SOLDIER OF LOVE
My steel-plated getas click-clacked along the petal-coated cobblestones of Chigakure. This place was one of those boondock villages tucked out of the way of the main roads. Or at least it used to be. Now, bamboo shacks brawled hinoki constructions for space along the crowded thoroughfare. This senile village wasn’t ready for the population explosion that bloated its walls, often creaking and straining like an elder complaining of too many grandchildren in their house.
I didn’t blame anybody for seeking shelter at one of the last places not yet decimated by demons, but what I didn’t get was how folks assumed this village was under the protection of the Sistah Samurai who often patroned its businesses. Look, I had a bad hip and my knees hurt more days than not. My time of hero-ing was long behind me. I’ve finally stopped rolling my eyes at the way everyone bowed as I walked past. They did it so often. But I was no different than any of the rest of them. I was out here surviving like everybody else. They called me Sistah Samurai, but in truth, I was just a tired woman tired of being tired.
Back in the day, a samurai’s duty was to serve as retainers and stewards of their daimyo’s feudal domain, but that way of life was shredded to pieces when the demons overran the capital, Edolanta, seven years ago during the Empress’s coronation. With the death of the Empress and the gathered daimyos, the attack had shattered the political system of Buredoshima into lawless territories and up-start warlords. The Sistah Samurai had accompanied their lieges to the capital and on that fateful day, I had lost them all.
I should have been there. I should have been standing pauldron to pauldron by their side, but I . . . was no hero.
The clan had acted as a dam against the demon hoard, but now the floodgates were burst open. The world changed overnight, and most folks were still scrambling to find a life raft—and Chigakure happened to be that rickety boat in a sea of horrific darkness. The only difference between me and everybody else was that I’ve got a katana to help me row, but most times, it didn’t keep me moving forward none.
I turned back.
Thought I saw something move in the corner of my eye. I stilled and watched the sun stretch the shadows of old friends playing spades under the awnings. They bowed their heads under my scrutiny, and one of them offered to let me join their game. Another offered up their son instead. I politely declined their offers and continued on my way.
Hmph. Can’t trust those shadows sometimes.
The sun was higher than when I arrived through the village gates and now stupidly blazed heat onto my shoulders. The afro provided some measure of shade, and the headband kept the sweat from my eyes, but I was feeling the heat through my layers of clothing. It was warmer down here from where I started up the mountain; either that or it was one of those hot flashes my granny used to warn me about. Desperate for relief, I shrugged off my haori and wrapped the sleeves around my waist. Underneath, I wore a faded and lived-in black kimono while everyone else in the village had already donned their spring yukatas. The bright floral prints decorated the streets like spring shower rainbows, and I shoved through those rainbows like a thundercloud.
For a moment, I hovered beneath the cool shade of a sprawling cherry blossom tree, which was always posing like a dancer at the center of a courtyard I regularly cut through to reach the main road. Thick white rope encircled the sacred tree like a decorative obi, and the wind shook the branches, rustling them like tambourines.
I don’t remember the last time I paused to appreciate the transient blossoms. Probably not since I was a young girl when my Sistahs and I would enjoy the hanami festivals after sword practice.
All of a sudden, names and faces bombarded my thoughts. A rush of memories hit like a well-delivered blow to the solar plexus. I turned away from the tree, bowed my head, and focused on breathing through the nauseous weight on my stomach. I squeezed my eyes shut to the creeping shadows, to find the taste of springtime dango on my tongue, the smell of takoyaki hushpuppies popping and sizzling on the grill, and the sound of girlish giggles bubbling and bursting in my ear. Sometimes, in those moments when I wade through the knowledge that I was the only one left, a vague out-of-body experience came over me and I became a ghost haunting the living, anchored only to the present by the past.
A gust showered pink petals down on my hair.
I charged away from the tree, but those damn petals seemed to trail after me, falling into my kimono collar every time I turned my head. I clutched my hand around the hilt of my katana, over the pink outer wrapping of the ray skin, as if that was going to do any good. Still, I kept a grip on that hilt until my beating heart slowed to a ballad.
I hated spring. I hated cherry blossoms. I hated pink.
When I reached the main road, I braced myself for the blast of color. Cherry blossom trees lined both sides of the thoroughfare, their branches arching overhead like childhood friends holding hands. I begrudgingly walked beneath the pink floral cloud, wary that at any moment, it could all topple down and suffocate me.
What made it worse were all the children running around, not watching where they were going, and getting underfoot. They were every shade of melanin you could imagine, from black pine to white birch, representative of the diaspora who have fled from all over the island to find refuge in this small village. They filled the air with their shrieking as they weaved through the crowds. One hopscotched into my path, a young girl with missing teeth, an Ankara-patterned yukata, and hair split into two ponytail puffs by colorful butterfly baubles.
Her heels skidded along the paved road and stopped with a jerk. She would have collided with my legs if I hadn’t taken a step back. The girl looked up with an obvious apology on her lips but seemed to have gotten distracted. Her mouth dropped open in awe as she stared at me, as if my halo of hair marked me as some sort of goddess worthy of worship. I snorted. Before I could shoo her off, a tap tap tadum of drums distracted us both.
I grabbed the girl by the shoulder and firmly pulled her back with the rest of the crowd as the drums approached. The drummers led a procession of gossiping geishas through the crowd. Their attendants shaded the young women with paper parasols as they walked the streets to enjoy the cherry blossoms. Dramatic and voluminous yukatas blanketed body types of all sizes. They wore their hair fancy-like in elaborate braided up-dos pinned by delicate kanzashi hairpins. Their faces were painted cobalt black, highlighted further by sparkling gold lipstick and swooping eyeliner. Usually, I’d roll my eyes at the spectacle, but I knew the peacocking was all a part of their hustle.
“I want to be like you,” the little girl whispered while the crowd admired and gawked over the geisha.
“No, you don’t,” I responded automatically, and told her, “Become a geisha. Theirs is a respectable practice. You’ll learn to sing, and dance, and play various instruments. It’s an honest living.”
“I want to become like you,” the little girl said, even more insistent. “My dad was killed by demons. I want to become a samurai so that I can protect my family and everyone that I love.”
For a moment, I saw another little girl in her face—a little girl so angry and so vengeful after stumbling upon the corpses of her family in the sunflower fields. She had lost her parents, her grandmother, and her little brother that day. The demons had consumed their souls and left their bodies behind for the crows.
But that was a long time ago. Anger was for the youth, and I was mostly just tired now, so tired of burying folks. I wanted to shake the girl and warn her that loss was never-ending, and that no matter how hard we try to prevent it, cherry blossoms always fall.
Before I could crush the little girl’s naivete, a voice called out, “There you are.”
I swiveled in the direction of that baritone voice. I saw the head over the crowd before I saw the rest of him. He was that tall. Once people saw him coming this way, they parted for him, not because they were intimidated by the broad shoulders and muscled physique that the formless robes did little to hide, but out of respect for the order he belonged to. The chain medallions, the calligraphy staff, and the white silk du-rag that flowed to his ankles clearly identified him as belonging to the Sacred Order of Brotha Monks. They often did charity work in the area and were held in high regard among the villagers.
I didn’t recognize this one, and I’ve been visiting Chigakure for some time now. He must be new to the village, but not new to the order judging by the number of chains around his neck. I’ve worked with enough Brothas to know that every chain marked a year of service, with medallions signifying a particularly distinguished year. This guy had fifteen chains and five medallions, higher than the Head Monk currently stationed in the village. It immediately made me wonder if something was going on and . . . Nope. None of my business. They could be organizing a cipher to practice their haikus for all I care.
“Your mom is looking for you, young lady,” the monk said. He grabbed the girl by the shoulder as if knowing at any moment she could be spirited away. “She reported you missing at the temple. This is the second time this week.”
“But-”
“No, buts,” the monk reprimanded. “Your mom cares for you too much to be worrying her, you feel me?”
The girl searched the crowd, probably for those friends of hers she was playing with, but seeing them long gone, her shoulders drooped in surrender. “Fine.”
The monk nodded in approval. He then looked at me and was not all as thunderstruck as the little girl had been. Wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the villagers have been gossiping about me to the newcomers. He gave me an acknowledging nod up. “Sistah.”
“Brotha,” I acknowledged, nodding up in turn.
The Brotha Monks and Sistah Samurai often disagreed regarding different methodologies and approaches to dealing with the demons. The Brothas were often too busy trying to figure out where the demons came from to actually deal with the demons clawing at their faces, but in the end, we were in this fight together. I held no grudges against them, except for the fact that most of them were still alive . . . And curiously congregating in the village. We stood staring at each other, awkwardly. What was he waiting for?
“You’re new,” I said, folding to my damned curiosity.
“A refugee, just like everyone else.”
Straight lying out of his neck. I debated if I should call him out on it, which led to another uncomfortable silence. Even the little girl, who was looking between us with some confusion, blurted, “Just ask her out already.”
He stepped closer to me, as if to whisper something, but that was quite close enough. I didn’t like anyone past my wakizashi range that I didn’t invite in. I drew back, reestablishing that comfortable range of distance, and he looked at me with further confusion. Didn’t know why he was actin’ so confused. You never step into a swordswoman’s space without cause.
“You got it?” he asked, a tinge of desperation in his voice now. “Why haven’t you gone to the temple with it?”
“Have what? All I know is if you step to me like that again, I’m gonna strangle you with your damn chains.” I said, tired of all this. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong person. Whoever you think I am, I am not her. How many other Sistah Samurai you know out here with an afro?”
“I . . . ” Something in my words must’ve clicked, for his eyes widened. “Nah. You right. I mistook you for somebody else. My deepest apologies, Sistah. If you would allow me to treat you to lunch, I could clear up the confusion, know what I mean?”
“Ha! It is a date!” The little girl said triumphantly.
I honestly didn’t know if this dude was sincere or if this was the weirdest pick-up line I have ever heard. Either way, I didn’t have time for this.
“Don’t bother me again,” I threatened, before walking away into the dispersed crowd now that the geishas had passed. I had more important things to do than to figure out the monks and their cryptic bullshit. But still . . .
What the du-rag fuck?