The Duel

“What’s the meaning of this?”

The old man held the proclamation, posted in the middle of the small village’s gathering place a few days earlier, now signed and delivered to him by a messenger, indicating acceptance of the samurai’s challenge.

“The honorable Ronin wishes to convey his gratitude for honoring him by accepting his public challenge to a duel and welcomes the opportunity to test his blade against a brave, albeit foolhardy opponent.”

“This must be some mistake. I am a feeble old monk. There is no challenge here, foolhardy or otherwise.”

“But your signature sir… right here… with the residence at Dorin’s temple scribbled underneath it. I can’t make out the name, but the house is clear.”

“Uncle, that is my handwriting.” The young boy came up from behind him and grabbed the proclamation, “I wish to fight the Samurai.”

Ignoring his nephew’s outburst, the old man smiled and turned to the messenger, “as you can see, there is a mistake. The boy is not to be taken seriously. I will punish him for his mischief and have Takumi, the village calligrapher, draw up a new proclamation for the town square.”

Infuriated at the sleight, the boy stepped in front of his uncle and gave the parchment paper back to the messenger, “You tell him I will be there at noon tomorrow. The challenge has been accepted and no matter what my well-intentioned uncle says, I am honor bound to go through with it. I’d rather die young than live a coward.”

The messenger smiled, “Understood young man; and die you will, so get your affairs in order.”

With that the messenger turned and walked back to his horse, ignoring the consistent pleading of the old man murmuring behind him. He rode off quickly and left them both in the middle of the temple, staring at each other, one in disbelief, the other in resolve.

After a few minutes of silence, the boy mounted his his own horse.

“Where are you going?” Asked the old man.

“I am heeding the messenger’s advice,” the boy said. “I need to get my affairs in order.”

The old man was sure the child had gone mad. Maybe it was the trauma of losing both his parents at an early age. It might also be the influence of his new friend, Takeo, who’s constant barrage of Samurai legends might have instilled in the child a premature need to play the hero. Either way, as the boy said, he was in fact honor bound to go through with the challenge. The only chance of avoiding it would be for Dorin himself to plead for mercy at the ronin’s feet. An old man’s pride was much less valuable than a young man’s life, he gathered.

His conversation with the samurai went as expected. For all his begging and pleading, he failed to make a dent in the man’s resolve to teach that insolent boy a lesson.

“The only promise I can make old man is that if the way of the battle reveals a victory without necessitating the boy’s death, then I will spare his foolish life.”

When Dorin came home he found no trace of his nephew. He waited up all night but the boy failed to show. Dorin began to wonder if the boy had run off, the fear of facing the moment finally bearing down on him. He liked the idea of his nephew fleeing with his life as an alternative to what would likely happen if he stayed. But that fantasy faded with the moon as he saw the boy approach the temple just as the first rays of the new sun lit up the sky.

“You intend to go through with this nonsense?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I will tell you after I defeat the Samurai.”

Dorin was envious of the little boy’s confidence. He took after his father in that regard. Dorin had always been a shy timid boy in stark contrast to his brash and impetuous younger brother. Seeing traces of his deceased sibling in the boy’s demeanor, Dorin pleaded with him once more.

“Takezo, please reconsider, for the sake of an old man whose heart is too frail to withstand the loss of his nephew so quickly after burying his brother.”

“Don’t worry about that uncle. You will not loose anything this afternoon. I promise.”

The boy ran inside the temple, to his room, and came out quickly with a sword in one hand and some of his belongings in a sack strapped around his shoulder. He ran off before the old man had another chance to talk with him.

Dorin meditated all morning and then walked to the town square, where everyone was gathered to watch the spectacle unfold. He saw young Takezo waiting patiently by the Torii a few yards away from the square. He also saw the Samurai approaching from the other side. Fear began to grip Dorin and he dismounted and ran over to the boy.

“If you must die, I will die with you.” Dorin said.

Before Takezo could respond, the samurai belted out a roar and ran towards him, Sword drawn and battle ready. He stopped a few feet away from his young opponent.

“Are you ready little fool?”

“I am ready big oaf — come and get me.”

The boy pushed his uncle out of the way and took a clumsy fighting stance. He raised the sword above his head, revealing his inexperience with the weapon in the process. The Samurai smiled and halfheartedly lunged at the boy, thinking him an easy target and wanting to give the crowd a bit of a show. As the samurai got closer he overextended his thrust in order to draw a parry. However, instead of parrying the telegraphed blow as the samurai expected, Takezo pivoted to the side and the Samurai went lunging forward towards the wooden column of the Torri. His shoulder crashed into the structure and the column shook slightly.

The samurai was aggravated but maintained his composure. He turned around and smiled at the boy.

“You think these little tricks of yours will work?”

“Not that one, but maybe this one will.”

The boy slashed at the wooden rope by the column and down came a large burlap bag filled with rice. It struck the samurai in the back of the neck and made him stumble forward. The boy then whistled and his horse kicked his rear legs out, striking the big man in the chest and causing him to drop his sword before collapsing onto the floor.

The boy ran over to the Samurai and kicked the sword out of hands reach. He stood above his wounded adversary and quickly slashed his throat. He then dropped his sword and walked over to his uncle.

With tears in his eyes, Dorin hugged the boy. “I see that Takeo might have been a better influence than I thought,” he said. “Was he the one who taught you how to fight like?”

“Takeo is a dreamer and a fool,” replied the boy. “I have no interest in honor or reputation or any of that nonsense.

He took a step back and looked at his uncle, his face stern with resolve.

“Every year for the last four years,” the boy continued, “I’ve seen this bully come around here with his proclamations and challenges. And every time the blowhard shows up, this village is frozen with fear. He stays at Hiratoro’s Inn, drinking all the sake and eating every morsel of food in stock, all the while refusing to pay for his meals or lodging. In his drunken stupors he stumbles around kicking up rice paddies and toppling over structures. By the time he’s gone we all have to work twice as hard to produce our annual rice tax and all for what, accommodating this blustering fool and his meaningless honor challenges. The only thing I’m interested in is getting back to the business of being a village. Now that this idiot is out of our hair, it looks like we can all finally get some work done around here.”