by Alex Archer
Good looking and a sense of humor. An interesting combination.
“Come on. We can talk in my office.”
He led her down the hall to a door marked Staff and removed a plastic key card from his pocket, which he swiped through a security reader next to the door. There was a click as the lock disengaged. He pulled the door open and held it for her, then resumed his position beside her as they walked through the maze of corridors on the other side. Annja had done a few odd jobs for the museum and had been there before, but she still couldn’t help but peer inside each room as they passed, looking to see what treasures they were unearthing elsewhere in the world.
They finally reached their destination—a corner office overlooking the park—and Annja’s estimation of the power Dr. Yee held within the museum hierarchy rose a few notches. Then she noticed the beautifully restored yoroi, or samurai battle armor, standing in one corner. The black leather and gleaming iron was set off by the glaring aspect of the battle mask, or mempo, that sat atop the figure. She stepped closer, intrigued.
Noting her admiration, Dr. Yee asked, “Like it?”
“It’s gorgeous,” she breathed, unable to take her eyes off it.
Yee stepped closer. “Isn’t it, though? See the butterfly pattern?” he asked, pointing at the gold filigree that formed the shadow of a butterfly in the center of the chest piece.
Annja nodded.
“It’s the symbol of one of the minor houses of the Taira clan, who favored it for its elegant symmetry and delicate design. Unfortunately, they were wiped out by the Minamoto clan at the battle of Dan-no-ura in 1185 and very few of their arms and armor remain intact. It took me fourteen months of around-the-clock work to restore this one to the shape it is in today, but it was worth every second.”
She could hear the pride in his voice over a job well done and she knew that she had found a kindred spirit, at least when it came to an appreciation of history and the lessons they could teach.
“I’ve been meaning to add it to the Hall of Asian Peoples all week, but somehow, every time I go to do so, I find some excuse to keep it here a few days longer. Silly of me, I know, but I just love to look at it.”
Annja could totally relate.
After a moment, Yee finally tore himself away from his admiration of the armor and said, “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Please, have a seat,” indicating a chair in front of his desk. As Annja sat, he walked around to the other side of his desk to the room’s only other chair.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
Annja explained that in order to help support her time in the field, she occasionally took on privately funded work confirming the provenance of various items for museums, auction houses and the like.
“About a week ago I was asked to investigate a man’s claims that the katana he had in his possession was of a unique nature, with serious historical value. He plans on auctioning it off in a few weeks and wanted to get a better understanding of the market value before doing so.”
“This is the weapon you mentioned on the phone?”
“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it and I’m concerned by that. My knowledge of weaponry is fairly extensive and I can recognize many of the primary swordsmiths from the period, but this is one I’ve never seen before.”
Yee smiled. “Given the number of swordsmiths who have practiced the art through the years, it’s not surprising that you didn’t recognize one of the minor houses. There were literally hundreds of them, though they could all be traced back, eventually, to the big five.”
Annja had studied martial arts, particularly sword arts, long enough to be able to recite them from memory and she did so now, to show Yee she really wasn’t a complete novice. “Right, the Yamato, Yamashiro, Bizen, Soshu and Mino.”
“Very good,” Yee said, and Annja noted that he at least had the decency to blush at little at the professorial air he had assumed.
“The collector in question wouldn’t turn over the sword even temporarily for an independent examination, nor would he allow any photographs to be taken for fear that they would leak on to the Internet, but I took the time to recreate the etching and the mei by hand and I have that for you to examine.”
The mei was the set of kanji characters on the end of the blade just above the hilt, the signature of the artist who created it. She’d tried to identify it through the usual channels, but hadn’t had any luck.
She took the page from her backpack that contained the drawing of the sword and passed it over to Dr. Yee. A little self-consciously he removed a pair of wire-framed glasses from his pocket, put them on and then took the drawing from her to have a look.
Annja watched as his expression grew more intent and he pulled the picture closer to his face for a better look.
His voice was tight when he asked, “This is the mei exactly as you saw it on the blade?”
As exact as you can be when the blade is trying to take your head off, was Annja’s first thought, but she didn’t say that. Instead, she replied, “The mark was worn and faded, so I’m not one hundred percent certain. Why?”
Dr. Yee looked up at her. “We’re faced with two possibilities here. If the mark is complete as it is, then I have to admit that I am not familiar with the swordsmith who fashioned it, either. That would mean he would have been a very minor player and would disprove your client’s claim that the weapon was of serious historical value.”
Dr. Yee got up and came back around his desk to stand next to her, holding the drawing so she could see it. “However, if we assume that the mei is, in fact, incomplete due to the condition of the blade and we add one little mark here—” he drew a single short line extending outward from the edge of the rest “—well, then, I’d have to say that not only is this sword of rather important historical significance, but it just might be the archaeological find of the century with regard to Japanese history. Never mind, for all practical purposes, priceless.”
Annja felt her heartrate quicken and it had nothing to do with the nearness of the good-looking doctor. “Okay, I’ll play along. Let’s say that I did miss that little mark. It is small, as you said, and it is in an area of the blade that is rather worn, so it’s possible that’s exactly what happened. What does that mean? Who created the sword?”
Yee straightened, a big smile on his face, as if he had just won the lottery not once, but twice.
“I’d bet my career that Sengo Muramasa fashioned that sword. And if he did, it isn’t just any sword, but the last sword he ever produced, the famed Juuchi Yosamu, Ten Thousand Cold Nights.”
As Yee pronounced the sword’s name, a chill ran down Annja spine. Totally appropriate, she thought, for the weapon that had nearly decapitated her. She didn’t know much about Muramasa. She’d heard the name, but she wasn’t sure where or in what context. She said as much to Yee.
“I’m not surprised,” he replied. “There was a definite campaign to eradicate his work from history and most of the references that survive today are so fanciful in nature that most think he is just a figure of myth and folklore. They couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“Come on, let’s go down to the hall so I can show you a few things and I’ll tell you about Muramasa along the way.”
Yee went on to explain that Muramasa had been one of the most accomplished swordsmiths in all of Japanese history, second only to Soshu Masamune himself. Both men lived and worked in the Kamakura period. “In fact, there is a legend that a contest was organized between the two to see who could produce the finer blade. The contest was designed so that each man would dip his sword into a small stream with the cutting edge facing the current. Muramasa went first, plunging his weapon into the flow of the river. Anything and everything that passed by the weapon, from the drifting leaves in the current to the fish that swam in the depths to the very air hissing by the blade, was cut in two.”
They stopped for a moment while Yee negotiated locked set of doors with a pass card and a key ring, and the continu
ed.
“Next it was Masamune’s turn. He lowered his sword into the water and waited patiently. Everything that came toward the blade was redirected around it, unharmed and undamaged. From the leaves to the fish to the air itself—all of them passed around the blade without resistance.
“As you can imagine, Muramasa was certain that he had won the challenge—after all, his sword had cut everything, and wasn’t that the purpose of a sword? He began to insult Masamune for his poor weapon. But a wandering monk had witnessed the whole affair and he offered his own conclusions. ‘The first blade is, of course, a worthy blade, but it is a bloodthirsty, evil blade that does not discriminate between who it will cut and who it will spare. The other blade, on the other hand, was clearly the finer of the two, for it did not needlessly cut or destroy that which is innocent.’”
Annja smiled. “An interesting tale.”
“Ah, but it gets better, it really does,” Yee said. “The reason that you are most likely not familiar with Muramasa blades is that they gained a reputation for being evil swords that lusted after blood. Some even thought that such a blade should not be resheathed until it had drawn blood. Doing anything less was terribly bad luck.”
“So what about the dragon etching?” Annja asked. “What does that tell us?”
“That is how I recognized the sword as possibly being the Juuchi Yosamu. You see, Muramasa’s name has not enjoyed the fame it deserved because the shogun, Tokugawa Ieyasu, ordered his blades outlawed and destroyed whenever found. Regardless of whether or not the blades were actually evil, they did seem to have a negative effect on the Tokugawa House. Kiyoyasu, the grandfather of the first shogun, was cut in two in 1535 when his retainer attacked him with a Muramasa blade. Ieyasu’s father, Matsudaira, was killed by another man wielding a Muramasa blade, and even Ieyasu cut himself severely on his own wakizashi, or short sword, which was also made by Muramasa. When his own son was beheaded with a Muramasa blade, the shogun had finally had enough. He banned their creation, possession and use throughout the empire.”
By now they had entered the public areas of the museum and Yee had to speak louder in order to be heard as they cut across a busy exhibit hall.
“The response to the shogun’s edict was mixed. Many went out and sold off their Muramasa blades hoping that no one else had yet heard the news that they were about to become worthless. Others defaced the blades, scraping off the mei so that no one could tell that it was a Muramasa blade. A few hoarded the weapons, believing they might bring them personal power and financial gain. Those who were found to be hiding Muramasa blades were often executed on the spot, including the magistrate of Nagasaki who, in 1634, was discovered to be hoarding more than twenty-four Muramasa blades.”
At last they reached the Asian Hall, which, as fortune would have it, was actually closed until the morning for renovations of the existing displays. With his pass card, Yee let them inside and the noise level dropped considerably.
“So what makes the Juuchi Yosamu so special? Just the fact that it is a Muramasa blade?” Annja asked.
Yee shook his head. “Not just any blade, but the blade. The last weapon he ever produced.
“You see, legend has it that it was just before winter when Muramasa found out about the shogun’s edit. He knew that the imperial troops would be coming soon to destroy his forge and seize any weapons he had produced. But the swordsmith lived in a small valley between three major mountain ranges. The shogun’s men did not make it up the mountains in time before the winter snows came and so they were forced to wait another three months until the pass cleared enough for them to reach the swordsmith’s home.
“Muramasa used those months wisely, creating his ultimate masterpiece, blending every bit of his anger, jealousy, hatred and desire for vengeance into the blade until the blade itself took on a darker hue than normal. Some say it even gleamed with hunger whenever it drew close to its enemies.”
Annja turned her eye inward until she could see Joan’s sword, her sword, hanging there in the otherwhere, waiting for her to need it again. The blade glowed with a faint luminescence. Did the Dragon’s blade do that? she wondered.
“Unlike other swordsmiths, Muramasa never etched designs into the blades of his katana. He felt that it was doing the weapon a disservice to deface it in such a manner. But he made an exception with his final masterpiece. That one, legend has it, had the image of a rampant dragon added to the blade just above the hilt, its claws stretching downward along the length of the sword as if reaching for the sword’s target, a visual representation of all the darkness he had poured into its construction.
“I would suspect it probably looked very much like the dragon in the drawing you just showed me.”
They were deep in the Hall of Asian Peoples and Yee steered them over to a large display focused on the samurai eras of ancient Japan.
Stopping in front of a particular case that held several different types of sword, he said, “Ah, here we are!”
He took a katana from its stand inside the case and withdrew the blade so that Annja could see it.
“Look here,” he said, pointing at a line that ran down the middle of the blade from the narrow tip toward the hilt. “This is known as the hamon. It is the point where the sharper steel, which forms the blade’s edge, meets the softer steel at its core, which gives the blade its exceptional flexibility. During the sword-making process, the smith would paint over this line with a very thin mixture of clay and ash and then heat it all over again, to help bond the two sections together. What was unique about a sword fashioned by Muramasa was the identical hamon that could be found on either side of the blade. It was one of his trademarks.”
He flipped the sword over to show her that the line tracing down the opposite side of the blade was identical to the former. Annja gasped when she realized that the blade in his hand was a Muramasa.
“May I?” Annja asked.
“Certainly,” Yee said. “But be careful because the blade is very sharp.”
Annja had stopped listening, however. She had taken the sword, leaving the scabbard in Yee’s hands, and had stepped into the center of the room where there was more open space than by the displays. She wanted to get a feel for this blade, get a sense of what she was facing in the presence of its more famous cousin. She slid into the first of several moves of an advanced sword kata, testing the weapon. It was lighter than her own sword, and more maneuverable, but did not have the kind of reach that she liked. She realized quickly, in fact, that she preferred the heavier blade of her broadsword. Still, there was no doubting the craftsmanship inherent in the katana; it was perfectly balanced and cut the air with precision.
She stopped what she was doing and turned, only to find Dr. Yee staring at her with an open mouth.
“That was so incredibly sexy,” he breathed, as if afraid to break the spell, then blushed scarlet when he realized that he had said it aloud.
Annja laughed. “Look out, Uma Thurman, here I come,” she said, knowing Yee would get the Kill Bill reference.
She brought the sword closer to her face so that she could get a look at the mei near the hilt. Yee had been right; it was identical to the one on the sword used by the Dragon, if you added in the missing crosspiece on the H-like character.
She walked over to her companion, accepted the scabbard from his hands and moved to slide the sword back inside. As she did, she felt a sharp pain in her finger and looked down to find she had nicked herself on the edge of the blade. A drop of blood welled up as she stuck her finger in her mouth.
“The curse of Muramasa strikes again,” Yee said, with a little something in his voice that said he was more than familiar with the bloodthirsty nature of that particular weapon.
Talking around the finger in her mouth, Annja got back to her cover story. “So, how do I tell if my client’s sword is really the Juuchi Yosamu?”
“The first thing I would do is check the hamon. If they are identical, front and back, you will have your first
bit of proof. Then see if the owner will let you examine the mei under magnification or after it has been polished and cleaned. That might help bring out the missing crossbar to confirm it.
“I have to say this, however. If it is the Yosamu, your client is going to be hard-pressed to sell it for what it is worth. That weapon would be considered by many to be a cultural treasure of the Japanese and I, for one, would want to see it returned to its rightful government. It should not be in the hands of a private individual.”
Annja was in total agreement with him. Relieving the Dragon of the sword was her highest priority.
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Dr. Yee,” she said.
22
That night, Annja dreamed of the Dragon.
She was being hunted through the woods by the scaled beast from which the assassin had derived his nickname and it would only be a matter of moments before the creature found her.
Annja ran frantically through the thick underbrush while behind her the beast closed in. She could hear its breathing, could smell its sulphurous stench, and knew that it was gaining ground faster, that she wouldn’t be able to outrun it.
She ran on until the trail she was following opened up into a canyon in the midst of the woods, a canyon with only one way out.
She was trapped!
A shriek filled the sky around her and sent her heart hammering into overdrive. Slowly Annja turned to face the beast…
She woke up.
It was just a dream, she told herself as her heart beat frantically and she fought to catch her breath.
She was about to roll over and take a sip of water from the glass on her bed stand when she realized that she wasn’t alone.
There was someone in the room with her!