CHAPTER ONE

Green rice stalks bowed under the burden of a full head of grain. Those heads of grain promised many things to the world, and not always the same thing to everybody. To one it promised health and prosperity, a life of virtue and vice unchecked; to another it promised war and conquest; to another it promised a full belly for one more day before the priests arrived and claimed what the spirit could not take when it departed the world; and to others it promised a life of struggle, of constant worry and misery, one that would keep them bound to the land, bound to the cursed fields, praying to their gods and ancestors they might live yet another wretched day.

Under this ominous oppression, Surathi sat on the edge of the paddies, a cutting knife rested in one hand and a whetstone in the other. The rice weighed him down and was already working on stooping his young shoulders, making him old before his time. This field was not quite ready for harvest. In the next week the stalks would yellow, the village would drain the fields and begin the tedious preparations for harvest. And then, when the time was right and the spirits and ancestors dictated it was time, they would harvest, listening as a drummer beat a cadence while they slaved in the fields singing an ageless song, the rhythm of their song driving them on, forcing them to keep pace.

Grab. Cut. Flip.

Their song told tales of joy at the bounty of the harvest. It praised their ancestors for their watchful eyes over the fields. It praised the gods of the fields, spirits and sprites that played in the paddies and blessed the rice with nutrition and strength against the diseases and insects that plagued them, against the withering heat from a drought sun, while blessing it with the warmth of a benevolent sun.

Underlying the joy and happiness in their song, perhaps even underscoring it, was the grim reality and the true dismal state of a farmer: the brink of despair, of sorrow, of ruin always nipping at their heels. The life of a farmer was sorrowful. A life built on a gamble that nature, the gods, and their ancestors would play nice. A gamble that crops planted in the spring would get the right amount of sun, the right amount of rain, all at the right time in the proper quantities and that the locusts and rot would keep in abeyance. Farmers were gamblers, probably the most obstinate gamblers, who staked their lives where the house was stacked against them. Their life was one of hardship and labor—meaningless.

Surathi grimaced and spat onto the whetstone and worked the curved blade over the rough surface. The stone removed minute amounts of metal as he worked; Surathi felt it removing large chunks of his life. A pile of unsharpened cutting knives sat on one side of him; an even smaller pile, sharpened, lay on the other. Normally, each farmer would take care of his or her own cutting knife, but not this year. It was punishment for a prank he pulled earlier that season: a simple and fun prank involving Kukyu's cow, a woman all the villagers made fun of with the saying they couldn't tell the difference between the beast and the woman. Not only because she was bovine in her actions, but because one accepted her food with reluctance and misgiving for fear that the food had been supplemented with some loving, caring mother's milk from her own teat. It wasn't his fault Kukyu had no sense of humor, or that Kukyu's cow refused to deliver milk for the following week. But Doppo, the village elder—a man so filled with wisdom and knowledge he could barely stand, or even urinate without pissing all over himself—had decreed that fitting punishment for Surathi would be to sharpen every blade prior to the harvest. And so he sat on the edge of the paddies, scowling at the fate the gods, spirits, and ancestors had heaped on him and longed for the mountains that surrounded the village's tiny valley.

Grab. Cut. Flip.

He could hear the drums pounding already, beating in his mind, bearing him down to the roots of the rice stalks. He was better than all this. He was destined for something great. He felt it in his blood, pulsing strong and full of promise. It wasn't to the pounding of the drums, the rhythm of the harvest. It beat in his skull. That was the problem: one born to farm rice would farm rice 'til the day he died; one born to a warrior's life would become a famous swordsman. Perhaps there was one way to overcome that stigma, to rise from the roots of the farmer and claim the stars, the brilliant prestige of the warriors.

"SU-RA-THI!" The shout startled him out of his gloom. He jumped, the cutting knife slipped on the stone and gashed a thin line across his thumb. Surathi cursed and stuck his thumb in his mouth like a little child frightened of the dark. Tasting the salt of sweat and blood swish around his teeth, he glanced about for the source of the shout. Behind him on a grassy hillock the other side of a paddy, a gaggle of children stood. One of them prominent on the hill, his clothing tattered and small on his ever-growing frame, his fists rested on his hips. The boy had not reached his teens yet, and as the oldest, and perhaps dirtiest of the children, he was their leader.

"Oh?" Surathi called back. The implied question 'What?' ringing through his tone and around his thumb.

"You're as dumb as Kukyu's cow!" The gaggle hooted and shrieked in laughter. "Look at him! He's a big baby, sucking his thumb!"

Surathi stood up in a flash of anger, his thumb slipped from his mouth as he groped for a rock, something to throw at his tormentors. He seized the first thing his hand came across and cocked his arm to throw. The children screamed and ran, scattering like a murder of crows cawing into the afternoon sun.

"Shit!" Surathi swore. Damned kids had laughed the whole time Kukyu's cow had pranced about the village dragging several yards worth of bells, kicking and braying in distress, all the while Kukyu herself chased after her beloved cow in her squat, shuffle-shuffle run, pausing and raising her arms as if in prayer to the heavens and her ancestors each time the cow bucked her hind legs. Everyone had laughed then. Now, after the laughing was done, who was punished? Not everyone who joined in the jeering, not even everyone who participated in the prank. Just him.

Surathi cursed again and sat down heavily, careful not to impale himself on one of the newly sharpened knives, or on one of the dull, yet-to-be-sharpened knives. Laugh all you want kids. It'll be the most laughter you'll get out of this wretched life. Surathi raised his arm to throw the rock in his hand into the paddy and realized it wasn't a rock. Too soft and sticky to be a rock. It was a rice-ball—his lunch. The shape was no longer a sphere of packed rice and fish, but a mushed mash of rice. Surathi grunted and shoved it into his mouth. Damn kids. It was their fault he had nearly lost his lunch. Next time he saw them he'd give them a walloping they'd never forget. Maybe then, at least someone would give him some respect.

He looked at his cut thumb and cursed. Another thing to blame on those kids. He grabbed the swatch of cloth he used to carry his food in and tore a corner from it. He knew Baba would scold him for ruining the cloth, but he did it anyway. She was always chiding him for everything all the time, so what did it matter? According to her he couldn't do anything correct, so what did this trifle matter? Where was she now? Probably hobbling her way down from her house to the fields to ensure Surathi was doing what Doppo had ordered. That was another reason he had chosen this spot. The narrow pathway between the paddies would make it difficult for that old crow to approach him.

Maybe she was on the other side of the paddy, directly behind him, sitting in the shade of the way station waylaying any passerby and pointing out to that mistake sitting in the middle of the paddies. He could almost hear her cracked voice now.

"See that ungrateful dredge the gods thrust upon me? There he is in the middle of the fields. Doing what? Not working, that's for sure. Probably daydreaming about becoming a famous swordsman. Bah! Such foolish dreams. You've seen how he carries that wooden sword of his, tucked into his belt, as if he could harm anyone with that. He's worthless. No, he's worse than that. He's a drain on my life, a leech, a good-for-nothing. The ancestors must have seen fit to punish me with this burden of a child. Why? I don't know, but maybe it's because they know that I can handle him. Doppo was wise enough to set him to work. You know the saying 'Idle hands seek demon's work'. And that's too true with this boy. You saw what he did to poor Kukyu's cow. What a filthy disgrace he is. Maybe I've indulged him too much. That'll end right here."

And on and on she would prattle to anyone willing to stop and lend ear to her voice, and even if they weren't willing. But that didn't matter to Baba. She would go on and on until either nobody came along her path or her voice, cracked and aged as it was, gave up the ghost. The latter would be preferable. Then he wouldn't have to suffer her incessant beratings that evening. But such was not his karma.

Surathi picked up one of the dull blades and examined it. How many years had this cursed thing bound its owner to the waste of life in these paddies? It didn't matter. It was too long for him. He picked up his flask and took a swig. He swished the warm water in his parched mouth and then spat onto the whetstone. With his uncut thumb he rubbed the saliva-water mixture into the stone. Then he picked up the cutting knife again and began grinding an edge on to it. He worked the edge back and forth in a slow drawing motion until the edge was sharp enough to cut the prick off an ant. It may be punishment for his misdeeds, but he was certain not to give them an excuse to mock him or to call it a worthless punishment—that something else should have been prescribed. These knives would be the sharpest blades these wretched farmers would ever see, short of a blade that severed their short miserable lives.

Caught up in his work, he barely heard the approaching footsteps along the walkway. They were too steady and sure of themselves to be Baba's. The footsteps seemed filled with youthful arrogance. Surathi relaxed a little.

"Hey." The voice was barely above a whisper.

Surathi turned to see his friend Hitomaro creeping along the berm dividing the paddies. A surge of loathing rose inside.

"How you doing?" Hitomaro asked.

"How do you think I'm doing?"

"What's with the attitude?"

"Oh? It's not self-evident and needs a grand explanation?"

"Hey, it's not my fault you got into trouble."

"Oh really? I'm not the only one who should be suffering this punishment. You were there too. Your hands were black with paint; the same color you used to write the slogan 'Eat at Kukyu's—Who milks who?' on one side of her fat cow and then drew a caricature of her on the other side."

"But you were the one who tied the thorns and fire-poppers to her tail and then was stupid enough to light the damn things."

"You were laughing your ignorant little head off the whole time." Surathi turned his back on Hitomaro and resumed his work. "The whole village was laughing. Just enjoying themselves as Kukyu stumped after her god-damned cow braying almost louder than the fat, stupid beast. Even those rats they call children were laughing. They're always hooting and laughing at everything. But then who pays the price? Not the thrice-damned kids, not the villagers who joined in the laughter, not you—just me."

Hitomaro considered this a moment and then sat down on the dirt next to Surathi. He pulled a long blade of grass from the embankment and stuck it in his teeth. He lay back on the berm and put his hands behind his head and stared at the clouds.

"Yeah, well, it was kind of funny. I mean, that poor beast needed to get out of that pen. Too bad she went through the inn. Scared half the patrons. I think that one tinker, you remember him? The one with the really long arms and legs and squat body, the one who talked funny and who always kept spinning yarns about the oh-so-wonderful city of Kombu. I think he actually left a load in his loincloth. I don't think Tadao will ever forgive you for that. It might be a while before travelers stay at his place again. They don't seem to be up to too much excitement. Guess traveling itself is excitement enough."

Surathi continued the dull scraping of metal on whetstone, the steady rhythm almost matching the beat the drums would pound in two weeks when the villagers would gather and work their way from one end of the field to the other, singing the ageless songs and engrossed in the ageless machinations. Grab. Cut. Flip. Had he realized it, Surathi would have tossed the cutting knife into the paddy. He looked up to the mountains and wished for their freedom.

"You have to admit," Hitomaro broke into Surathi's thoughts, "that was a good drawing of Kukyu. What do you think? Did I draw her boobs too big?"

Surathi snorted. "Nah. To be realistic you should have drawn them much bigger." He held his hands out to arms length in the ageless demonstration of the female anatomy.

"You're right. Next time I'll add on a couple hand-spans just to be safe."

"Next time? Next time, you can sit here and sharpen the village's knives."

"It'll never happen. The priests hate you too much to allow that to happen."

Surathi grunted in acknowledgment of that fact.

"I'll never understand what is up with them and you. It's not like you set Kukyu's cow through the shrines or anything like that."

"This has gone on since long before I was out of my clouts."

"I know. And that's the kicker. Why in all the heavens would they have such a visceral hatred for you?"

Surathi sat silently. He didn't know why the priests hated him, he didn't have the first idea. But ever since he had been found, half-starved and crying amid the rubble and debris after the regions worst earthshake in living memory, they had expressed their hatred toward him. Baba had found him lying in the rubble. His parents, if ever he had any, were either eternally entombed in the landslide, swallowed up by the ravenous earth or had simply vanished. Baba had saved his life, that was true, it was probably her aching barren womb that cried for a child that compelled her to pick him up. And before she returned to the village, her mind was set to raise him as her own. But after the oracles, the priests had performed their magicks, had spoken with the deceased ancestors, her mood changed. She was doomed to raise him—she could not abandon him now, but what an ungrateful burden he had become to her and her recently deceased husband, Tobei. Growing up was cold.

Surathi continued his tedious work, the steady rhythm, the steady scrape of metal on whetstone ground into him. Mosquitoes and other flies buzzed about, their high-pitched buzz adding their own song to his work. In the paddies he could see his own doom.

Grab. Cut. Flip.

"How much longer are you going to be?"

Surathi pointed to the pile of unsharpened blades. "I still have all those to do."

Hitomaro sighed and chewed on the piece of grass. "It sure is hot here in the sun. I hear war is about to break out again. And this time it's going to be big."

"Who is it this time?"

"Lord Umari Ieyasu to the south with our own lord, Sanjhab. It'll be big war."

Surathi's face brightened. Maybe this was the chance he was looking for, the path from poverty to fame. There could be no other way. To be born a peasant was to die a peasant. Surathi did not want that life. He wanted something more, something grander, and he wouldn't let anything prevent him from obtaining this. Not if all the stars in the heavens dashed themselves on the earth.

"We can join up with Sanjhab's troops. We'll prove ourselves in battle and become world-renowned warriors. The strongest to grace our lord's kingdom. What do you say?"

Behind Surathi's back, Hitomaro grimaced. "Sure. That would be fantastic. We'll become lords ourselves and have retainers to do all our labors for us. No more hauling thatch for the roofs, or collecting firewood."

"No more sharpening cutting knives." Surathi inspected the blade, its once dull edge now gleamed in the sun-light. He plucked a short blade of grass and held it between his fingers. Grasping the cutting knife in the other hand he sliced across the blade of grass, drawing the knife so that even as it connected with the grass it pulled toward him. The top half of the blade of grass toppled over. One clean stroke. Surathi examined the end of grass in his hand. The cut edge bled lightly, but he could tell even there that the cut was good, the blade was sharp. But that wouldn't matter. Put in the hands of the farmers and within a half-day it would be dull by their constant sawing at the stalks of rice. Sawing as they sang their endless, ageless tune. Grab. Cut. Flip. Yeah, sure, that's what they taught, but by the end of the day it would be grab, saw, flip. Under his breath, he muttered to himself what he truly desired. "And no more farming."

He lay the newly sharpened knife among the others and turned to grab another. Hitomaro, rolled onto his side and looked at Surathi, the stalk of grass bobbed up and down as he chewed on the end.

Surathi turned to him. "You look like a cow with that grass in your mouth."

Hitomaro pulled it out of his mouth and examined it for a moment, the frayed and chewed end dribbling saliva. He frowned. "Like Kukyu's cow?" he said and put the blade of grass in his mouth again.

Surathi broke into a grin and laughed.

"Here. Tie some thorns to my ass and light a couple fire-poppers. I'll paint myself in the latest fashion." Hitomaro laughed and pulled his shirt open.

"You ass."

"I thought I was a cow."

Surathi laughed.

"C'mon. Let's get off this berm, out of these fields, and into some shade. Then you can show me some of those techniques you've been working on."

Surathi considered this for a moment. Tempting as the offer was, he still had to finish sharpening all the damned knives.

"No. Baba's watching. If I leave, she'll see that and then she'll have more kindling for her fire tonight when I get home. Nah, I'd rather suffer under this autumn sun than under the heat of her wrath."

"Oh, yeah. I saw her on my way over. She was telling everyone and everything what she thought. I think she was talking to a petrified centipede in front of her last I saw her. Maybe it just died of fright, or boredom, while she blathered on."

Surathi grabbed a dull knife, spat on the whetstone and started the whole tedious process anew. It made a scratching sound as metal ground on stone. About him, life bustled on by in its busy ways. High-pitched buzzing informed him the mosquitoes were out, they were beginning to venture from the dark shadows to where he sat on the paddy embankment. Flies and mosquitoes hovered about. Cicadas chirruped. Other insects, raised in the ever slow current in the paddies—not quite stagnant otherwise algae would begin a process of eutrophication and kill the life-giving, and life-consuming rice plants—buzzed about. The water flowed its gentle course, flowing into the field and then leaving as it was wont. Not stuck in the mud like the rice and ancestor-forsaken farmers. It was free, full of life, full of energy. It was only trapped here for a short time and then it would be gone. Just like Surathi longed to be—gone.

"Well, if you're going to be here suffering in the sun, there's no sense in both of us sharing the same fate. Do you mind if I borrow your sword and practice with it?"

"What happened to yours?"

Hitomaro shrugged his shoulders. "You know I don't make these swords nearly as good as you."

"What did you do? Bust it on some rocks?"

"No."

"Or did you use it for kindling in your father's home?"

"No. I was practicing an overhead strike and it shattered on the limb I'd been cutting on."

Surathi laughed. He knew Hitomaro better than this. His first guess was most likely the answer. A rock, or a boulder had borne the brunt of Hitomaro's assault and had given it right back in due order. He looked over to his own wooden sword. It was a good one, probably one of the better ones he had ever made. He had carved this one out of an old hickory limb and cured it by fire. He knew the grain in the sword, the flow of each year it had taken to create those lines. It was good and strong, shaped like the single-bladed sword. It curved slightly to improve the ability to slice without the drastic roundness of a scimitar. The only thing it really lacked was the guard, something his knuckles felt whenever he failed to watch how Hitomaro's blade would slide down and give them a stinging crack. That had happened often early in their play, but Surathi had let that go on for only a short while before learning that sore fingers could barely grab the hilt. He knew if he lent it to Hitomaro it would return banged up, bruised and in danger of falling apart. But, it would get him out of his hair.

"Sure, borrow it. But I want it back. Undamaged."

Hitomaro's face lit up. "Thanks Surathi!" He stood up and grabbed the wooden sword by the hilt. He took a few steps away and swung it several times in the air, the heavy whooshing noise brought a smile. "Catch up with me later!"

"Sure," Surathi said as Hitomaro ran down the embankment and disappeared into the forest. Good. At least now he could suffer in silence and peace. Why was it the gods frowned upon him? What did they have against him that he should be raised here in this forsaken swamp of a village, eeking out a living raising rice for some feudal lord who could quash their lives at his pleasure or displeasure. No, this wasn't a life for him. It was time to move on. He had no real ties here. None knew who his real parents were—travelers from some foreign part of the land, who were unlucky enough to cross into this valley. Doomed to die under an avalanche of mud, rocks, and trees. They would never live to regret their mistake—but he would. Surathi would live; he would survive and then suffer the fate of living amongst farmers, lowly peasants.

Hitomaro had brought up one interesting point. Sanjhab's drums beat to a different cadence than the farmer's drums. Harsher, more demanding. Lord Sanjhab was at war. Lord Ieyasu could not win, strong as he was in the south. His banners were well known and his warriors renowned as some of the strongest in all the land. But his troops were nothing compared to Sanjhab's ingenuity and cunning. Sanjhab would win. He would conquer all, if he enlisted Surathi's prowess. There would be nothing to hold him back, all would fall before him. It wouldn't just be the ordinary lancers or pikemen, but also the warriors. "I'll get a general's head and then Sanjhab will notice me. He'll see that I'm more than just a farmer; more than just some good-for-nothing peasant. I'll become one of his retainers, one of his famous swordsmen. Then maybe the spirits and ancestors will smile on me."

From his position in the center of the fields, the rice became a green sea, now ripening and yellowing in the restricted sun, that stretched to the horizon, a horizon confined by sharp mountains that pierced the sky. The valley sat higher in elevation than most places, the passes could be difficult to cross, especially in the winter when the freezing and thawing ice would seep into the rocks and create avalanches of rock and snow. A similar thing could have happened to his parents, but it was well into summer when they set foot in this ill-fated valley and all the snow had melted under an irreproachable sun. The mountains themselves weren't barren and most of them weren't even balding, they did not climb so high as to restrict even the hardiest pines and grasses from growing in their asphyxiating elevation. Each field was bordered by a berm of dirt cast up to separate them and maintain consistent water flow from one field to the next. These also acted as pathways around each field, one man could easily walk the width and not worry about stumbling and falling into the paddy. From the pass a road shot straight through the fields directly to a loose cluster of thatch-roofed wooden houses. Several other houses of varying degrees of construction, some slip-shod, others extravagant, dotted the valley. A waterwheel continually turned in the stream that fed the paddies, turning a mill where decades ago farmers had carved heavy granite boulders into millstones.

Surathi hated them all. He wanted to be set free of this place, to cut his ties and be gone. Not just be gone, but to rise from the filth, to rise to the highest rank possible of master swordsman. Now that Lord Sanjhab was at war with Ieyasu, the opportunity was here, the chance to prove his might and worth in battle, to claim the head of a general and present it at Sanjhab's feet.

Surathi made up his mind. It was time to move on.

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