Dale Furutani - Jade Palace Vendetta

Japan, the eighth year of Keicho, 1603

What do you want me to cut?

The drunken samurai got unsteadily to his feet. He swayed from side to side, as if the platform beneath him were the rolling deck of a ship instead of the floor of a roadside teahouse. Pulling his katana, his long sword, from its scabbard, he held it before him like a necromancers divining wand, waving vague circles in the air as he waited for spiritual inspiration.

His companion sat on the tattered tatami mats of the common rooms floor. He was also a samurai, dressed in a creased gray kimono and holding a square wooden sak cup in one hand. He looked about him, searching for a target for his friends wavering sword blade. With a burst of drunken inspiration, his gaze fixed on the sak cup.

Cut this, he said, holding up the cup.

The cup?

Yes, lets see you cut this. Ill toss it in the air and you slice it in half.

In the air?

Of course! Its no challenge if I put it down. He gave a grin that revealed crooked brown teeth. Wait a minute, he said, bringing the cup to his lips so he could drain it of the last dregs. The smell of the fragrant wooden cup enhanced the taste of the cheap, milky white rice wine. Ahh, that was good.

It was early afternoon, but the two samurai had apparently been drinking for most of the day. In loud voices, they had challenged each other to a display of swordsmanship.

All right, the sitting samurai said to his companion. Now, get ready. He hefted the square cup with one hand. Ichi, ni, san, he counted; then he threw the cup up in the air. The cup tumbled in the air, with silver drops of sak flying from it like the sparks from the pinwheels nailed to bridges during summer fireworks displays.

The standing samurai took a befuddled slice, and the wooden cup, untouched, tumbled to the worn tatami mats and bounced twice before coming to rest. The sitting samurai laughed uproariously.

Whats so funny?

You are.

Well, lets see you try it, the swaying samurai said indignantly. He took exaggerated pains to insert the tip of his katana in his scabbard, his drunken state making this simple task, one of the most basic moves taught to beginning students of the sword, a sudden challenge. He finally got his blade into the scabbard and plopped back onto the mats.

His friend obligingly crawled over and picked up the cup. He stood as unsteadily on his feet as his companion had. Hefting the cup in one hand, he extracted his sword from its scabbard.

Watch, he said, tossing the cup up into the air.

Taking a wild, one-handed slice at the cup, he gave it a glancing blow that hit the cup and set it flying across the room, like a shuttlecock batted by a decorated battledore in the game of oibane.

The cup landed near a person who was sitting, sipping tea. It was a ronin, a masterless samurai, dressed in the kimono and hakama pants of a traveler. Unlike the two other samurai, he didnt have a shaved pate. Instead, his hair was drawn back and tied in a topknot. He saw the cup flying toward him and, with nonchalant agility, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed the cup before it hit him. His other hand, holding the hot teacup to his lips, didnt sway or spill a drop.

Hey, give me the cup back, the drunk roared.

So you can play oibane with it again? The ronin put his teacup down. Oibane was traditionally played by young girls on New Years Day, so the drunk viewed this as an insult.

Im not playing oibane with it, the drunk said indignantly. Im trying to cut it. Its a show of swordsmanship!

The samurai looked at the cup carefully, turning it over in his hand. Then he said dryly, You havent been too successful at it.

Whats your name? the standing drunk demanded.

The ronin considered this question. The last time he had been formally asked this, he had been standing in the mountains. He had looked up and been struck by the beauty of the wind moving the pines on a mountainside. He had invented a name based on the beauty he had seen. He decided that the name he had given then was as good as any he could create today. Im Matsuyama Kaze, he said.

Wind on Pine Mountain? the drunk said. What kind of name is that?

What kind of name is any name?

Well, whatever your name is, lets see you do better!

Why not? Kaze said. In one fluid motion he stood and tossed the cup in the air without a seconds hesitation; then he took his sword out of its scabbard and smoothly drew his sword through the center of the falling wooden cup. The speed of the blow and the sharpness of the sword allowed Kaze to cleave the wooden cup in two while it was still in the air. The two pieces of the severed sak cup hit the tatami mat just as Kaze was returning his katana to its scabbard.

By the Lord Buddha, what luck! the first samurai exclaimed.

Oh, yes, the second one said, what a lucky blow!

The ronin shook his head. It was not a lucky blow. Its what I intended to do.

It was a lucky blow, the first drunk insisted. You couldnt do that again.

Kaze shrugged. If you say so. But it was not luck.

Come on. Come on. Lets see another demonstration, the second drunk said. He reached over and grabbed another cup.

This silly game is not worth destroying the property of the innkeeper, Kaze said.

Having consideration for the property of an innkeeper was an alien idea to the drunks. What are you talking about? This is just an innkeepers cup. Were samurai!

Yes, the second drunk said. We should be able to do what we want. And besides, he continued, that cut of yours was simply luck.

Kaze smiled and shrugged. If you say so.

Are you still saying it wasnt luck? the first drunk said argumentatively.

It was whatever you decide.

Im drunk, the first samurai said, but dont talk down to me.

Gomen nasai. Im sorry, Kaze apologized.

Look, you couldnt cut something in the air like that again.

I could if I wished to.

The first drunk laughed. But you dont wish to.

No, not really.

Thats because you cant do it, the second one said.

But I can, Kaze said mildly.

All right, lets see you do it again, the first one said. Well pick something for you to cut in midair and lets see you do it again.

And if I do it will you stop bothering me? Kaze asked.

Of course, of course, the drunken samurai said reasonably.

All right, Kaze said, what is it you want me to cut in midair?

The first one looked slyly at his companion, then pointed to a fly buzzing in the room. Lets see you cut that, he said with a guffaw.

Yes, cut the fly. Cut the fly, the second one laughed.

Kaze said nothing but stared at the two samurai for a few seconds. Then he walked away. Behind him he could hear the raucous laughter of the two drunks.

Kaze stepped out of the teahouse and looked up at the sky. It looked like a piece of rough, gray mulberry paper that had been streaked with an ink wash. The puffy dark slashes delineated clouds heavy with rain, much as a brush heavy with black ink would be used to paint such clouds.

Kaze could smell the thick scent of rain and feel the oppressive pressure of a gathering storm. He thought about returning to the tea-house to seek shelter. He knew he could will himself to ignore the two drunks; he would simply draw the internal curtain that allowed a Japanese to not see what he was seeing and not hear what he was hearing. Sometimes pretending not to see or hear was what allowed Japanese society to function.

Although he could ignore the drunks, he couldnt ignore himself. He was upset at himself for wanting to display his prowess with a sword, cutting a sake cup in midair. It was a weakness in himself, and he hated weakness. He could hear the voice of his sword teacher, his Sensei, saying, When you play with fools, you act like a fool. When you act like a fool, you are one.