Heart of the Ronin by Travis Heermann Read Free Book Online Page B

honored and honor-bound to have Silver Crane polished, therefore he could not have refused the offer. Besides, ronin could rarely afford to have their weapons polished by craftsmen as renowned as Masamoto, unless they were successful criminals.
    He and Akao stayed at the temple, and the priest there gave each of them two rice balls every day. Ken’ishi accepted his with great discomfort, and Akao with great enthusiasm. Ken’ishi had done nothing to deserve this kindness, and the way the priest looked at him made him nervous. It would only be a matter of time before something bad happened and he would be turned out. People who were kind to him always turned him out, eventually. One of the few times the priest spoke to him, he said only, “I was a ronin once, until I entered the path of peace. You have a good heart. I can see that.” He did what he could to help the priest without being asked. He swept the walks clean of dust. He picked up fallen leaves and sticks and bits of detritus that drifted in with the wind. And he gave a portion of his rice ball every day to the jovial stone god of the central shrine. The priest told him that the god was Hotei, the Laughing Buddha. Ken’ishi thought the god looked like a kind, jolly old man with arms upraised in joy.
    When ten days had passed, he returned to the sword polisher’s shop. Masamoto gave him back his sword, bowing deeply and offering it with both hands, an expression of profound solemnity on his face.   The sword polisher said, “It has been my great honor to polish this weapon for you, sir. May I ask, where did you get it?”
    “It was my father’s weapon.”
    “Truly? Who was your father?”
    Ken’ishi did not answer. He looked away, took a deep breath, then said, “A great man.”
    Masamoto looked at him for a long time, his searching gaze so intent that a prickle of uneasiness crept up the back of Ken’ishi’s neck. The sword polisher said, “Yes, a great man, indeed. Please, young man, hear me now. One such as I well knows that some swords are . . . special. Their smiths, their histories, their lineages, their masters, these things sometimes. . . . Well, I don’t know the secrets of Silver Crane, but I do know this. Wield it well, and it will honor you.”
    Ken’ishi could only stare at the sword polisher, puzzled, with a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue. But he did not dare to betray his own ignorance. Something in the man’s eyes told him there was danger in the secrets he implied. Instead, he bowed and said, “I thank you. You have been good to me.” Then he took the sword and hurried away.
    Now that his sword was finished, Ken’ishi knew he could not stay with the kindly priest, so he left the temple. He was able to sell a few of his arrows for enough money to buy food, but he could not keep that up for long. If he had been in the countryside, he could have fished or hunted or foraged, but here in the city there were no wild roots, no game, and no clean streams. The next day they moved on into the countryside, where he and Akao could find their own food.
     
    * * *
     
    Ken’ishi thought about Captain Mishima often, wondering how much like his father Mishima was. Seeing such nobility and quiet strength filled Ken’ishi with an admiration he could not describe. He aspired to become a man like Mishima, one who lived with such integrity and power. Those like Goemon and Takenaga were to be reviled and destroyed. Someday, Ken’ishi would find a master, and he would prove himself worthy to that master with every fiber of his muscles, every drop of his blood, every bit of his strength. He wished his teacher had told him more about his father, so he would have more than his imagination and a few vague impressions.
    While he had been lost in his memories, the stars had disappeared behind thick dark clouds, and silence had fallen like a blanket, as if in anticipation. The darkness would be a perfect time for him to move on without danger of