Generations pt2
Generations pt 2
Amber rays of early spring poured over the tatami mats and the polished wooden support frames of the Iron Mountain dojo. The mountain air was cold and sharp, biting Harumi’s young fingers, but it did not slow her movements or break her concentration. Her father’s sword lay before her, carefully disassembled. Three sensei looked on, watching her ritually cleanse the blade.
“The hands remember what the heart speaks.” Her father’s words hung in her mind.
It sounded so simple, but also incomprehensible. Not, at least until her father returned from a mission from the Crab lands without the black armband and a fantastic tale of divine intervention. On that day she, and the rest of her family, had begun work on new statues for the family temple: one for the Thunder Dragon and one for Kisada-kami, the Fortune of Persistence. That reverence, that awe, that overwhelming relief and joy that she could not express, not because Rokugani did not talk about their emotions but because there were simply no words for such things, filled her mind. This sword helped save her father’s soul, and she was determined to show the spirit of the blade how she felt. How the world was brighter, more alive, because it was here.
She touched the carvings on the ancient steel. I am Daikiku. Mirumoto made me. Togashi Nyoko reforged me. I cut. Over a thousand years of honorable men and women of the Seppun have held this sword. She held the naked blade upright, inspecting the hamon. This blade is as much family as any of her siblings, and seeing it shine in the sunlight made her smile inside, just as much as she smiled when hearing the laughter of her baby brother.
If I could share that happiness with you, Daikiku-sama, know that I would, her mind whispered, joyful but slightly sad: could the spirit within the blade know such things, or could this piece of steel only just cut? The sun gleamed in the blade’s reflection, filling her eyes.
You honor me more than I deserve, Harumi-san.
Her eyes grew wide as the sunlight, reflected in the ancient blade, bowed.
--
After the test, Harumi sat on the porch with her father. The wood was cold, but the snow was cleared. They both cradled warm cups of tea.
“You heard the sword?” His voice sounded slightly incredulous, but only slightly; he knew the blade was awake, and that it had been for a very long time, but it was rare that they would communicate so directly.
“Yes papa. It sounded like…” she frowned, not finding the right words. It was a common peril of being nine years old. “it sounded kinda like Uso-dono’s, but... different; like wind but… fire. Mountainy. Sunshine-y. I don’t know.”
Mirumoto Kissaki looked at his daughter and smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile. Mirumoto Uso’s youngest daughter was a friend of Harumi’s, and the Dragon daimyo’s death had hit everyone hard. The last year had been an especially rough time for the whole family.
“Do you think it was him?”
“No, it was… older.” Harumi pondered her tea with a two-handed sip. “No. It was Daikiku-sama, I am sure of it.”
“What will you do now?”
Harumi thought for a moment, focusing on the green buds of a nearby tree. How could she share that happiness? An idea struck her, and she looked up at her father with wide eyes..
“Papa, may I write Daikiku-sama a poem and put it in the handle with the prayers?”
A smile blossomed on Kissaki’s face. “What if we all did it, as a family? Your sisters should be home from school next week. You can ask everyone else to help then.”
“Ok!”
--
A week later, the family’s swords rested in positions of honor as Kissaki, Aisha, and all five of their daughters tested out haiku on scrap paper. Kissaki’s blades sat on their rack, and just below them were Aisha, Yasmin, Sabriya,and Hala’s. Natsutashi, the peace-bound Kakita blade entrusted to Kissaki, was seated with them as an honored guest. Fadwa and Harumi’s bokken were laid out beneath them; placeholders for the swords they would receive one day. If they would do one, Hala suggested, they might as well do all of them.
The writing of prayers for a sword handle was a delicate thing. Not only did they have to write out something to express their joy and happiness, but they had to each write small, and they knew they could only do it once: there was only so much space under the handles. The girls were all laughing and talking, but what they would write had to be a secret: the poems were gifts only for the kami in the blades, so sharing it, either before or after, would break the spell. The older three, now samurai in their own right (Yasmin had even reached second dan of the Horiuchi school!), helped the younger two with their lettering. Calligraphy was hard enough for young hands, but doing it with such small brushes was difficult. Kissaki smiled, watching Fadwa draw flowers on her scraps. Chrysanthemums were a challenge in their own right, but he knew she would master it in time.
Soon it was time, and since this was Harumi’s idea, she was allowed to lead the ceremony. There wasn’t a real ceremony for this sort of thing, as it was traditionally an individual exercise, but she and the other girls carried themselves with the seriousness appropriate for such things… with the occasional giggle, and then reprimand, from the stern-faced nine-year-old. Candles were lit, incense burned, gongs and small finger-bells chimed in harmony. They gave thanks to the Kami, the Fortunes, the Dragons, the Ancestors, and all who would listen. Each of the swords had their own names: Defender of the Chrysanthemum, Defender of the Plum; Desert Sun, Desert Moon; Chainbreaker, Lifted by Fate; Starheart, Wind Kami’s Blessing; Koan of Gold, Reflection upon the River; and they were all addressed directly, as honored ancestors and important family members deserve.
One by one, each prayer-poem was written out and allowed to dry over a special candle that Togashi Hoshi-dono had given to Kissaki and Aisha as a wedding gift, and then precisely folded and sealed. One by one, Harumi disassembled each sword so that the prayers could be fitted into the handle, next to the steel.
She took extra care with the aged papers already in her father’s handles, as the family’s new offerings were seated next to the ones from his past life. She did not know what they said (he had not let her read them yet), but she knew who they were from. Togashi. Hantei. Doji. Mirumoto. Mirumoto Hojatsu. Togashi Nyoko. Mirumoto Akemi (his wife from his prior life, from whom the great Fujiwara branch of the Mirumoto family sprang). She had seen them many times before when cleaning the blades, but now they looked… stronger. Still old, but less fragile. That hers would be placed with such august company caused a ripple of doubt in her mind, but one look back towards her family banished all of such thoughts.
She tried to think of something to say to each sword, that they would know what she wanted to convey, but no words would come, or could come, for that matter. There was only one thing in her mind, but it had more facets and depth than any normal girl’s life should ever have to experience: ineffable suffering, relieved; overwhelming sorrow, healed. These things cannot be contained, and thus came out in quiet tears and a smile. All she could think to the swords was You are loved. She could feel the ancient wakizashi, Daiume, smile to her in the way that only grandmothers can smile. She was fairly sure the others were beginning to rise from their slumber too, but Daikiku… what Daikiku shared with her was not words, but ideas and memories: passing through a doorway onto a sunlit and rain-wet garden, or maybe coming home to a steaming bowl of soup after a snowball fight. None of those things were events that the sword could have experienced, so maybe it was, could it be… Yomi?
In that moment she also knew what her life’s work would be: she would fix broken swords. Like the kintsukuroi potters who repair broken vases with gold, she would make them stronger.
Maybe she would change her name to Nyoko.
