The Smell of Plum Blossoms

A cool wind blows from the east, the smell of plum blossoms filling Raga’s senses. The fragrance reminding him of Tsuko’s bathing ritual, “has it really been 5 months since I saw her last?” 

Walking the uneven dirt track Raga can feel his saya sitting firmly against his leg - the Matsumusi katana within a comforting old friend. The many miles of walking weigh heavily, like a macaque perching on his shoulders. ‘Ah’ he sighs to no one in particular, ‘the sento at Takashiwa village is not far, then I can wash off this filth!”

Lost in his thoughts of a warm, scented bath he rounds the corner lost in contemplation. Ahead, no more than 15 feet away he sees them. 4 men. Slowing but not stopping, his gaze slides from man to man. A memory of his sensei leaps forth - a test, standing amongst a pit of vipers, “a mind should be centred - swaying peacefully, that is the way of water”. The man, far left, is stooped. He picks over the bag of a traveller - breathing but shallow - his dirty fingers searching for something of value.

A second, closer man, has his back to Raga. His hand is holding a crude eku bo - a thick wooden paddle. Two others - to the right - laughing as they push a woman, screaming backwards and forwards between them.

Bandits.

“Once a man shows the katana’s blade to the world - it’s a dishonour not to treat its blade with blood.” Sensei Komo’s words flooding back to Raga. “Always honour your ancestors once it is free of its Saya.” With a right hand on the textured, soft kitsune hide of the saya, Raga stopped. His left hand tenderly caressing the polished hilt of his family’s katana, Raionzu baito.

One of the two men, seeing Raga stops. And motions in his direction. Turning, Raga knows they see his ornate Emerald Magistrate badge, it’s jadeite stone immediately recognisable. The realisation hits them, there will be no begging, no compromise. An Emerald Magistrate has only one way to deal with bandits.

Tantos are drawn as the two men forget their horseplay and take up a more aggressive stance. The man, taller and stronger, wielding the eku bo - a bully, used to using brute strength to get his way - bellows and charges Raga. But the calm of mind controls his flow as Raga watches the fourth man pull forth a wakizashi, stolen from a noble samurai or perhaps a ronin.

As the larger man charges, Raga’s training takes effect. He feels the earth beneath his feet, the man’s footfalls moving closer. His brutish form belies his unsophisticated combat style - pure strength may work against other bandits but a samurai knows how to move in combat.

His brutish, forceful blow strikes high - where Raga was only a second before. Raionzu baito draws forth from its shelter, the gleaming blade of the master sword smith Juto Mashi slices through the air like a metal fan. The larger man’s death rattle echoes across the clearing. The wooden paddle hits the ground, it’s sound hollow and dull - mirroring the man’s eyes.

The two men with Tantos, dangerous by their movements in unison - spread out trying to draw either side of Raga. “A warrior must move like fire. Controlled. Unpredicted. With fierceness” come the words of his sensei.

Choosing to take control, Raga - like fire - sweeps towards the man on his right. His surprised look is the last thing he sees as the katana pierces his throat, his dying eyes telegraphing the other tanto wielders movement. Raga, calmly dropping to his right, swings Raionzu baito back and down. The pain in his left shoulder indicating the other man’s hit. Turning on his knee, he sees the bandit clutching his stomach, the contents already spiralling onto the dirt.

“A man who rushes never strikes with precision”. A memory of his father told when he was young swirls into his memory as the wakizashi strikes his blade. A wince of pain from his shoulder reminds him of the wound the Tantos caused. The bandit has had some training, he moves into a position known as the Lotus Strikes… something taught to the ronin of Boutabun.

Clearly dangerous and sensing the samurai’s vulnerable position, he presses his attack. Parrying through pain, Raga hears his father - “every rushed strike is a dance towards death”. The ronin bandit strikes, again and again, looking for a weakness, moving faster to take advantage of his opponent’s wound. But Raga has fought through pain before and studying his enemy he sees what he seeks - a mistake. An attack slightly rushed, an over correction to the left, an eagerness that results in the bandit a little too close to his prey.

Raga strikes, the technical form is known as the “sweeping serpent”, an upward stroke - elegant, almost artistic in its delivery. The man’s mouth opens in a low grunt, his abdomen open, his right arm severed at the wrist. He falls. 

A little rain drizzles onto the track and a lone samurai cleans his blade as he walks on down the path.