The Eve of Every Tomorrow - Katahito Yuri

Before my twenty–fifth year, I had earned a name for myself. I had faced death. I had ridden out and learned to follow orders, then led men of my own. I had tasted the clash of blades.I had served my Lord Akayama for eleven years and, in that time, his family had flourished and our world had changed. Yes, I had earned a name for myself and, like my father before me, I would use it to raise up my lord and bear his standard into battle.

But not today.

On this side of the house there was a small orchard with sparse vegetation. Its dusty soil offered a natural space for training and privacy enough that I could be certain no–one would stumble upon my poor mood this afternoon. I lifted my chin from my hand briefly to say one word:

“Again.”

The child pouted.

Akayama Ryuunari had attained the tender age of four when his father decided he should learn the way of the sword. It was the kind of delicate training that could be entrusted only to his most faithful and honoured of servants.

I stifled a yawn. “Do it. If you don't, you will be weak, and one day a man will come and stab you in the back and you will die in disgrace because you never learned to defend yourself.”

“You don't care,” said Ryuunari, brandishing the blade two–handed, and waiting for further instruction. He was a scrawny thing, even dressed in the finest kosode and hakama. Like a doll. His blade was miniature, but sharpened as well as any soldier's. He glared up at me defiantly.

It seemed the son was going to be harder to impress than the father.

He started when I stood up, flinching as if he thought I would strike him. I adjusted his stance, covered his hands with my own and, all but crushing his fingers, showed him again how to cut with the blade. He grimaced and staggered under my motions. “Teach me something new, Yuri–sensei,” he said.

“Not until you get that right.”

“When will that be?” he asked.

“Maybe a decade.”

I returned to my vigil on the decking, wondering if I had done something wrong to be tasked with babysitting Kiyomaru's heir.

“Sensei,” he asked after a time, the words following the staccato of his breaths: “Will you teach me every afternoon until it is right?”

“If your father orders me to do so,” I said, allowing all my enthusiasm to shine through. His face screwed up a little at that. I had judged him too young to understand the nuance of my tone.

Perhaps I could excuse myself somehow. I could be a fine warrior and a poor teacher. There was no reason the two roles should sit well together. I just needed to convince Kiyomaru that his son could not learn anything useful from me.

“Yuri–sensei, why are you called a woman's name?” Ryuunari asked at length. If he thought he could trouble me with the observation, he was wrong. I'd heard every jibe a thousand times before.

“It's the name my mother told my father a day after I was born.”

“Were you a girl then?”

“No. My mother didn't want to marry my father. She thought if I were a girl, he wouldn't want me.”

“Did he want you anyway?” His sword strokes wavered.

“I was a boy,” I pointed out.

“So? That doesn't make sense.”

“Some secrets just don't keep.”

He looked as if he had over–exerted himself. His face was white and damp. I had no experience with children, but I suspected my lord would prefer his son returned intact, so I called the lesson to a close. As the boy changed back into his day clothes and returned the weapon to me, he asked if my mother had married my father. “Yes,” I said, “It was her duty after all.”


I did not want to be a teacher.

A week later though the boy was moving more awkwardly than he had on the first day. He was all sharp movements and his hands, on the hilt of the blade, seemed weaker than before. I lay on my side on the decking, head resting on my elbow, watching. He seemed to apply himself. He was dilligent. If we kept this up, he might even acquire a certain skill, though it seemed to me he might be tired. If this weakness continued I would ask his father if a lesson every other day might be more effective.


“Do you think, Yuri–sensei,” Ryuunari asked, as he changed at the end of the lesson, “It could take us less than one decade?”

I didn't answer. I was staring at his back, which was striped with bruises, including one that had broken the skin across his spine.

“Does your father strike you, Ryuunari–kun?”

“If I do not apply myself so well as I should.”

I frowned:

“I shall tell him you applied yourself today.” He was staring at me still and I realised he was waiting for an answer. I straightened: “Most certainly less than a decade,” I promised.


I knew I could not question Kiyomaru–sama's judgement when it came to his son. Still I found myself seated before him one autumn evening. The servants were closing the drapes against the new cold, and, with each motion, the lamplights flickered. Because I was his retainer’s son, he had invited me to his quarters, and had brought sake and rice cakes. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

“You have been teaching Ryuunari for some months now. What do you think of him?” my lord asked.

I chewed the rice thoughtfully.

“He is obedient,” I said at length.

“Is he skilled?”

“He is young.” He seemed disappointed. “My Lord, you have high expectations.” His eyes flicked to mine. They were pale grey: one of the strange quirks of people born in this region. Most arresting and intense in their gaze. “What results,” I asked carefully, “Would you expect to see from these lessons?”

“You and your father are the finest swordsmen south of Edo. My son is young and healthy. I expect you to make him something extraordinary.” I frowned, still using the food and sake to buy myself time. “In time,” Kiyomaru said, “You will teach his younger brother too. He seems stronger than my firstborn, but harder to control.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He sighed and all at once I knew I had put a foot wrong somewhere.

“You think I am too harsh, Yuri–kun?” I said nothing. I knew better than to admit it, but he had already seen through me. “You and your family are playing at being warriors in a country that has not seen war in decades,” he said. “Do not forget that you are reliant on my good–will! You will do as I ask you, and I will tell you why.” He sat back and drained his cup. “Peace will not hold.”

I looked up. He was regarding me seriously. “In this country, believe me, it will not hold. Now I am lucky. You and your father too. We have grown fat and complacent. But with my sons, I will not risk that.” He glanced at the windows where curtains the colour of claret now rippled. “One day, they will fight, and, unless you make them strong, the will die.”

Somehwere a fox cried. “You are a good teacher,” he said and I felt some of the tension drain from him.

He was pouring me more wine. It took me a moment to find my voice.

“The training is physical and the punishments meted out on Ryuunari are such that he struggles to keep up.”

“Are you still begging me to be merciful?” he asked, the irritation creeping back again.

“No, my lord,” I said.

I thought of the boy and of the weight he already carried on his shoulders, made all that much greater by his father’s words. Whatever came of this day, I would at least have tried for his sake. I bowed, palms flat on the ground and spoke my mind.

“My lord, please let me take the punishments in his stead.”

After a long silence, he tapped the cup on the low table.

“I had dearly hoped that, like your father, you would serve me, Yuri–kun. It saddens me greatly, but I see now you are not my man. Indeed it seems you will not serve me.”

Across the table, he handed me the cup of wine.
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I am leaving now.

Two decades have passed and any bruises I suffered on behalf of that boy are gone and long forgotten.  His father is dead and there is talk of unrest in Edo to the north. Before I am too old to ride or wield a blade, I intend to see the country I have served.

I am leaving now, on the eve of an unknown tomorrow. Kiyomaru was right when he said I was not his man.

It was his son whom I was proud to call my master. Ryuunari has surpassed me in our arts now. He has the mind of a scholar. Yet it is in the art of the sword that he has truly excelled himself. His reputation goes ahead of him. Ahead of me as I ride north to Edo, leaving behind twenty-two years of service.

His father was right about one other thing too: I was an excellent teacher.