The ultimate sacrifice

     

      Summer grasses

All that remains

From soldiers’ dreams

Matsuo Basho

“So. This is it then,” she said: “You are off again.”

There was no sign of reproach or accusation in her voice. She looked into the distance. The colours were fading. Time to start wearing the woollen socks inside the clogs. They both knew that, in less than a couple of weeks, the roads will be covered in snow and access to the house will be blocked for months.

He checked the strap on his katana and tested the flex of his longbow for the third time. For some time, it seemed to him that he had been predestined for the rare fate of passing away in old age, unlike the rest of samurai. So many battles he fought unwounded. And now, yes, a bit unexpectedly, just on the brink of winter, yet another call from the master. A call of honour, so to speak. More intestines to be revealed. Another larynx to be seen from inside. A few more convulsions of agony on the battle field. Perhaps now, finally, his loyalty towards his master shall climax. Perhaps this shall be his final battle.  Perhaps he will finally be entitled to offer his ultimate sacrifice.

“Ah, yeah,” he nodded: “I suppose.”

Atsuko was a fine okusan. She had all the virtues expected of a bushi wife: obedience, self-control, humility. She was good with the household and she had even once protected it, along with her own honour, with a weapon in her hands. From time to time, he caught her stroking their sons, and he was not angry with her, even though she must have known this would spoil them. He even learnt to like her bony hips; after all, it was where she bore the two future bushis with his name.

“Atsuko,” his nenja who had selected her for him said: “She is a fine woman. One I would have chosen for myself.”

She was very fine, indeed. This kimono she made herself of quilted patchwork from old cloths so they could save up for the miraculous horse which took him from victory to victory! Of course, a mistress or two he did have, too. But that was more due to what was expected of him.

The wind was picking up from the West. They both knew she would manage. Now that was that.

“I will be off then,” he nodded once more.

For sale: two canvases that must be kept together