THE LAST SAMURAI

THE LAST SAMURAI

IV

Fukushima, Japan

The village lay hidden in the shadows of the raging sea, peaceful until the next storm or invasion. Weather-beaten huts of driftwood and dark pine could be seen from the shoreline like stars in the sky. Their thatched roofs bowed low from years of salt wind and heavy rain. A plume of smoke rose in thin air, crooked lines from hearth fires that snaked the sky line, the smell of burnt fish renting the air.

Cobble stone path ways glistened in the distance shimmering in all its effects after slight drizzle making it slippery and wet like scars in the earth. Small shrines stood at the village's edges, offerings of rice, sake, and shells placed before carved figures of sea gods and ancestral spirits, pleading for calm waters and safe returns.

Boats rested by the harbor dancing as the waves came rushing in and out melodiously. These narrow vessels with patched sails and oars polished and crafted by decades of calloused hands. Their hulls marked with wore torn war and decadence. In this age of pirates and conquest, the sea was a provider and a threat. Raiders could appear anytime taking their stakes and bounty ravaging the small village of Fukushima.

As the evening crept, lookouts could be seen high on the skills, eyes fixed on the endless dark waters. Foot soldiers could be seen brandishing their newly acquired katanas from the black smith and stood tall like watching sentinels. For deep in the murky waters lied thieves and gambits lurking for prey to feast upon the sea, being their vessel that carideth fury.

Sakamoto, the old samurai knelt before his sword. It rested across his palms like a sleeping spirit forged by fire and prayers. He worshipped the very earth he walked on the way of the Samurai. His father taught him that strength without discipline was chaos. Bushido-the Way of the Warrior-was not written in ink, but in daily acts: bowing to an enemy, telling the truth even when it wounded, standing firm when fear begged him to run.

The samurai fought not for pleasure nor for conquest, but for duty-to his lord, to his ancestors, and to the name he would leave behind. Death had clawed into his soul, changing him until it spat him out of its bowels time and time again: defending his clan loyally or nearby raids from pirates. He was their silent guardian a watcher in the mist of shadows a dark knight.

Even in old age, his strength was unwavering, his mind sharp as ever and his will as hard as any metal.

 

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

The Thief’s Gambit the slave liberator, gained lots of notoriety in all the seven heavens of the God given waters. Ebo now baptized as Philip Graves by Captain Luke Shaw, the notorious pirate but rescuer of slaves, Ebo’s mentor and father figure. They had spilled blood together and wet their swords with vermin English men, stealing their loot and freeing those bound by their corruption.

Captain Luke Shaw had made many friends on these waters but his reputation presided him, his reign as the rogue pirate was coming into an end. He had nowhere to run. So, he went to a place where the English men would not look for. Far in the East, is where he would take refuge. I just need one more favor and all will be right. He would tell Ebo. Although Ebo did not fully understand the weight of the statement.

They arrived at the land of the snake eyes in the dead of night. They were his allies and he owed them his life as they did theirs. After freeing the small village of Fukushima from the red coats. Captain Luke Shaw became one of their people, he became their son. They received him and his crew with benevolence showering him with gifts of fish and rare flowers. They worshipped the very Earth he walked on like a God.

The members of the fishing village roared to life even in this dead of night. They owed him their lives. Friends never forget your sacrifices he told Ebo once. The breeze was chilling but not too menacing. Although the members of the crew wore mink coats to keep warm. They off loaded their luggage slowly and surely, caskets of gun powder making sure not to cause an explosion.

The people of the snake eyes marveled at Ebo’s skin as if it was alien in nature. The people could be seen covering their mouths gasping in shock for the likes of him had not been seen in ever in their village or kingdom. His black skin blended into the night like a crow. Some dared to touch him eagerly waiting for his reaction. But Ebo did not mind them, he simply smiled and shrugged it off. He was once an alien to the British, this was not something new to him.

The air smelt of jade and jasmine, purple leaves of Jacaranda filled the cobble stone path ways into a plethora of patterns intricate and precise. The people reveled at his huge muscles and tall demeanor; they had never seen such a spectacle.

“What am I to do now?” asked Ebo.

“You are now a free man, Ebo. Do whatsoever your heart desires…My journey has come to an end. But yours has just begun…” he said laconically without emotion as if his blood tie had meant nothing but that was not the case but very much the opposite.

His words fell heavy on Ebo’s heart.

Somewhere in the distant Sakamoto watched like a lion hunting his prey. He scanned the harbor. Even at his old age his eye sight did not fail him. He got up holding his sword his eyes locked on Ebo. Fate has a way of binding people together and this was just another testimony.