The Tale of Isawa Akemi and Hida Yoichi

She stood towards the front of the hall, naginata in hand, waiting, and alert. It was not at all unlike the service she had performed for master Tsuyoshi on perhaps a dozen occasions, and none of those had ever been any trouble, but whether or not difficulties were likely, she was always prepared for them. Her armor, impeccably kept, as always, and brilliantly displaying the oranges and reds that were the hallmark of her clan, creaked almost imperceptibly as she shifted slightly to evaluate the scene once more.

There were more Crab here than usual, and they had, in their typical self-satisfied fashion, occupied the space at the front of the hall. They were kneeling with the appropriate deference that should be given a sensei but were alert and battle ready as ever. They did take their duty seriously, and she respected them for it, but their sanctimony over being the self-anointed guardians of Rokugan tried her patience greatly. Even so, she would never allow herself the luxury of discourtesy - her discourtesy would reflect badly on Master Tsuyoshi, and the merest thought in such directions were immediately quelled by her unswerving loyalty to him.

The rest of the hall was filled with an odd assortment of bushi and shugenja from various clans throughout Rokugan, and many of them were apparently quite nervous about the large Crab presence, but wherever there was information about the destruction of oni the Crab would always throng. Again, she supposed that this was a good thing, but martial prowess was not the only way to combat the creatures of the Shadowlands; in fact relying solely on one's martial ability was a way to assure that one would not survive in Rokugan long enough to fight the Shadowlands, she had seen more than one valiant warrior ordered to seppuku because of their arrogance at their own ability.

She also knew of the corruption that the Shadowlands could wreak on the soul of one who sought power too quickly, but that thought was too painful, and she stuffed it down immediately, her fine features never appearing to ruffle or quaver. Once again her eyes scanned the crowd, then fell back on the simple, unadorned table at the front. She wondered once more about the two ikebana displays on that otherwise bare table that Master Tsuyoshi had arranged there earlier in the day. There was something about them, something she did not quite understand. She had studied the art under Tsuyoshi, mostly because it pleased him, and whatever brought him a smile was guaranteed to bring her one as well, but she possessed neither the aptitude nor the temperment for it. She kept up a good act, but she suspected Tsuyoshi knew she was not really interested. But still, she knew enough to see that they were somehow ... in conflict ... with one another. That really wasn't the right description, but it was as close as she could come to naming the unusual feelings that the display stirred in her. The Crab appeared not to notice and were becoming visibly upset.

It was unlike Tsuyoshi to be this late to his own lecture. Decorum dictated that the sensei could determine his own time of arrival, but keeping his guests waiting through the entire hour of the monkey could be considered pretentious at best, and, knowing the Crab, she feared that they might take it as a direct insult to them. She did not cherish the thought - it would mean taking on numerous challenges, both in duels and in court, any of which could cost her, or, more importantly, her master, their lives. She allowed a fleeting thought of fetching him flutter upon her brow for a moment, but it almost immediately departed - she had sworn to never interrupt his preparations for a lecture, and did not intend to break that oath unless his life was in jeopardy. But still, the Crabs' poorly disguised hostility was nerve-wracking.

Finally, he swept through the door, his kimono switching out behind him, not much attention paid to it, or to his hair - just enough to be proper, no more and no less. Perhaps that was something the Crab would appreciate, but she guessed that in their current mood that they would take it as another insult. She was shocked to notice that he did not bring his typical small bundle of scrolls, but she noted that this time he carried a small shoji screen instead - simple black lacquered wood, with unadorned paper covering the frame. As he stepped into the room and towards the table, all heads except for hers were immediately on the floor out of deference to his position. She alone was excepted from this custom, in order to properly guard him, he said, but she wondered sometimes, was there something more.

"Get up", he instructed, and quickly everyone shifted back to the kneeling position that they were in before. He looked them over impatiently - what he was looking for she could not tell, but she could tell by his mannerisms that he had not found it. He shoulders slumped slightly, barely visible under the peaked shoulders of his formal jacket, and his brow furrowed slightly. It was the same look that he would get when she disappointed him in her assessments of ikebana, or when she failed to absorb a lesson at go. She was extremely glad that it was not directed at her, but still felt the empathy she always did when he showed his pain. If only she could find a way to alleviate his pain.

He sighed heavily, "Well, can't you see it? Isn't it obvious?" His queries were met by stunned silence, and several of the Crab bushi shifted, unsure of whether or not they were being mocked. Several of the shugenja appeared to be studying the flower arrangements, hoping for some glimmer of insight, but apparently it eluded them, too. Either that or they were too fearful to speak, for fear of insulting their host.

One large bushi in the front shimmied forward on his knees, bowed his head, and forcefully said, "I am of the Crab Clan, defenders of the empire at the Kaiu Wall, and I am from Kaiu Shiro, the castle of many ways. I am a Hida bushi who protects this noble land, and my name is Hida Yoichi." He paused for a moment, trying to sense the reaction to his introduction. "I humbly", he nearly spat the words out, "request that you explain yourself. We are here to learn of the weaknesses of oni, not to observe flowers."

Her shoulders tightened. If there was a guaranteed way to arouse the ire of Isawa Tsuyoshi, it was to comport yourself in a way he thought unbefitting a samurai - especially if it was a display that advertised your own ignorance. She was certain this would get bad.

"Stand up, Hida Yoichi." His voice didn't sound angry, just tired. She had never seen him quite like this, and it frightened her - was he somehow ... unhealthy?

Yoichi stood to his full height, nearly seven shaku, and his massive bulk served to intimidate most in the room, but Tsuyoshi did not seem impressed, he still seemed tired. "Yoichi, look closely - can't you see the lesson in front of you?"

Yoichi stood there, fuming, knowing that he could not respond how he would like, clenched his fist and said, "No, master, I don't see it, perhaps you'd be good enough to explain it."

"Then sit down," Tsuyoshi commanded, a hint of anger now in his voice. That felt strangely reassuring to her, and she settled in to keeping an eye on Yoichi, in case he decided to do anything stupid.

Tsuyoshi walked over to the table and put the screen around one arrangement. She started to notice the subtle harmony in the arrangement that she had not seen before, and she felt somehow more at ease. It was as if some of the tension had dissipated from the room. He stepped to the side, so that everyone could have a clear view of the arrangement, and waited there. After several minutes of silence, in which even Yoichi appeared to have calmed down, he walked over and moved the screen to cover the other arrangement.

Her immediate impression was that of discord, and she wondered why she could not see it before. There was something messy and chaotic about this arrangement, though it looked so very similar to the other. She thought that they were made using the same flowers, but she couldn't imagine how such different effects could be achieved through simple flower arranging.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one affected by the arrangement, and the nervousness and agitation appeared almost instantly and cast a dark shadow over the room. He didn't let that feeling settle for long and removed the shoji screen from the table.

"Do you see, now?"

There were murmurs throughout the hall, and it seemed as though noone was willing to respond. She could feel the anger rising in Tsuyoshi - she imagined he felt as though all his efforts were wasted, that these people would never understand unless he told them. He felt like that about her sometimes, she was sure, but she never revealed to him how much this hurt her.

"What is different between the two arrangements? They are the same flowers, the same containers, why should one relax even the coarsest among you," he subtly turned his eyes toward Yoichi, "while the other arouses your anger? What has caused this?"

Yoichi stood again, "I can only assume that you did," he said, his tone betraying that he did not like being toyed with.

For a moment, Tsuyoshi paused, and looked into the eyes of Yoichi, trying to see if he understood the words he had just uttered. "Yes, I did ... do you see the lesson now?"

"There is no lesson here," Yoichi bellowed, with several others, not all of them Crab, murmuring their assent. "All we have are two stupid displays of ikebana - what does that have to do with any oni?!"

"It has everything to do with it, if you would only open your eyes. It is not the flowers that disturb you or soothe you. It is the hand that manipulates them. If you remove the flowers that are troubling you, you still do not understand the true nature of the threat that you are facing. Destroying the flowers is the least of your troubles. You must destroy the hand behind the flowers. And before you can even attempt to do that, you must understand the nature of the hand."

"Threats from the Shadowlands take many forms, some pleasing to the eye that lull us to sleep, others, so debased that it would be impossible not to recognize them as a threat. But if we continuously focus on the oni, we can never stop the true threat."

Yoichi looked down with disdain on Tsuyoshi. "Fu Leng is dead," he said emphatically, getting the reaction he had hoped for from all in the room, save Tsuyoshi.

"Yes, he is. As are Iuchiban, Asahina Yajinden, and many other corrupted and lost. But the Celestial Wheel continues to turn. The Dragon Kami is reborn, we venerate other Kami as eternal, we must know that the ninth kami still exists. To think otherwise is naive and shows that you have no faith in the Shintao. The source of corruption still exists, must always exist, and we must always struggle against it. But pruning dead leaves off of a tree will not cure the rot in its trunk."

Yoichi looked stunned. Apparently, he had never had someone as diminutive as Tsuyoshi not be cowed by his outbursts and was unsure of how to proceed.

"You still do not understand, young Yoichi. Perhaps I can tell you in a way that is more akin to your nature. The mistake is mine, I should not have expected this much from a young samurai." he said, apparently trying to apologize. It did little to soothe Yoichi, Akemi noted, and she wondered where all this was going. Then she caught a subtle glance and nod from Tsuyoshi. It was one she recognized, and then she new that there would be trouble. It was his way of indicating that he did not want this man killed. She was prepared for the worst.

"Yoichi, pick up your tetsubo," he instructed, and Yoichi seemed more than happy to oblige. All the attendees had been told to bring their weapons to the dojo, and they had all done so without a second thought. "Now strike me with it."

Yoichi hesitated, apparently even he had the good sense to resist this temptation. "Come, now, Yoichi. This is very important for you to learn," Tsuyoshi cooed at him, addressing him as one might address a small child. "I give you my word that no harm will befall you should I be injured or die as a result," he laughed.

It was the laughter that seemed to do it, and Yoichi raised his tetsubo in a high swing, and as he turned it to smash it down on Tsuyoshi, Akemi cooly flicked out her naginata from its ready position at her side, and in one fluid motion brought the naginata's blade slicing through the stout haft of the tetsubo. The arcing blade looked nothing more or less than a silvery fish swimming through the air, only to fall back into place leaving a shattered tetsubo in its wake.

As the splinters rained down about him, Tsuyoshi did not move, and Yoichi looked stunned.

"Do you understand now, Yoichi? How angry are you? Do you seek some way of venting that frustration? You have no weapon, now, but I can clearly tell that you are still a threat. My yojimbo has bested you, you must be awash with shame at that fact, and there is no one to blame but yourself. But you will never blame yourself, will you. No, you will seek your vengeance against Akemi, and eventually one or the other of you may die as a result. I do not think it will be my yojimbo - I value her too much to have her die in some pointless way," Akemi's heart leapt for a moment, but Tsuyoshi did not appear to notice, and he continued without pause, "but you still do not see."

Yoichi started to open his mouth, perhaps to issue a challenge, and his hand moved toward the katana at his side. "Do not open your mouth, now, Yoichi, lest you lose your tongue," Tsuyoshi uttered quietly, but with more force than anyone in the room had ever experienced. "Are you still too blind to see? By taking away your weapon, I have made you more of a threat. Destroying the instrument does not dull the rage that propels it. We must learn to understand that rage to be better able to counter it."

Yoichi, humbled, and perhaps frightened, started to settle down to his place as Tsuyoshi took his leave of the room. Akemi was about to follow, but before she did, she could not resist the impulse to make sure the brute knew who was superior. "Be grateful that my master did not request that you draw your katana, Yoichi, or it would be your soul shattered on the floor, rather than that useless tetsubo," she whispered in his ear, and gave him a seductive little smirk as she twirled and left to guard her master.

It was at that moment that she knew that she would have an enemy for life, and she looked forward to the day when she could finally put him to rest.

Butterfly Caught in a Spider's Web

A typical day, not much unlike any other, I sit in front of the typewriter, waiting for inspiration. The keys just sit there, resting under my fingertips, unmoved by my rime. The bright sun shines in on me through a frosted pane, and the steady drip-drip-drip of falling snowmelt reaches my ears. Of there own accord, my fingers press partway down on the keys, several spindles extend upward towards the page, looking for all the world like the legs of a spider. They touch the page gently, rippling across it, but not leaving any tracks for their crossing. That dull spider creeps across the page for minutes and yet still nothing is written on the page; just my fingers, up to their usual tricks, playing with the keys, mocking me at the same time, leaving me to wonder, had I ever actually written anything worthwhile?

Drip-drip-drip. The ice still melts, but it is no warmer in here. Not even the click-click-clack of a typewriter to break the monotony. The white of the page looking, as ever, like the sheet of snow outside. Even the snow holds more interest than the blank page - there are dirty spots, where rocks and twigs poke through, some trees, birch I guess, but how would I really know, with snow on the branches. Even now, hints of life, more life than will ever greet my page. Off to the side, just out of the window, a spider has spun a web, snow melt glistens on it, little scintillating sparkles in the bright sun, forever spoiling the effect the spider wants, to effortlessly blend into the background, letting no one know of its existence til it's too late, forever enmeshed in the web, stuck there til the end of days.

A butterfly, too early for the season, how could it be possible in all the snow and ice - silly, really - never mind the fact that it's existence can't be possible, here and now. Yet it is here, flying by, its yellows and oranges and blacks giving stark contrast to the dead whites and browns around it. Silly little creature, flitting through the air, not knowing or caring that I am smart enough to know that it should not exist. It almost is enough for me to crack a smile, but I don't, can't. I should ignore it, go back to work, or at least the facade of work, but my eyes still follow it of there own accord. Stupid, it just keeps drifting on the breeze, closer to the web, closer to getting what it deserves. It has no right to be here now, shouldn't be out there distracting me, and it will pay for its uncaring optimism. Too stupid to see the little sparkles in the web, it collides, and struggles, ensnared, its wings tangled, tearing; I can almost hear the water shaking from the web, adding its patter to the incessant drip-drip-drip on the windowsill, coupled with the thrumming rumbling of the spider's footfalls on the web, the sound of imminent doom, the last ticks of the clock for the butterfly.

I close my eyes, and I see myself getting up, running, sprinting for the front door, ignoring the fact that my feet are bare and that I am in boxers and a tee shirt. I push through the wet melting snow, feeling the cold and damp on my legs, my heart pounding in my chest, straining to burst, hoping against hope that I could save the silly little thing, smashing the bloated spider, its dull gray and brown body oozing its poison out between my fingertips. Carefully, so delicately then, I would pull apart the silken strands and let the little work of art go, impossible as it is, on to continue its impossible existence. And it does, flying away, no gratitude given or accepted, and I sink down in the snow and cry - the first real tears I have had in years, feeling the melt around me and through me.

But I sit there, eyes closed instead, and when I open them, there is a little brown and black spider, sitting on a small grey cocoon, a transformation for the butterfly, but not the one it must have experienced before, going back to a shrivelled gray worm.

So, at last, the struggle done, my typewriter finds me again, and the spider continues to crawl across the page, and still nothing is written.