The Wandering Poet

A field of white blanketed the farmlands of the small village in the Northern Honshū region. The morning sunlight reflected brightly off of the snow illuminating the pink petals of the plum trees. The flowers were frozen, the dew from the night before crystallizing in the cold. Mount Fuji towered in the distance, its glorious peak a shining white beacon on the horizon.

Inside a small estate gathered many of the villagers. It was customary in their tribe to rise with the sun. Though this practice did have a practical origin, there was little farming to be done under the circumstances. Eijii sat next to his neighbor Hiroku. Eijii was a small man and Hiroku towered above him in comparison. Eijii had a wife and one son who both remained at home. His wife assisted him on the farm normally as would his son when he came of age. Hiroku on the other hand was a widower, his wife had been killed during an attack by the Japanese army.

Many of the Emishi wished to remain independent of the Japanese, but the Emperor pushed for assimilation. Those that rebelled were known as the iteki. Eijii and Hiroku were fighters as well as farmers and they would do anything they could to defend their land and culture from the Japanese. But today was not about fighting, today was about relaxing. At least it should have been.

The men and women in the estate were drinking tea quietly to avoid the cold. Morning seemed to be coming earlier and earlier. The door opened letting in a blast of snow reflected sunlight. Eijii blocked the light with his hand as he tried to see who had just entered. The door swung shut revealing a heavily clothed man. He wore a straw hat and carried a sheathed sword over his shoulder with a satchel hanging from its end. Eijii watched as the man stumbled toward the counter and sat down at a stool. Eijii was wary of the stranger but did not have his weapon at hand. The iteki practiced a form of hit and run archery on horseback and neither Eijii nor Hiroku were very good with a sword. Hiroku leaned over and whispered in Eijii’s ear.

“Have you ever seen him before?”

His voice was deep and gravelly and it broke Eijii’s concentration. He was trying to listen in on the stranger.

“Quiet.”

Eijii couldn’t quite make out what the man was saying but he could tell from his demeanor that he was drunk. He watched as the stranger emptied his satchel on the counter and began to speak to the woman behind it. The woman looked confusedly at the man, clearly not understanding his dialect. The Emishi spoke differently than the Japanese, but Eijii had learned enough to know how to translate. It came in handy when the Japanese attacked. The man wanted sake. Eijii watched as he lifted a canteen and turned it over showing that it was empty. The woman behind the counter finally understood and left to retrieve a bottle.

Eijii relaxed his shoulders and slumped onto his stool. He was wary of the Japanese but this man was clearly just a vagabond, he wore no marking of the Japanese army. The fact the he carried a sword could simply mean the man wanted to protect himself. These were dangerous times to be traveling.

“Calm down, Hiroku. He’s nobody.”

Hiroku shrugged and gladly went back to his tea. The morning sun grew across the sky slowly melting the snow. The petals of the plum trees began to thaw and drip. Dew fell to the earth with a quiet splash. As the morning went on, the stranger became at first belligerent, speaking in rhyme to anyone who would listen. He seemed to consider himself a poet. His “art” was lost on Eijii, and served to annoy more than anything. The Emishi did not have time for art and luxury. They were a simple people who wanted only to live in peace. The poet stumbled over to Eijii and Hiroku attempting to entice them into participating. Eijii shoved the man lightly and spoke to him in Japanese.

“Do not embarrass your people more than they already have. Go sit down.”

Later the poet quieted down and sat slumped in a corner. Eijii sat up from the bar and tapped Hiroku on the shoulder. Hiroku finished up his tea and stood as well. It was time to return to their homes and be productive. As the two of them walked toward the door it suddenly burst open towards them. Two men stepped inside bringing with them the chill of the morning. They were Japanese soldiers in full uniform, swords at their sides. Eijii panicked but stepped backward grabbing Hiroku to do the same. The soldiers looked around the room and then spoke to the woman behind the counter.

“Where is your grain stored?” spoke one soldier in Japanese.

Eijii knew the woman, Mari, did not speak Japanese. He was hesitant to respond for her as he did not want to irk the soldiers more than they already seemed to be. And if they took from their grain stores it could mean the village wouldn’t survive the winter. The soldier walked calmly toward Mari and then slammed his armored fist down on the counter.

“You will speak when spoken to by an officer!”

Mari spoke to the man in the Emishi dialect explaining that she could not understand him. The officer, of course, only became more angry and reached up a hand to strike the woman. Eiiji could wait no longer.

“I can take you there,” he spoke in Japanese.

The guard turned toward Eijii and looked quizzically at him.

“Was I addressing you, filth?”

With a pain in his stomach Eijii responded in a way as to avoid the guard's wrath, though what he really wanted to do was drive the man out of their lands, whatever way possible.

“Forgiveness. She doesn’t speak Japanese.”

Though Hiroku did not speak Japanese either, he knew better than to ask Eijii for a translation in the middle of the conflict. He could tell from the body language that the guards were looking for trouble. He stood behind Eijii and tried to look as menacing as possible. Hiroku was a big man and he could defend himself if needed, but not against two armed soldiers. Mari backed quietly away from the counter and towards the back room. She was smart, Eijii did not want any unnecessary injuries to befall anyone from the village. The guard walked over to Eijii and leaned in close to him.

“Show me.”

“If I take you there will you leave my people alone?”

Without hesitation, the soldier swung his fist and hit Eijii in the chin. Eijii stumbled back into Hiroku’s arms, dizzy from the blow. Through the ringing in his ears, Eijii heard a familiar, yet disconcerting, Japanese voice coming from the corner of the room.

“Why don’t you leave these people alone?”

Eijii could barely see through the flashes in his eyes, but he could make out the blurry figure of the poet standing opposite the soldiers. The officer examined this new threat.

“You are not a native, you’re Japanese,” said the soldier.

The poet took a few steps forward with his sheathed katana in hand.

“And you are representing the Emperor. How do your actions reflect on our people? Hmm?”

The officer had heard enough. He grabbed his sword and unsheathed it gracefully. The other soldier watched carefully before taking any action. Hiroku took this opportunity to back away a few paces and helped Eijii into a seat. The poet charged forward, though he kept his  sword sheathed. The soldier waited to strike but as soon as the poet was within range he turned suddenly and ran towards the unready soldier. The officer swung his sword and missed as the poet dodged. He continued his sprint and carried his motion into the sword. He thrusted and hit the second soldier square in the face with the hilt of his sword. The soldier recoiled as the poet used his own motion against him and flung the soldier through the door and out into the snow.

The officer was enraged at this and ran out the door after the poet. Hiroku ran over to the door excitedly as Eijii got up and hobbled after him. The soldier lay on the ground, clutching his face, blood running down his hands. The Poet stood in the middle of the snowy field in front of them his sword finally unsheathed. In one hand he held the sheath and in the other the sword. The wind whipped through the leaves of the plum trees causing a few petals to shake loose. The winter chilled air carried the petals across the ground as if they were running to the poet’s aid.

The officer stood opposite the poet, steam rising from his head. Perhaps in his rage, blood had rushed to the officer’s face, heating it. The chill outside reacted to the heat of his face and caused the steam. He yelled to the poet.

“You are the disgraceful one! Hiding out with these people! What are you running from?”

The poet stood calmly in the snow.

“I run from nothing, only towards.”

And with that, the poet charged forward. The officer was at first taken aback but quickly found his footing. He readied himself for a potential trick and allowed himself a glance at his surroundings. A foolish mistake, thought Eijii, a warrior never takes his eyes off of his opponent. The poet was upon him. The officer swung his sword but the poet nimbly dodged it. With a flourish rarely seen outside of a calligraphy pen, the poet sliced the officer. His blood splattered the snow like ink to a page. The officer choked as he fell to his knees and landed face down in the snow. The poet breathed heavily but finished the motion of his technique by swishing the remaining blood off of his sword and onto the snow. The drops dotted the snow around his feet as he sheathed his sword.

“That was amazing!” Hiroku whispered to excitedly to Eijii.

Eijii watched as the second soldier stood quickly, looking at the poet. With less than a thought, the soldier ran from the estate and leaped onto his horse. With a whip of the reins, the soldier was gone. The poet approached Eijii and and Hiroku. He leaned over to pick up his satchel and fished around in it. He grabbed Eijii’s hand and placed some coins in his palm. The poet closed Eijii’s fingers around them and spoke in the Emishi dialect.

“For the sake.”

The poet nodded towards the counter behind them. Eijii bowed to him in thanks. The poet tied his satchel back onto his katana and flung it over his shoulder. Eijii watched the man walk over the the other horse, the one that had belonged to the officer. He saddled up and galloped off. Hiroku turned back toward the estate and laughed.

“That was amazing!”

Eijii nodded but he was not focused on Hiroku. He was staring at the dead Japanese officer in the snow. The way he had fallen, the way the blood formed intricate shapes around him, Eijii now understood the poet’s art.

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The Wandering Poet was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.