LITMIR.BIZ

      The ghosts of the dead day came out of the evening earth as mist. Between a sigh and a smile, and with a dish of saké poised before his mouth, the Ronin suddenly remembered. He rose with a roar and ran out into the road and off toward the Bridge of the Gentle River’s Passing. They heard him curse himself as he went for neglecting something so important. For the first time in all his many warrior years, he had somehow forgotten to loot the dead.

      And even as he’d risen roaring, he remembered glimpsing a very fine sword lying across some clothing on the grass; the second boy had reached for it. Now the memory of the beautiful weapon blazed before his eyes as he ran hoping hopelessly that it wasn’t too late. He wanted that sword with a grand ferocity and he’d have it if he had to ransack every farmhouse in the province.

      As if colliding with an invisible wall, he stopped abruptly at the bridge. The bodies were gone and the entire scene washed clean and raked neatly as a garden. And, though the spot was infinitely empty, he heard the air rustling with the villagers’ hate of him as a blind man hears the noises of the city. He looked around him sharply. His nostrils flickered. Not a soul.

      He took a deep breath, relaxed an inch shorter and stood looking down the bank at the water. An almost fond smile curved his lips at the memory of the blank surprise on the faces of those three naked boys. The smile faded and he shook his head at the inexcusable waste to be blamed almost wholly on their teacher. No, ignorance can never excuse a man’s viciousness.

      The air crackled. He spun around. Momentary fear rippled though him. He froze at what he saw. An old man was sitting cross-legged in the center of the open space as if he’d been there meditating for days. He held a smooth stone lightly in his wrinkled hand and the second sword lay on the ground beside him.

      The ripple returned as the Ronin looked into those old eyes. Never had he seen such impersonal hate. In them, he saw his own square post of new wood as casually raised as a man tosses away a piece of blade-cleaning paper. The ripple became a tide: I have died and there is celebration.

      He licked his lips and said loudly, “And what do you want, old turd? Vengeance for these rare babies that didn’t happen to die of starvation?” There was no answer. He tried to glare the old man down. It couldn’t be done. Those eyes were stone. In a burst of panic, he swept out his blade and slashed down at the old head.

      With a gesture that seemed languidly slow and immortally casual, the old man merely raised the stone between thumb and forefinger to a point above his brow. It met the sword’s arc. There was a shimmering twang. The sword stopped. The hand and arm had absorbed the entire blow without seeming to move. Then something glittered in the twilight air. It was a perfect half-circle of shining steel from the foible of the blade.

      The Ronin stood staring at his castrated weapon, at the unwavering stone and at the arm of steel. His sword lowered and touched earth for the first time. The world wavered as if he were looking through heat-waves.

      There was worse to come. The old eyes ceased to be stone. They came to warm and loving life. As if caught in an impoliteness, the old man quickly came forward on his knees, touched his forehead to the ground and said, “Please forgive me for that which I came to do!”

      The big man stepped back as from an abyss. Amazement left no room for thought. And the old man continued to murmur more horrors: “Having glimpsed your secret just now, allow me to make a small and humble reparation. Please honor me by accepting this sword. It is said to be priceless. Please accept this little bag of gold. It may ease some small part of your journey, for you have a long, long way to go. And, most valuable of all, please accept the fish in my forest pool. If you sit but a moment, I will give them to you.”

      The Ronin wanted to run. Sick with confusion, it was as if he’d suddenly found himself back in that bewitched village. The earth tilted. He was about to slide off.

      He lowered his knees and sat on his heels and listened. The old man spoke quietly and his eyes glowed with a genuine love that terrified the Ronin. He must run. He must run now. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

      He sat and listened.

      “In my forest there is a pool and in the pool there are three golden carp. One lists and swims in downward circles. Soon he lies weightless on the bottom sand, and he is relished by the water snails who also want to live as he did. On the surface and under an undulating lily pad, dart five golden babies protected by the mother carp and threatened by the hungry father carp. Two of these escape and grow to maturity and themselves make young. One of these lives to a grand old age because he has been clever in sneaking babies away from their mothers. ‘But,’ he tells himself, ‘I have made the swift ones swifter.’

      “Now each day for many years, a boy has lain here looking into the depths of the pool and watching the countless little golden generations. Knowing that none have left the pool, he stares into the water and asks a passionate question: How many fish are in this pool! He cries the question into the darkness of the night knowing that it is a foolish one yet he is caught by its terrible pertinence. Now I give his question to you as my most precious gift. And be assured, as a possession that none can steal, its richness will last far longer than either sword or gold.”

      After a

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