by Barry Sadler
The touch of Yeshitsune's eye on him was like ice. He knew he had been singled out. At the proper distance he knelt, lowering his head to the earth before the master of the land of the gods. He waited. This day one never knew what would come next, the command to slit one's belly or a reward.
"Muramasa-san. Rise. I have seen your work this day."
As Muramasa rose he felt a slight pressure on his shoulders. Yesitsune had taken, off his own blood stained cloak and laid it upon his shoulders. About him he could hear the hissing of awe and wonder at the honor being given him. He was most favored.
Carefully he raised his eyes to the stern tightlipped face of the master. "Ah, Yeshitsune-sama. It is too much, this honor. I have done nothing to warrant such honor." He bowed lower, hissing between his teeth.
"Muramasa-san. I have seen few in my life with such sword work as you have shown this day. I knew that the shini-mono-gurui, the hour of the death fury, was upon you. I saw your blade drink many times. Is it true that the katana which you so aptly named Well Drinker was made by yourself?"
Again the gasps of awe at the recognition their master was showing this ronin.
"Yes, Lord. It is so."
"May I see the blade, Muramasa-san."
In spite of himself he felt the pride well up in his breast. And his face flushed as he fought to control his emotions. To show such would demean the moment.
Dropping to both knees in the formal kneeling position, he withdrew Well Drinker, leaving it in its scabbard, with head bowed, arms extended. he offered it to Yeshitsune.
Taking the katana in its engraved sharkskin scabbard, he pulled the blade out a few inches and sucked at his teeth in appreciation of the workmanship. "May I take Well Drinker out of its shelter, Muramasa-san?"
"I would be honored, Lord." Muramasa bowed deeper. Carefully, with extreme grace, Yeshitsune bared the blade. With the eye of a master, he examined the detail of the work, the delicate watering of the patterns of the blade. The sword was alive in his hand. It was indeed one that would have to drink from the well of life and drink often. It moved with a life of its own, a life that transmitted itself up his arm with a shiver. It lived and was more than anything he'd ever experienced. He would almost trade this day to possess such an article of beauty and life.
Catching a look at the face of the master as he dared to raise his eyes a fraction, Muramasa saw the expression on the daimyo's face as he held Well Drinker in his hand. He knew what was happening, for had it not been the same for him? The blade was claiming another. In life as in death, the Well Drinker could not be denied.
Hardly daring to speak, he hissed between his teeth, "Lord. If I may speak?"
Absently, Yeshitsune nodded his head. "Of course."
"There are few times in one's life during which a thing or a life is absolutely made for another. I feel that Well Drinker no longer calls to me, that he has found a new master. Am I not correct in this matter, Lord?"
Raising the blade over his head to catch the light, he moved it in one swift graceful arc. He made the jumonji, the crosswise cut.
The Korean slave blinked, opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing came forth as the upper half of his body separated from the left shoulder to the right hip. It slid slowly apart. Well Drinker had gone to the fountain again.
The escape of held breath was heard all around. Heads bobbed in admiration at the cleanness of the stroke, the gentleness of the cut that slid through the man's bones and flesh as if through the belly of a fat woman. Well Drinker most assuredly was a work of art.
Yeshitsune removed a scarlet silk scarf from his sleeve and cleansed the blade with care before returning it to its scabbard. Never had the feel of a cut been so sensuous, so... so right. This blade was made for him. Never would it leave his side.
"Muramasa-san. Domo, genki desu. I accept your gift. Knowing that I have nothing to offer you that could be its equal, I am therefore eternally in your debt. I would like, however, to let all present know that from this day forth I shall request of my brother that you shall be Hogen."
Muramasa felt his legs tremble. He feared he would lose consciousness. He had been given the highest of the three honors that could be conferred upon an artist.
Yeshitsune felt expansive. Yet not to reward such a gift greatly was to demean the gift. Well Drinker would not be shamed. He continued, "In addition I make you To-zama." It was the third rank of nobility. He was now samurai.
"We shall discuss your fife and the amount of koku you will need later. Now is there any other wish that I may grant you this day?"
Yeshitsune's hand helped him to his feet. Muramasa kept his eyes lowered to avoid Yeshitsune's being able to read anything in them.
"Yes, Lord. Now that you have honored me with glory and gifts of which I am not deserving, I must as always serve you the best I can. Let me judge the barbarian's punishment, for he has by his actions betrayed me as well."
"You wish to take his head Muramasa-san?"
"Aiie, no, Lord. He is a foreign animal. I would not wish to stain the sword of a samurai with his unclean blood. It was I who found him on the beach washed up by a storm. The sea brought him to this land. Let it take him back. Let us tie him to a timber and set him upon the tide. There the sun, salt, and beasts of the dark waters may claim him. His death might take days, for he is very strong. And he will have plenty of time to reflect upon his lack of manners. Let the seas and the birds have him. He is not worthy of a quick death."
Yeshitsune almost smiled. That was good. This new samurai sword maker of his had imagination, and it was poetic in its way. It was fitting that the barbarian should be sent away in the manner he had been brought to them. That he could survive such a punishment was so remote a possibility as to be impossible to calculate. However, if by some miracle he did live, then that, too, was his karma to do. "As you say, Muramasa-san. It is fitting. The beast is yours. Take him."
Muramasa bowed, torn by his feelings. Casca-san had been a good companion to him. He had fought well and never failed him until now. Or had he? What he had done was most strange. Not that he believed for an instant that Casca had planned on killing or was even involved with the killing of Antoku. No! He had gotten in the way of Yeshitsune who had never liked him and who was using this as an excuse to get rid of him.
He, too, had witnessed the rapid executions of the Koreans before they had a chance to talk to anyone. He did not like what had to be done but he was certain of two things. Casca-san did not belong in these islands. The other was that he had the feeling Casca san would survive. The scar faced, gray eyed man would not die, though his suffering would be terrible.
The guards kept Casca's hands bound as they led him back to the beach where Muramasa supervised the tying of his body to a broken beam, the same one he had brought Antoku to shore with.
During all this, Casca said nothing, only watched the eyes of his sword mate.
The beam would be taken in tow by one of Yoritomo's ships and hauled out to the open seas beyond the straits where it would be cast loose upon the waves. Casca was aware of this and still he said nothing.
Muramasa pushed the mast out beyond the surf by himself as he entered the water to where his chest was reached by the foam. His hands made rapid moves beneath the waves. The ropes binding Casca were nearly severed by a stroke of his knife. With Casca's great strength he would have no trouble in setting himself free.
As the towing ship took up the slack and hauled the beam out, Muramasa said in a voice that none but Casca could hear, "Go away from us and do not come back. There are enough curses in this land. Today I am free of two. Go away, my friend."
The waves lapped over him as the distance grew between him and Muramasa. The last thing Casca heard as he drifted over the rush of the waves was:
"Take this with you, Casca-san, wherever you go. You are now and will always be SAMURAI!"
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 20 Soldier of Gideon
Casca returns to the Middle Ea
st – but now it’s the twentieth century. He’s signed on to fight a religious war. And Casca expects a slaughter. It won’t be the first time he’s seen the desert sands washed red in the blood of his comrades. But this time he has joined the most devastatingly efficient army of the modern age…
What begins as a slaughter – ends in a six-day victory!
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