The Night Heron

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Moriyama Akio knelt silently amongst the trees and watched the sky change with every blink of his eyes. This was his favorite time, the only time he could truly think, the only time he could truly reflect. The samurai closed his eyes and began to meditate on the past and the future. Soon, he came back to the present and stood with his katana in front of him. The sword hissed as Moriyama pulled it from its scabbard. As the clouds danced above, the samurai began his own dance below, the dance of death. Water dripped from the leaves of maple and fir trees. A stream gurgled in the distance; a night heron called out repeatedly, and the samurai danced. He moved silently, swinging the deadly blade with precise ferocity. One could almost see reality being cut as the sword hissed through the air. The samurai was a blur, he moved endlessly, never seeming to get tired. He was more demon than man as his movements became inhuman, bending and jumping in ways that no ordinary person could accomplish. His performance was awesome in every sense of the word. Awesome and frightening. Was it a blessing or a curse that his blood was bound to a Kami? Was it a curse or a blessing if you were among the unchosen, grasping the familial blade and waiting for the surge of energy, only for nothing to happen? Disappointment or glee that you are free to live a normal life? It began to rain. The samurai continued his deadly dance, ferociously attacking invisible foes. His breath was steady as he danced between trees and kicked up patches of earth. He needed to be ready for what was to come. The sun began to peak over the horizon, beams of light started to appear within the trees. The light grew and shrunk as the sun crawled slowly higher, the trees cutting short the long beams of light. Finally, the samurai stopped, he sheathed his sword and resumed a position on the ground. He began to meditate once again, listening to the sound of the wind whispering through the trees. He could hear the whispers and he was prepared. The wind continued to whisper, and the whisper was of death.

The next night was the same as the night before. The samurai watched as the purple clouds appeared and took a deep breath. He knelt on the ground and stayed there, unmoving, not making a sound. It appeared at first glance as though the samurai was sleeping. His breathing was steady, and his face was serene. He was waiting to begin the dance of death, his last dance to be sure. He had trained and now all that was needed was a partner. His daishō yearned to be called upon to take up the dance and drink the blood of his enemy. He would not need to wait long; soon, his well-trained senses told him it was time. A night heron calling in the distance, water dripping from the leaves of nearby trees, these were natural sounds of the natural world. A twig snapping in the shadows, the crunch of leaves from behind a tree, these were unnatural sounds from a source that should not be there. Their clumsiness gave them away and that is when death came for them.

The first two men had put eyes on the samurai, but both had hidden as the twig snapped and the leaves crunched in turn. When they braved a look from behind their refuge, he was gone. Moriyama was a shadow; he dropped from a tree and plunged his katana into one of the men, his blade entered between the man’s neck and shoulder and sunk up to the hilt. Blood poured from the man’s mouth as Moriyama pulled his blade out. The second man turned and saw his comrade in a growing pool of blood, he turned back to run but too late, the samurai’s blade hissed, and the man’s head tumbled to the ground. It started to rain; the samurai listened to the music of the forest. More clumsy and unnatural sounds through the trees, the three men came charging from the darkness, heedless of the danger ahead. They closed the distance between themselves and the samurai quickly. Moriyama did not move until the first man was upon him, sword raised in a killing strike. Lightening flashed in the sky, just as quickly the samurai’s sword flashed and the first man dropped to the ground, blood spurting from his neck. Moriyama parried a blow from the second man, spun around and laid his blade across the man’s back. He spun around and fell to the ground, trying feebly to crawl towards a stump. The samurai left him there and flew towards the last man, who had frozen in fear at the speed and brutality of the samurai. His expression changed from shock, to horror, and finally to utter surprise as he looked down and saw the blade pinning him to the tree he had backed up against. Two minutes later, he lay on the ground next to the tree, and the samurai was gone. Having been unpinned from the tree but lacking the strength to move, the man gazed up at the treetops and the stars beyond, glad he had died a warrior's death.

Moriyama walked through the trees towards his enemies. His sword was smoking as the blood began to sizzle on the blade. It screamed to taste more flesh, it needed to kiss the enemy. Suddenly, two giant bats hurdled out of the darkness ahead, their fangs outstretched and dripping with venom. The samurai knew what they were, and he was ready for them. He ducked and rolled under the first bat, coming up suddenly with his katana and carving the second bat in half. As the first bat tried to turn around for another pass, Moriyama sheathed his sword and pulled out a shuriken with one fluid motion. Still turned with his back towards the bat, the samurai reached across his body and threw the projectile from under his left arm. He did not look back to confirm the kill, and instead, he pulled out two more shuriken and threw them into the darkness from which the bats emerged. Moriyama heard the Onmyōuji scream in pain but only found blood and divination tools in the small clearing. The samurai continued silently; he was approaching his destination; he was approaching his last deadly dance.

The samurai exited the trees and was standing in front of a small, abandoned fishing village. A group of ronin were gathered at the entrance to the town, one man stood out from the rest. He was adorned in red while the others were confined to black and grey.

“Moriyama, I am here to bring you and your treacherous clan to justice. Surrender now and you will be given the privilege of seppuku.”

“How dare you, Naru? How can you speak of justice? I am no traitor; your master is the traitor. And you? You are worse than a traitor. You are a coward, a vile dog begging for scraps from a treacherous master. A master who will beat you senseless and slit your throat once he no longer needs you. He will kill you for failing.”

“As you say, samurai,” said Naru Ai as he took a step towards Moriyama. “If I fail to kill you then it means only one thing, that I am already dead. So, it appears there is only one way forward....” Naru turned to his men, “kill him.”

Naru had barely finished speaking but the samurai was already two steps away from the ronin. Only Naru’s highly honed sense of intuition saved his life. The ronin feigned to the right and grabbed one of his men, within a second he had switched places with the man, who was immediately cleaved from shoulder to hip. Blood spattered Naru’s face as Moriyama tore his blade free. Anger and bloodlust filled the samurai and light suddenly flared. The eyes of the ronin filled with terror as they became aware of the demon samurai and his burning blade.

Naru was moving quickly and quietly through the trees, trying not to lose control and panic. He had to reach his archers and the safety of his fort. What he had witnessed back at the village would be with him for the rest of his days. Men stumbling around with missing limbs, men on fire, men screaming in pain and horror. He felt ashamed leaving them there to die at the hands of the demon samurai, but Naru was not ready to die, not until there were no more options left to him. The screams of his dying men followed him as he ran. He could still hear them now, yet he had to be close to the fort. Something was not right. A sound from behind him; Naru raised his sword as a bloody ronin stumbled forward from the darkness.

“He is....”

“He is what? Dammit!”

“He is...”

The man was cut off as a burning blade exploded from his chest. Naru bit back a scream, he would not die a frightened coward, no. As the body of the ronin fell to the ground, the fire slowly died away and the sword was once again just a sword. Not a blemish to be seen. Moriyama, the samurai, did not say a word. He simply stood there staring at Naru and waited for the ronin to make his move. They were standing in a small clearing, no more than ten feet in diameter. Naru looked around and he did not like what he saw; there was nothing for it but to stand and fight. There was a small click as Naru loosened his katana from its scabbard, steel flashed, and the sound of arrows filled the air. Moriyama was struck once, twice, three times. He looked down at the arrows sticking out of his body, one in his leg, one in his shoulder, and the last in his belly. Now, the small clearing was filling up rapidly with more ronin. The samurai roared in anger, his sword roared with hunger, and they attacked. Naru saw the samurai’s eyes and knew he would kill every single man in that clearing if given the chance. It was true. Before he had even thought it, four ronin were already on the ground, dead or dying.

Naru called for more volleys from his archers, he yelled for his bow, not daring to take his eyes away from the carnage unfolding in front of him. The ground was wet with blood and water. Naru tripped over someone's arm; fear was beginning to take hold of him. The thrum of bowstrings brought him back under control and he smiled as two more arrows struck the samurai. Yet the samurai continued to kill everyone around him. A third volley of arrows rained down upon the samurai, this time the archers were less careful and the ronin were caught by the arrows as well. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and Naru whirled around ready to strike; his bow was thrust toward him and Naru took it up with glee. The ronin pulled a heavy arrowhead from his quiver, aimed, and let loose the bowstring. The arrow hit home with a thud and stopped Moriyama in his tracks. Two more men died as they tried to claim the samurai’s head. Naru took up another heavy arrow and fired. This time the samurai stumbled back a few steps; no one dared approach. Naru knocked a third arrow and shot Moriyama, adding an eighth arrow to the samurai’s collection. Moriyama dropped to his knees, his eyes were open and looking straight ahead. Yet he did not see the men around him, horrified and exhilarated in their survival. The samurai was deep within himself, calling upon Kōjin one last time. The samurai prayed and the komi heard. Moriyama began chanting and the wind began to blow. The chanting became louder and stronger as the wind howled more ferociously. The samurai raised his ancestorial sword high in the air as fire appeared once more. The chanting hit a crescendo as Moriyama plunged the sword into the ground. Immense heat filled the air in the clearing and a surge of energy burst outward, knocking the remaining ronin to the ground. The last thing Naru saw was Moriyama cutting open his own belly with his tonto, spilling his blood onto the ground surrounding the sword. All was quiet as the ground and the sword drank the blood earnestly.

Every man there tried to pull the sword from the ground, but no one could even grasp the hilt. It was too hot to the touch, and if you were burned by it, your burn would never heal. Of course, the ronin did not know this yet, and so many were burned. Nor could they kick it free, it would not budge. One man broke a leg when his horse bucked him off as he tried to lasso the sword and pull it free. The horses were driven mad just being in the presence of the sword. In the end, Naru and his men left Moriyama and his blade there in the forest, soon to covered by leaves and moss. The fishing village and the surrounding woods would soon fall into legend. No person dared enter those woods for fear of the ghost of the demon samurai who dwells there. Twenty generations would live and die before the blood of Moriyama would return to those woods. Twenty generations before any soul would set eyes upon that demon’s blade. Twenty generations until a worthy warrior claimed that ancestral sword.

When the sound of Naru’s men and horses finally died away, the music of the forest once again dominated. Water dripped from the leaves of maple and fir trees. A stream gurgled in the distance; a night heron called repeatedly, and the samurai danced.