The Samurai

The samurai's straw hat obscures his face, hides his eyes. He does not need to see through the slits. He has already seen what is before him.

The road winds gently up to the hilltop, then disappears. Beyond it, the snowy valley stretches onward. The forest dreams under its white coat, and the air is crisp. There is silence.

What a pity, the samurai thinks. Such a lovely canvas - to have this pristine aesthetic spoiled by such churls.

Two men come. Their swords are out. They are ronin - starving jackals whose empty bellies cry out for hunger when they should have long since been silenced by the cut of the blades they now disgrace. The samurai has seen this fight in his mind. He watches with detached interest as his own hand draws his katana. He studies himself fighting a battle he has fought before, matching the vision of the inner eye to the reality now presenting itself. The opening he foresaw yesterday presents itself, and one of the ronin is cut open. He falls to the ground gurgling.

His partner wheels and swings his sword. The samurai catches the blade with his own, knocks it aside as he knew he would. He allows himself a smile as the second man is decapitated by a decisive cut.

The samurai cleans his sword of blood, meticulously, patiently. He says a prayer for the two lost souls he has saved from greater dishonors. And he walks toward the village still a day's journey away, listening to the welcoming words of the elders that have yet to be spoken.