next morning, Kaze shared a breakfast of hot miso soup and cold porridge from the night before with Jiro without complaint. The breakfast passed without any comment on the charcoal seller’s peculiar behavior. Kaze finished his food, then he put on his
tabi
socks and started strapping on his hemp sandals.
“Looking around the village again?” Jiro said, frankly curious.
“I’ve seen the village. I’m moving to the next village.”
“You’re leaving?” Jiro said, alarmed.
“Yes. There’s no reason for me to stay.”
“But the Lord hasn’t decided what to do about the murder.” Fear made words tumble from Jiro’s mouth.
“The murder has nothing to do with me.”
“But the Magistrate told you to stay here.”
“Your Magistrate is nothing to me. He’s too stupid to even understand what happened. He will never find the murderer.
Domo
. Thank you for your hospitality. Good luck.”
“But the Magistrate will be mad if you leave!”
Kaze shrugged.
“You may meet bandits on the road.”
“Then that is my karma. Domo.”
Kaze stuck his sword in his sash and strode out of Jiro’s hut. Jiro rushed to the door, watching the samurai walk down the path that led through the village using the economical gait of a man used to covering long distances. Jiro was fearful of the samurai’s leaving, yet not quite sure what he should do about it.
Once out of the village, Kaze enjoyed the sweet air of the mountains, scented with pine and the memory of summer grass. The sky was sunny, and although he had gained no news of the girl, he was not discouraged. He would not quit. This last village meant one less place to look. If she was alive, sooner or later he would find her.
To demonstrate his powers of concentration, Daruma, the Indian monk who founded Zen Buddhism, sat in a cave and meditated fornine years while staring at a wall. Kaze’s Sensei would often relate that story when Kaze grew too restless with a lesson or exercise, but Kaze could never see the example applying to him. He could be still, but he could not be idle.
He had searched for the girl for two years. During the search he had wandered the cities and back roads of Japan, constantly moving. Inactivity, not a lack of patience, was why the lesson of Daruma was never incorporated into his heart. It was two years since he saw her, and at that age girls grow quickly. He wondered if he would recognize her. Would there be some spark of her parents shining in her face as she matured, or could he walk past her on a village street and not recognize that he had found the object of his search?
Just as swordsmanship was a matter of a hair’s width, luck in life could be a matter of brief seconds. A man could turn and an arrow or musket ball fired at him could miss. If he turned a fraction of a second later, he would be dead. Even if she did look like her parents, perhaps Kaze would be turning a corner just as she was stepping out a door and miss her. Perhaps she would be moved to a village just as Kaze had left it. There were so many possibilities, but Kaze knew he could not just sit idle and wait for luck. He believed in the Japanese proverb that said waiting for luck is like waiting for death.
As he walked along the path, Kaze
nanten
bush growing south of the farmhouse, something usually planted next to a privy as a symbol of ritual purification, so he was sure that’s where the facilities were. But the charcoal seller was walking west, not south. That meant he was walking into the surrounding woods.
Kaze lay still, slowly listening to his breathing, and tried not to be curious about the strange nocturnal journey of the charcoal seller. He counted over a thousand breaths before Jiro painstakingly slid the farmhouse door open again and crept inside. In the dark, Jiro made his way back to his spot on the farmhouse’s platform floor andsettled back to sleep, congratulating himself on making his nightly trip without the samurai noticing.
The next morning, Kaze shared a breakfast of hot miso soup and cold porridge from the night before with Jiro without complaint. The breakfast passed without any comment on the charcoal seller’s peculiar behavior. Kaze finished his food, then he put on his
tabi
socks and started strapping on his hemp sandals.
“Looking around the village again?” Jiro said, frankly curious.
“I’ve seen the village. I’m moving to the next village.”
“You’re leaving?” Jiro said, alarmed.
“Yes. There’s no reason for me to stay.”
“But the Lord hasn’t decided what to do about the murder.” Fear made words tumble from Jiro’s mouth.
“The murder has nothing to do with me.”
“But the Magistrate told you to stay here.”
“Your Magistrate is nothing to me. He’s too stupid to even understand what happened. He will never find the murderer.
Domo
. Thank you for your hospitality. Good luck.”
“But the Magistrate will be mad if you leave!”
Kaze shrugged.
“You may meet bandits on the road.”
“Then that is my karma. Domo.”
Kaze stuck his sword in his sash and strode out of Jiro’s hut. Jiro rushed to the door, watching the samurai walk down the path that led through the village using the economical gait of a man used to covering long distances. Jiro was fearful of the samurai’s leaving, yet not quite sure what he should do about it.
Once out of the village, Kaze enjoyed the sweet air of the mountains, scented with pine and the memory of summer grass. The sky was sunny, and although he had gained no news of the girl, he was not discouraged. He would not quit. This last village meant one less place to look. If she was alive, sooner or later he would find her.
To demonstrate his powers of concentration, Daruma, the Indian monk who founded Zen Buddhism, sat in a cave and meditated fornine years while staring at a wall. Kaze’s Sensei would often relate that story when Kaze grew too restless with a lesson or exercise, but Kaze could never see the example applying to him. He could be still, but he could not be idle.
He had searched for the girl for two years. During the search he had wandered the cities and back roads of Japan, constantly moving. Inactivity, not a lack of patience, was why the lesson of Daruma was never incorporated into his heart. It was two years since he saw her, and at that age girls grow quickly. He wondered if he would recognize her. Would there be some spark of her parents shining in her face as she matured, or could he walk past her on a village street and not recognize that he had found the object of his search?
Just as swordsmanship was a matter of a hair’s width, luck in life could be a matter of brief seconds. A man could turn and an arrow or musket ball fired at him could miss. If he turned a fraction of a second later, he would be dead. Even if she did look like her parents, perhaps Kaze would be turning a corner just as she was stepping out a door and miss her. Perhaps she would be moved to a village just as Kaze had left it. There were so many possibilities, but Kaze knew he could not just sit idle and wait for luck. He believed in the Japanese proverb that said waiting for luck is like waiting for death.
As he walked along the path, Kaze
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