Echoes of a Shattered Age

by R. J. Terrell

  “How else me sending the message dat me adversary choose wrong in a fight wit me?” Kenyatta replied, his smile just as wide. “Ya know ya cyan’t be sneakin’ up on me like dat no matter how quiet ya be. Ya not catchin’ me off me feet like dat.”

  Kita snickered and ran a hand through his short black hair. He stood about five feet six inches tall and was of a light brown complexion. His slender build showed muscles not large, but defined nonetheless, and Kenyatta’s stinging forehead told that his friend was much stronger than his size insinuated. “You looked so caught up in the scenery that I couldn’t resist.”

  Now Kenyatta laughed. “You come a long way to be harassin’ me, man. Da Philippines not just a quick swim, ya know.”

  Kita shrugged. “I had to come. There’s something goin’ on out there and I wanted to be here when it happens.”

  “Watcha mean by dat? Sure ya not sayin’ that there’s a big commotion on the mainland? And even if it was, why would dat be concernin’ us?”

  Kita frowned. “This is different. I know you can feel it. When you were sitting here deep in thought, didn’t you feel a weird energy?” Before he could finish the question, Kenyatta was already nodding his head.

  “I did feel it. It’s like the energy in da so tense right now. I didn’t tink much of it till you mention it now.”

  The two friends looked out at the ocean, wondering what this strange energy was and where was it coming from? Kita looked sidelong at Kenyatta. “Hey Ken,” he said, lightening the mood. “You remember when we first trained together in the hills?”

  “Ya mean back in da Philippines before we trained with Sensei Akutagawa? Ya man. I remember. Long time ago. Us only seven back den.”

  “Yeah, I know. It was a long time ago. Fifteen years to be exact.”

  “Old man,” Kenyatta said in a trembling voice.

  “Are we no longer the same age?” Kita asked. Kenyatta shrugged and Kita rolled his eyes. “I remember the first thing we learned.”

  “Da first ting you get to learn in fighting?” Kenyatta replied. “I was tinking we would learn to jump off walls and fight wit swords and all dat.”

  Kita smiled. He’d had those same assumptions.

  “We learn how ta breathe and sit still, for weeks.” Kenyatta grimaced. “For weeks just sittin’ der, quiet and still. I was not tinking to be sittin’ der for so long only ta learn to stretch and learn stances after that!” The two friends laughed as they turned their backs to the ocean.

  “Man, dat was a long time ago. Him made us do that for so long, and then when we did train more, we were wishing we could sit and breathe again.”

  “Yeah,” Kita responded. “We never got much of a break, and when we did, it was only for a few minutes for water and then back to work.”

  “Yeah man. I remember him used to say that we have great tings in us. Great power and spirit, and it was his job to begin our journey to unlock dat greatness.”

  “Think he was right?” Kita asked, smirking.

  “You a funny man. Nope, ya got no skills at all, man, but you do make a good sidekick.”

  “Right,” Kita replied dryly.

  “Hey, you wanna do some Capoeira? Been a long time since we practice togeder, and me know you gettin’ rusty.”

  “Rusty!” Kita was incredulous. “I’ve always been better than you!”

  Kenyatta’s mouth fell open, and Kita laughed as his friend rattled off all sorts of insults and taunts in an accent so thick, he could only understand one word in four.

  “Why does your accent come and go like that?” he asked. Seeing the responding confused look, Kita let it go. “Never mind,” he laughed, giving his friend a playful punch in the chest. “Let’s go.”

  As they walked across the white sands of the beach, they had many laughs and reflections of the past in the Philippines, where they grew up together. It was during that time when they were both children that Kita’s parents were on vacation in Jamaica and had rescued a small boy from a band of foreign rogues who had come in off the eastern coast of the island for no better reason than to cause trouble and steal from the villagers.

  * * *

  The group of ruffians had come to a humble home with a garden consisting of jacaranda and sago palm trees, with multicolored river rock resting beneath a tranquil pond of clear water. The garden was decorated with many different types of bright green shrubbery and bushes, as well as a section where Kenyatta’s grandfather grew vegetables so plentiful they couldn’t eat them all and shared with the neighbors. The walls surrounding the yard were covered in ivory and tomato vines that the young Kenyatta would pick right off the vine to eat.

  Kenyatta’s grandfather had a passion for landscaping, and would spend hours in his garden, perfecting the look and feel of the yard. He would pay attention to the most intricate details, ensuring the health and condition of every plant. The effect was a small rainforest surrounding the humble house. When the foreigners came to the house, no one was in sight and they destroyed every piece of decoration that was found.

  It was in the midst of this frenzy that Kenyatta’s grandfather showed up. At six feet, five inches tall, the seventy year old man’s eyes had burned with the fire of a man half his age. His dreadlocks ran down to the center of his back, with barely a hint of gray. He was a stocky man, retaining the majority of his muscular build since youth, and he emitted an unshakable aura of confidence and spirit.

  “Watcha wan’ now!” Grampa yelled. “You and ya bombaclot goons comin’ ere trashin’ me garden! I been spendin’ more time in my garden den you four fools been alive! Get outta ’ere now before I bust my broom across ya bombaclot head!”

  Just as Grampa was making the threat, two of the troublemakers were circling around his back. They assumed him an easy target since he was such an old man. They smiled at each other and moved in.

  One of them threw a punch at the back of Grandpa’s head, but when the old man ducked, he overbalanced and Grandpa grabbed his arm and used the force behind it to launch the attacker sideways into a tree. The poor fool squirmed on the ground, groaning and holding his back.

  “Be glad ya back not broken!” Grandpa yelled.

  The other three men had seen enough and charged in together in hopes of overwhelming the deceptively strong old man. One of the men came in from the left with a sloppy kick, which Grampa sidestepped. While he was recoiling his leg, Grampa grabbed the attacker’s foot and delivered a rather powerful kick to the unfortunate man’s groin. As the crying wretch curled in on himself on the ground, the old gardener ducked as a roundhouse punch from the third rogue came in aimed at the side of his head. All in one motion, he used the man’s arm as a shield to the fourth man’s roundhouse punch.

  Before the man could utter so much as a grunt from his pained elbow, Grampa pulled the rogue’s arm and forced him to overextend his footing. He plowed the rogue face first in the dirt, where he lay cradling his broken elbow.

  The last of the four men stepped back and looked at his three friends, lying broken and squirming on the ground. He knew that he could not win a straight fight with the aged gardener, so instead he reached into his belt and drew a crude pistol. Grampa stared at the man. He despised the leftover weapons of the long-past Age of Technology.

  “So dis what it come down to, ya?” the old man growled, face hot with anger. “Since you cyan’ fight me, you just pull a damn pistol and prove ya cowardice. If ya wan’ shoot me then do it, but ya still no more a man, and prove that you no more than a coward hidin’ behind a gun. No honor!” Grandpa spat on the ground and stared the rogue in the eye.

  The ruffian had thought himself superior for having the gun and thus having the upper hand, but the gardener, that old gardener that had seemed so defenseless, had just taken that away.

  The rogue grew angry at the fact that he could not look the old man in the face and that he had been humiliated and beaten before he’d even attempted to fight. His anger swelled and he pulled the trigger.


  Just as the shot went off, a young boy no older than two or three years old had lumbered to the door and peeked out of the house to see what all the commotion was about. The thunderous report echoed through the village, and people everywhere turned and looked about, or crouched low to the ground, trying to discern the location of the sound.

  A family of three was shopping on the street when they’d also heard the sound. Mateo looked to his wife and motioned for her to take their son and find a safe place to await his return. Patting his hand against her protests, he promised he would be careful, then left.

  Why am I doing this? He thought, as he raced through the streets. I have a family that I must look after, and this is not even my home. Whatever is happening, it doesn’t concern me.

  He couldn’t tell himself why, but it was as though some undeniable force, or presence, had compelled him to act.

  When he reached the house, he saw a few people standing around a man waving a gun and holding a small boy in front of him, yelling for everyone to stay away. The little boy was crying and screaming at the top of his lungs for his grandfather. As he scanned the scene, Mateo saw an old man lying on the ground in what appeared to be his own blood. He shook his head, realizing that this unfortunate man must be the boy’s guardian, the grandfather he was screaming for. Acting on pure instinct, he ducked behind the people in front of him, circled around to the back of the man holding the gun and crept up behind him.

  When the man turned around to see who was there, Mateo kicked the gun from his hand, breaking his wrist in the process. When the rogue grabbed his wrist, the little boy ran to the old man.

  “Have you no honor, threatening a boy and shooting his grandfather like this?” Mateo leveled his glare at the other man. “Come and fight me as a man and not a coward.”

  The ruffian considered the proposition, but thought the better of it. Cursing, he turned and ran, pushing his way through the wary onlookers. After pushing and shoving through the crowd, he came free and was again facing this new person. “Get outta my way before I cut …”

  The threat died in the thug’s mouth when he suddenly slumped to the ground and lay paralyzed and shaking. “What … did you do to me?” he whimpered.

  “You don’t deserve death.” Mateo looked down at him. “You will live the rest of your life at the mercy of others, and be constantly reminded of the privilege of life and the simple ability to function normally.”

  Mateo had struck several pressure points in the thug’s body and left him permanently paralyzed from the neck down. “Only through aid will you ever function in daily life again.” He turned his back and left the invalid crying and yelling curses and pleas for mercy all in the same breath. Mateo’s mouth tightened. The truth was, with just a bit more force, the crippled thug would have been dead.

  * * *

  When Mateo returned to the house, he sifted through the whispering onlookers. One person had taken the initiative to try to help the child and his grandfather.

  “Thank you for watching after this child,” he told the woman, who was obviously just as upset as the little boy. “I will see what I can do for them.” When he approached the boy, the child instinctively crawled between his grandfather and this new person.

  “Go away!” the child yelled. “Leave me grampa alone!” As the child spoke, his voice quivered and tears streamed down his face.

  “I’m here to help you,” Mateo said in a low, gentle voice.

  “I don’t want your help,” the child sobbed. “Just go away.”

  “And how do you intend to help your grandfather? Do you know how to treat his wounds, or are you strong enough to move him? Let me help you, little one. I know you have no reason to, but you must trust me.”

  The little boy looked into the stranger’s eyes for a moment, then bobbed his head.

  Mateo kneeled over the older man and immediately recognized the flickering life in his eyes. “Sir, my name is Mateo Masin, and I have come to help you and your grandson.”

  The old man just smiled and nodded his head, but when Mateo moved to ask for help, he held up a trembling hand and cast a concerned look at his grandson. Reading the old man’s pained expression, Mateo went to the boy. “I need to talk to your grandfather, okay? Would you please give us a minute?” The child looked at his grandfather, who nodded, and then back to Mateo. He offered a reassuring nod, despite the hopeless situation for the boy’s grandfather. After a moment the boy hesitantly moved back to the doorway of their little house and watched them.

  “Me grandson only five years old, but him understand much.” Grampa winced through a spasm of pain. “Him not like the other children ere, and dat is part of the reason that I was carin’ for him.”

  Mateo noted the old man’s use of the word was. “Me time as his guardian is done,” The elder continued. “I do not know you, but I can see your heart through your eyes, and I feel dat you are a good man. I also feel that the boy need a new and younger teacher for his next stage of life. Maybe dat why this happen. I ask you, take him as your own and train him. I know you don’t know my grandson or me, but a man know a warrior when him see one, and I see it in you.”

  After a fit of thick coughing, the old man gritted his teeth through the pain and continued. “He’s only five, but a lot faster and stronger den anyone his age. Him have a purpose and it must be fulfilled. I ask you … please to take … care of him and … raise him as your own.”

  Mateo’s brows knitted together. The old man hadn’t much time left.

  “This is much to ask of you, but I have … no time left, and I … am sure you were ere at dis time … for a reason.” Mateo looked into the old man’s eyes, at the flickering life.

  “I’m leavin’ dis world, but … I still … watchin’ you … and me grandson.” Mateo did not doubt that, and with a sigh, he accepted the old man’s wish. Grampa smiled and motioned for his grandson.

  The boy, still crying, made his way to his grandfather’s side.

  “Kenyatta,” Grampa began, and his voice broke as a thin line of blood streamed from the corner of his mouth. “My time ere … is about to end … and don’t be cryin’ bout dat now. I have lived … a full life and … I prefer to leave this world … fighting for a cause worth … dying for. You are … that cause … and I have fulfilled … my … obligation to your parents.” He coughed again, a gurgling wet cough, and Mateo knew he was choking on his own blood. He hated the helpless feeling of watching this man die and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Dis man … will take care of you. I know you don’t know him … but … you will do as he says … and listen to him … as if he were me … or your parents. I know you been tru a lot … in your short life wit your father, mother and now me … but you will be … strong … and we all will be … watchin’ ya … from the other side … of the veil of life. Ya hear me boy?”

  “Yes, Grampa.” The little boy sobbed.

  The old man then whispered into Kenyatta’s ear something that only the boy could hear, then leaned away and closed his eyes. The young Kenyatta sat on his knees and stared at his grandfather as tears streamed down his round cheeks. Mateo Masin moved back and allowed the boy this private moment. It surprised him that the child seemed to be so strong, sitting next to his dead grandfather.

  The young Kenyatta looked into Mateo’s eyes. Much pain was there, but there was also strength. There was more to this child than just the physical pain, or the regular mundane trials. This boy was different in the same way as his own son. Mateo had never been able to pinpoint what was so different about his son Kita, but this child held that same strangeness. Before he could attempt to train this boy in any way, he would need to first understand him. He thought of Kita, his son of the same age as this boy, and hoped that a ray of fortune might later shine through the tragedy in little Kenyatta’s life.

  * * *

  Later that same day, Mateo had introduced a nervous and distracted young Kenyatta to his wife and son, who was only a few months
older than Kenyatta. After a long lunch—which Kenyatta barely touched—Mateo explained all that had transpired leading up to his taking the little boy with him. Mateo was reminded once again how much he loved his wife when she took Kenyatta by the hand and left for a few stores to buy some extra necessities and some clothes for the boy. She had immediately taken him in with the family and given him the emotional support that he needed. They helped Kenyatta arrange and perform a ritual funeral and burial. After a two-week long trial with local law in regards to the boy’s relocation, it was discerned that the child had no living family to take care of him. Then, after acquiring written and verbal testimonies from nearby witnesses, the family with a new member in tow left to return home to the Philippines.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  When Akemi returned home, she found Kenjiro outside the house practicing the sword. “I haven’t seen you unsheathe Kenzo for some time.” Kenjiro said nothing, just continued. “I’ve never felt anything like what I’m feeling now. But whatever it is, it’s powerful.”

  “That’s why we must be ready,” Kenjiro replied evenly, never breaking his rhythm. “I am arming Kenzo as you have taught me.”

  “With the power to slay a demon?” Akemi was surprised. “Then we do share the same suspicions. You surprise me, brother. I, too, believe that whatever is trying to break into this world is in fact, demonic in origin. I don’t think it’s found a way into our world yet, but I believe the veil is thinning as we speak. Whatever is coming through to this world is powerful, Kenjiro.”

  The samurai paused and looked at her.

  “Very powerful,” Akemi said.

  “Then we must be ready,” Kenjiro repeated.

  Akemi drew her sword out of its sheath and examined it. “It has been a while since Sekimaru has tasted the blood of a demon. I think it’s time to renew that thirst, that it might be quenched once again.” She left her brother to his ritual and went back to the hills. She would ready Sekimaru as Kenjiro did with his sword, but the ninja demon huntress had a different way of doing things.