Strange Lands, Old Battles

It was the smell that stuck with Kumataro, a stench of blood, mud, vomit, sweat, and rain mixed into a sludge that clung to your clothes and skin that no matter how you scrubbed, it would forever stain your soul, if not your skin. Kumataro wished for peace.

He didn’t even know why he was fighting anymore.

He was fighting in the armor of a dead man. A true warrior who did not deserve the fate he was left with, but that is the price one must face after carrying the armor’s curse—the bloody armor, with its stained collar and leather straps.

“Suzuki,” another Samurai also in the employ of the daimyo Imai called out to Kumataro, “Finish taking what you want from the dead men, we leave in five minutes.” Kumataro needed to leave Japan and go somewhere else, somewhere where the war of the south court and the north court and the daimyo and the peasants were nothing but a distant memory.

Kumataro looked out from under his helmet through the rain to the west, over the hills and green valleys painted red with the blood of dead men. Kumataro knew what he would be subjected to if he was caught deserting. Seppuku or, worse, exile.

Kumataro stoodin the rain, contemplating, gun smoke long having left the air, the rain making the gunpowder all but worthless. As if manifested out of thin air, a white steed as calm as can be sidled up to him. Kumataro stared into the blue eyes of the stallion and felt compelled to get on and ride until he met the sea.

If not now…then when? Those thoughts ran circles around Kumataro’s mind, banging up against his helmet. Kumataro heardone of the others from the group that served Daimyo Imai call out for him, looking for him. This was it. This was his time to act, to turn away from this and do his duty under the Imai family as he pledged… or to run and risk death.

Kumataro climbed atop the white stallion, and spurred him away, toward the west. Plans raced through Kumataro’s head at the cadence of the hoof beats on muddy ground. The stallion was swift-footed and carried Kumataro’s weight with ease and grace. They rgalloped, chasing the rain and wind as if they, too, were nothing but rain and wind personified.

They rested in the wilderness the first night. Kumataro was nervous, worried his old comrades were pursuing them from behind, but his horse was exhausted, and he had not taken a moment since the battle many hours before. The night was quiet in the clearing Kumataro chose for camp. The sleep was the first true rest Kumataro had known since becoming a samurai, since the first man he killed; Yasuke.

Kumataro could still remember the mighty warrior’s face as Yasuke fell to the ground as he, Kumataro, a young man so full of rage beat him with a tree branch. It was not a fair fight, if it was, Kumataro was sure he would not be upright and breathing today. Decapitating Kumataro was awful. What was worse was the joy Kumataro found in the act. How could Kumataro have been so foolish?

Privately and to himself, Kumataro swore he would find a way to make it up to Yasuke, to atone for the wrong he brought. Perhaps then the armor’s curse would spare him from a younger man’s rage. It was a foolish thought.

The sunrise the next day revealed no pursers and Kumataro and his stallion pressed on. It took over a week to reach the shore, and Kumataro truly couldn’t have been more relieved when he made it to the ocean.

But even in the city of storms, full of tough fishermen and hardworking folk who could hold their own, they were incredibly wary of Kumataro, most not even speaking to one in the garb of a samurai. The only man who talked to him was the man to whom Kumataro sold the stallion that carried him all this way. Kumataro was sad to see the horse go, but it had to be done.

Kumataro, having no other options, started interrogating the village people for information and, in the annoyed and terrified ramblings of an old woman, he found his salvation. A boat, smuggling people who had the money, to China, Kumataro demanded directions and found the man taking people away.

The man, Yamada, denied he was smuggling people to China until Kumataro showed him the money he was able to get for his stallion. Yamada was a lot more willing to work with him, though Kumataro suspected that Yamada was upcharging him. Still, a chance to get out of the country was too good to pass up.

The ship left in three days and for those three days, Kumataro spent his time cleaning the armor. The blood stains of those poor souls who came before Kumataro did not come out. The silk and leather seemed to cling to the blood. Kumataro had spent many hours trying to get the same stains out to no avail. These three days were the quietest, and best days, he had known since childhood. The all-consuming rage he had felt since early adolescence had dispersed, leaving nothing but empty regret and exhaustion. Kumararo relaxed and disputed the regret. In a few short days, he would be in China, free of the war plaguing Japan.

Getting to the ship required taking a small vessel three clicks out to a Dutch trade ship that was going to China for trading purposes. Money was exchanged, arguments ensued, and shots fire. Kumataro ended up stepping in, forcing Yamada to give all the money to the Dutchmen, pocketing nothing for himself. Kumataro relished the sour look on the mean old man’s face as he rowed back. This time with no customers to row the boat for him.

The ride to the Chinese shores blew good fortune Kumataro’s way. The Dutchmen were happy at Kumataro’s quick defense of their ship, and the extra cash that ended up in their pocket didn’t hurt either. Kumataro was treated like a king, or at least better than the other people being smuggled into the country. He ate and drank with the Dutchmen. Their food was strange and their liquor stranger still, not that Kumataro minded too much. Food was food, and he was happy to not be fed scraps of rice like the others.

Truth be told, Kumataro couldn’t tell how long he was on that boat. It was a blur of feasting, liquor, tobacco, and sometimes something stronger. It didn’t make tracking time any easier when the sailors never seemed to tire and worked all day only to party right after. All Kumataro knew was that two days away from shore, the liquor was put away and the hangover the lot of them had right after was not very good for morale.

With that, Kumataro’s time on the Dutchman’s ship came to an end with tearful goodbyes and promises to see one another again they left for the markets.

Kumataro set out for the fields to find a place to rest. On the outskirts of town, he found a tall, shaded tree to protect him from the sun. He sat down and leaned against it, closing his eyes. Finally, Kumataro was able to relax.

That was probably why he didn’t see her coming up behind him with a sword.

The man’s head rolled off his shoulders, but no calm was felt. The armor…it whispered to her; demanded she take it. Lu did so as if in a trance, anger making her stronger as she tore the man from his calm shell armor and put it on herself. She contemplated where to go next, perhaps to serve the emperor.

The cycle continued, and the armor was content.