The Sword Maker

by Jeremy Akel

1445

Shimane, Japan

The commission arrived by scroll, one late summer’s morning. It was conveyed to Ariharu, a sword maker from Shimane, but was intended for Naokata, his apprentice. It was for a katana.

Accompanying the scroll was a chest containing eight packs of silver coins. The commission itself was specific, and unusual: Naokata was to forge the blade, without aid from Ariharu. It was to be made without ornament, and be ready by spring, in time for the Shunie ceremony at Todaiji Temple. The patron, whose name was not given, would meet with him in four months' time.

Reading the commission, Naokata was possessed of a sudden foreboding. For him, this felt like an ending.

One Year Earlier

Naokata appreciated its remoteness. Situated near the sea, in the southwest corner of the shogunate, Shimane was rich in pine, which grew in verdant forests below the Chūgoku Mountains. Naokata would marvel at the caverns dotting the shore, and he was especially fond of the shiso, which grew wild, and which he added liberally to his soups and teas. Shimane, however, was known for something else: its rich deposits of iron sand, which washed down from the mountains surrounding the forests and the caverns. It was this sand, blackish and heavy, that Naokata, along with his master Ariharu, would smelt into steel, in order to forge weapons of exquisite sharpness for the shogun and his samurai.

* * *

Naokata brought the hammer down, turning the steel over on the anvil. The heat from the furnace scorched the air about him, and Naokata winced.

“We need more fire.” Ariharu adjusted the air flow, pulling the handle on the bellows adjacent to the charcoal.

Naokata nodded and continued. The metal was almost ready.

“Now, Naokata.” Ariharu moved closer.

With his chisel, Naokata cut the steel precisely into several uniform billets. Stacking the pieces into a cross pattern, he began a final forging, or agekitae, which would remove any remaining impurities.

As he did so, Naokata looked to the far wall, across from the furnace. There he saw a small shrine, a type of kamiza, dedicated to Inari Ōkami, the god of blacksmiths and brothels.

Perhaps this time Inari would hear his prayer.

Forty-Five Years Earlier

Ariharu was miserable. The war had raged across all of Izumi province, bringing a desperation blanketing the entire region. The fighting had been vicious.

It had also been personal. Ōuchi Yoshihiro, a high ranking samurai, had rebelled against the shogun, Ashikaga Yoshimochi. The fighting would end, Ariharu knew, only when Yoshimochi had killed Yoshihiro. For Yoshimochi, there could be no other outcome; Yoshihiro had, at one time, been the shogun’s most trusted retainer.

Yoshihiro’s end, however, was near. His army bloodied, he had withdrawn to his last defensible position, a fortified bunker in the city of Sakai. It was there, one bright winter’s day, when the shogun began his final assault.

The battle began early, before the morning mist had cleared the city. Ariharu saw him, his enemy, standing near the bunker with a spear in his hand.

The boy was no more than fourteen, and was plainly terrified. It was obvious to Ariharu that the child, a peasant soldier, had never used a weapon in his life.

For an absurd moment, Ariharu wanted to reach out, and correct the boy’s posture, telling him, “No, your left hand goes here.” But when the boy attacked, jabbing the air before him, Ariharu did what he had always done, and the child fell to the ground, confused, and bleeding, and dying.

Three weeks later, after the war had ended, Ariharu went to her, the maiden Sho. “It’s over, my love. We’re finally together.”

* * *

It had been four months since Naokata received the commission. He would meet his patron today.

Naokata recognized him, of course. How could he not? He was older, yes, and the aspect he carried left Naokata with the impression of worn stone, like the caverns he would visit on the shore. He seemed hollowed.

Naokata hadn’t seen him in years. At one time they were friends.

“Hirosada.”

“Hello, Naokata.”

The two were silent a moment.

“You were not easy to find. But I persisted.”

Naokata spoke. “You commissioned the sword. Why?”

Hirosada was quiet. He sat at a table, then, and produced a bottle of wine.

“Please. Sit with me, Naokata. I want to drink with you once more. One last time.”

Hirosada poured the wine, and looked at him, as if in reminiscence. “What you did was unforgivable.”

Naokata spoke, almost to himself. “You know what he did to her. We were in love.”

Hirosada motioned to the wine. “Drink.” Naokata took his cup and drank. Hirosada continued.

“What do you think happened, Naokata? After you left the castle?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was your senior. They blamed me. For what you chose to do.”

Hirosada poured himself more wine.

“I had to leave. The shogun ...” A pained look crossed Hirosada’s face. “I have nothing left, Naokata. You took everything from me.”

Naokata began to speak, but Hirosada stopped him. “And your parents. Did you think they would be spared?”

Naokata looked at him sharply. “Are they safe?”

“Yes. They are safe. But they are not the same people you once knew. The shogun ...” Again, the pained expression. “The shogun has a long memory.”

Hirosada put his cup down. The bottle was nearly empty.

“I am ending this, Naokata.” Hirosada looked at him, intently. “You killed the daimyo with his own blade. I will do the same to you, with the blade you are making for me. And then, I will travel to Yamato Province, to Todaiji Temple. I will attend the Shunie ceremony, on the first day of spring, and cleanse myself of my sins.

“I am going to end my life there, Naokata, in the temple garden.”

Naokata covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t look at him.

It is what I deserve, Naokata thought. I deserve to die.

* * *

Ariharu was watching Naokata as he folded the metal on itself.

“The metal takes on the temper of its maker, Naokata. You know this.” Ariharu was thoughtful. “This blade is different.” He gestured to him.

“Come, sit with me. The world can wait just a bit longer.” Naokata breathed deeply, and set down his tongs. He joined him.

Ariharu considered him for a moment.

“I never told you why I came to Shimane, did I?”

Naokata looked to Ariharu as if he, rather than the metal, had been folded inwards. He seemed smaller.

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Ariharu nodded. Then he began.

“Her name was Sho. She lived in Izumi. There was a war, a rebellion. You know of this?”

And Naokata did know; he had read the stories as a child. The samurai Yoshihiro, head of the powerful Ōuchi clan, had rebelled against the shogun in Kyoto. At one time, the shogun considered Yoshihiro a friend—so much so, that he had tasked him with governing Izumi Province. With this new charge, however, came rumors of ambition and jealousy, which eventually reached the Flower Palace itself. War between the two became inevitable. In their final battle, Yoshihiro and his army met that of the shogun in the port city of Sakai. A month later, the city was brought to ruin, as was Yoshihiro; he committed suicide when the shogun breached his last defense.

“I was born in Izumi, Naokata. I fought in that war, for the shogun. I killed my own people.” Ariharu paused. “We were in love, Sho and I. After the war, I wanted to be with her, to bring her to Kyoto. But Yoshimitsu, the shogun’s father, forbade it. She was from Izumi, and was therefore unwelcome. It did not matter how many men I had killed, or how loyal I had proven myself to be.

“She killed herself, Naokata. And I wasn’t there to save her.” Ariharu paused a moment, looking past Naokata, to a different time. “This is what violence does. It destroys lives.”

Naokata was silent. The faint trill of a songbird could be heard outside the smelter.

Ariharu continued. “I was torn in two, after Sho died. Her death, what happened to her. It never left me.” He focused his gaze, then. “Izumi is not so far from here. I couldn’t return there, of course. There was nothing left for me in Izumi. But I couldn’t leave, either, not completely. Sho was everything. It would have felt wrong.

“So I moved to Shimane. I have lived, I think, on the outskirts of my life ever since.”

Ariharu looked at Naokata, directly. He spoke softly. “If you had seen me then, when I first moved here, I would have looked, I imagine, just as how I am seeing you, right now.”

The heat from the furnace washed across them, in waves. Naokata appeared thoughtful. “May I ask you a question, Ariharu?”

“Of course.”

“If the war brought you here, why become a sword maker? Why make a weapon that brings such misery into the world?”

Ariharu was taken aback.

“Is that what you think, Naokata? That the sword causes violence? That it caused Sho to die?”

“I do. I know this, Ariharu, from my own past. My own actions.”

Ariharu was silent then, for a moment.

“Naokata, if I teach you nothing else, let me teach you this. There will always be violence in the world. Always. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the sword, or a fist, or even a word, spoken in anger. It is who we are. What matters is the person wielding the sword, and the person, speaking in anger. It is the choice we make, in the moment, to either bring violence, or not bring violence, into the world.

“That is how I failed Sho. Not because I fought in the war. But because Sho thought there was no choice but that of violence. When she chose to kill herself.”

Ariharu leaned in. He spoke with feeling. “There is always a choice, Naokata. Always. If I had loved Sho more, I would have helped her see that.”

Ariharu stood up. “I know about Hirosada, Naokata. I know what he intends to do, and that you will allow him to do it. If he does this thing, it won’t end with your death. It won’t even end with his. There are always consequences.

“Do not make the same mistake I made. If you care about your friend, if you care about the world, do not let him choose this path. Do not let him choose violence.”

* * *

A week later, the blade was finished. Its last forging, its agekitae, completed, the steel was now purified: its grain pattern had tightened, and the metal made more resilient. Naokata felt purified too; whether Inari had granted him some measure of grace that had eluded him for so long, Naokata could not say. But he was presently possessed of an insight regarding his future course of action. Naokata knew what he must do.

All that was left was for the blade to be fitted, and for Naokata and Hirosada to put an end to this matter.

* * *

They met on the shore, near the caverns and rocks. Hirosada had been waiting for him.

“The sword, Naokata. May I see it?”

“Yes.”

Naokata approached. Normally, a samurai would not permit another, particularly an enemy, to be within sword’s reach. However Hirosada and Naokata were not enemies, not really. Hirosada believed that Naokata deserved this, and Naokata—well, Naokata had begun to see Hirosada in a different light.

Naokata handed Hirosada the weapon. Hirosada placed the sword on his left hip but kept it in its sheath.

“You did not bring a weapon, Naokata.”

“I did not.”

“I will make this quick, then. I promise you it will be painless.” Hirosada then gripped the handle of his sword.

“Goodbye, Naokata.”

“Wait.” With his right hand, Naokata held Hirosada’s sword wrist, firmly.

“Do not do this, Hirosada. If you kill me, it won’t end here. You will be killing yourself, too.”

“I know, Naokata.”

Hirosada moved.

Since Naokata’s hand was on his wrist, Hirosada was unable to unsheathe the blade. So he stepped back, moving his entire body, allowing the sword to emerge from its scabbard. He then raised the blade over his head and cut downward, with purpose.

Naokata moved quickly, before Hirosada could complete the strike. His right hand still gripping Hirosada’s wrist, he placed his left hand on Hirosada’s elbow, and stepped forward, under the cut. Naokata was now positioned in front of Hirosada, only inches from him. Hirosada’s sword was trapped above his head.

Hirosada’s eyes went wide. This was something unlike he had ever seen. What was Naokata doing?

Naokata turned then, away from Hirosada, but still holding his arm. He heard Hirosada shout in surprise. Naokata knew what Hirosada was thinking, that he had lost all sense turning his back.

Even as Naokata turned, the sword remained in place, above Hirosada, kept there by Naokata’s hold on Hirosada’s arm. Naokata completed his turn.

Hirosada and Naokata faced each other once more, separated now by only the merest thought. For Hirosada, there was nothing left but to complete the strike, just as he had initially intended. This, however, was exactly what Naokata wanted. Naokata still controlled Hirosada’s arm.

The energy from the strike was devastating; Naokata used that to his advantage. Guiding the sword away, Naokata redirected the cut towards Hirosada’s knees, then continued the movement, redirecting the energy of the strike upward.

Too late, Hirosada realized that he had become trapped by his own intention. He could no more stop his movement now than he could forgive Naokata years ago, when he was forced to flee his home.

As the energy dissipated above them, Naokata moved his hand to Hirosada’s wrist. Completing the technique, he then locked Hirosada’s arm next to his head. Hirosada was immobilized.

And then, he was disarmed.

“You must stop this madness Hirosada!” Naokata shouted.

Hirosada cried out, “I cannot, Naokata!” He began to sob. “Don’t you see? You have taken everything from me! I have nothing left!”

And then Naokata saw himself, a lifetime ago, feeling the same anguish, just before killing the daimyo.

“No, Hirosada.” Naokata lowered his voice. “Not everything. Do not make the same mistake I made. Not everything has been taken from you. You still have a choice, even now.

“It’s patterns, Hirosada. All of it. This won’t end here, or even at Todaiji Temple. The violence you are choosing, it will live on, past our deaths.”

Naokata released him.

“Listen to me, Hirosada. Listen to me as if your life depended on it. This is something we never learned in our training. I am not your enemy here; violence is. Do not choose this path.”

Hirosada had become quiet.

“I am going to leave you now. If you feel you must continue this, I won’t stop you.”

And then Naokata left.

* * *

With a gesture, Hirosada had proven Naokata right. The next day, at the smelter, Naokata saw him. Hirosada was standing there, quietly. And then, after a moment, he was gone.

He left his sword on the table.

Naokata turned to Ariharu, who was watching him. The fire from the furnace cast a brilliant glow, the color of burnt amber, on the walls and floor of the smelter; shadows danced across the kamiza.

They would need more wood soon.

About the author

Jeremy Akel is an attorney and author. He received his Juris Doctor from the University of Florida, and his Master of Laws from George Washington University. As an undergraduate he attended Vanderbilt University. Jeremy also teaches Aikido, a Japanese martial art, and is certified by the United States Aikido Federation as Fukushidoin. His work has been published in Altered Reality Magazine and Rue Scribe.

About the illustration

The illustration is "Blacksmith Munechika, helped by a fox spirit, forging the blade Ko-Gitsune Maru" by Ogata Gekkō, 1887. Woodblock print. In the collection of Gallery Dutta, Geneva, Switzerland. In the public domain in its country of origin and the United States (PD-1996).