Chapter 37

Instead of pointing the gun at the old man behind the counter, Darius turned it on himself with the barrel pointed directly at his heart. There was a sickening moment where time seemed suspended and the old man tried to act. He wasn’t going to have some kid commit suicide in his store.

“Wait…,” he tried to say, but before he could do much more than twitch, Darius pulled the trigger.

The sound was loud in the little store and seemed to bounce off everything in it. The old man put his hand to his ears, trying to drown it out. Inadvertently, he shut his eyes as well, as if a part of his mind didn’t want to see the bloody mess waiting for him.

When he finally reopened them, his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. The young man wasn’t a bloody mess on his floor but alive and whole. He glanced over the kid’s body and found nothing but a charred and smoking hole in his shirt. His dark skin showed beneath it, intact and completely unaffected by the bullet. He gaped in utter amazement. There wasn’t so much as a scratch on the kid.

He noticed the stranger glaring at him with angry eyes. Their depths seemed to blaze with it. He watched as the gun was crushed in one hand then thrown off to the side. He tracked it. It landed on the floor, bouncing a bit before coming to a complete stop. He clearly saw that the barrel was now a twisted lump of metal with four separate indentations in it that collapsed the hollow barrel.

“Now that we got that out of the way, how much is the sword?” Darius asked again, his voice lacking in anything remotely associated with emotion or feeling. He just stared calmly at the shopkeeper and waited for what was his. To his surprise, the old man did nothing different. He stayed seated on that old stool.

“Sit down,” he told Darius, gesturing to a worn out folding chair. The vinyl covering the simple seat was cracked and faded.

Darius had always been a man of little patience, and now was no exception. However, the old man had earned his respect because, in the face of someone infinitely more powerful than himself, he still wouldn’t back down. It seemed like a matter of principle for the old guy and he found he liked that concept. He also found that he liked the man personally too.

Darius did what he was asked and waited expectantly. He figured this time the old man would relent and finally give him what he wanted.

The old man watched him a moment more and then sighed deeply. He got up, wincing slightly at some old yet familiar pain. Darius clearly heard several of the man’s joints creak and pop as he rose. The sound reminded him of the way wood popped in a fire. The old man walked toward the display window where the sword was, limping faintly. It looked as if he bore most of his weight on his right leg. When he looked a little closer, Darius saw a vague outline poking out the knee of his left pant leg. It took him a minute to realize that the old man was wearing a prosthetic leg.

Once he was at the display window, he picked the sword up, slid it into its scabbard, and carried it delicately back to Darius. There was an enormous amount of concern and care on his face as he held it. He acted like it was some sort of ancient relic that would crumble to dust at a moment’s notice. Once he was back at the glass case, he laid the sword on top of it and sat back down. He put a hand to his lower back as he did and Darius noticed another wince of pain cross his face. Nobody said or did anything for a moment and when it was apparent that Darius wasn’t going to have it handed to him, he reached out to take the sword.

He wanted nothing more than to pick it up and hold it in his hands. He wanted to know what that cold edge felt like. The old man, however, gently stopped him. There was no aggression to his behavior at all, just one gnarled hand resting lightly on top of his.

Darius shot him an inquiring look.

“You want it, I’ll sell it to ya, but not before we have a few words,” he told Darius, his voice smooth and calm. It had lost that gruff tone as he watched the kid’s expression when he pulled the trigger. It had been so full of pain and grief. That wasn’t the only thing he saw either. There’d been something else there as well and that, more than him actually pulling the trigger, had scared him. It was a need, desperate and sad, of death. Of being released from whatever hell he was currently living in. He’s seen that look many times in the course of his long life. “I want to know more about you. Hell, if I like what I hear then you can keep the sword, free of charge. Sound good?”

“Why?” Darius asked. He kept his face a neutral mask. “You were ready to die before giving up the thing and now you’d be willing to let me have it for free?”

“That’s right,” the old man replied. “I’ve been around a long time and seen a lot of things. It’s not often a fella comes in here and surprises me the way you did. It’s got my curiosity up, that’s all.”

Darius neglected to comment. He watched the other man with cautious, wary eyes.

“Why do you want it?” he asked, switching subjects. His piercing eyes locked onto Darius’s and refused to turn away. The stare quickly grew uncomfortable and Darius was forced to shift his gaze.

“I saw it and wanted it,” he answered.

That was only a partial truth. He had seen it and wanted it and thought that wielding the only kind of weapon that could physically hurt him had a certain poetic justice to it. Deeper, however (and he was afraid to admit this even to himself), it felt like the sword was calling out to him. Like it had a life of its own and deemed him worthy to wield it. The prospect was scary and not just because that sounded crazy to him. If the sword was calling out to him and he was meant to wield it, then that told him some sort of destiny or fate weaved throughout people’s lives and directed them toward certain paths. He didn’t want to believe in fate or destiny anymore. If he let himself believe that then he had to admit to himself that his destiny involved leading Anna to her death.

“I see,” the old man said, breaking his train of thought.

“What does it matter to you anyway?” Darius asked, growing angry and impatient again. His hand itched to touch the sword and he fought to control the urge. For some reason he couldn’t quite explain, he wanted to remain on the old man’s good side.

“It matters to me, kid,” he replied easily. “If you harm or go around killing innocent people with that blade then I’d start feel in a bit responsible about that. After all, I was the one that gave it to ya.”

“What about all the guns and knives you sell in this place?” Darius asked, getting defensive. “Do you feel responsible for the deaths caused by those weapons or is the sword a special case?”

“No.”

“Just the sword then?” Darius asked, somewhat shocked by the casual way in which the old man answered his question.

“Yep.”

“That…that doesn’t make any sense at all!” Darius shouted.

“It doesn’t have to,” he explained, a pleased smile on his face.

For some reason, Darius expected a mouth full of dentures but the teeth there looked original and still white. The smile looked odd on his old, wrinkled face. That too white smile of real teeth just didn’t seem to fit the man.

“I’ve seen that look you have a hundred times before,” the old man went on. “It’s the look of a man that’s just had his life ripped to shreds either by some weird, twisted chance of fate or some bastard that had his own score to settle with ya. The difference between you and most other people is that they have to let the law settle their score. More often than not that ain’t too satisfying for them. You, on the other hand, have the power to act on your own. Dish it out on your terms. The law can’t stop you and I’m guessing the list of people who can is mighty short. That kind of power can corrupt you, kid.”

“They deserved what they got,” Darius said, his voice harsh. Angry tears welled up in his eyes as the face that would haunt him for the rest of his life flashed, once again, in his mind. It was the same one again. The one from his nightmare. The horrible, stony Anna with the dead, cavernous eyes and the gaping black maw that led to Hell itself. He wished he could remove that particular version of her from his mind the way a brain surgeon cuts out tumors but it was a futile effort. He had a feeling that version of her would be one of the more popular ghosts that will torture him in the years to come.

“Maybe they did. Hell boy, I’m sure they did if the look on your face is any indication.” The old man laughed, the sound hearty and loud. It morphed itself into a raging fit of coughing that seemed to come from deep inside his chest. Darius, not really knowing what else to do, just sat and waited for the old man to quit. When he did, his eyes had tears welling at the corners. “But the question is, when will it ever be set right again. Did getting your vengeance change anything at all for ya?”

“Yeah. I stopped them from hurting more people in the future,” Darius said, his voice filled with passion.

“But did it make you feel better?”

“It did at the time. I’ll admit that,” he answered, his eyes downcast. “But in the end, what I did only made things worse. He got to her and killed her right in front of me.”

The old man nodded his head. He felt pity for the young man. He’d been given far too much power for someone that young and in the end, he’d made bad choices with regards to it. “When?”

“Couple hours ago,” Darius responded. The pain of losing her flared up again and he looked away.

The old man was silent for a long time as he considered Darius’ words. After a minute or two he slid the sword across the glass counter. The noise drew Darius’ attention to it. He saw the sword being pushed toward him and a look of pure gratitude showed on his face. The old man thought that particular look wouldn’t show up again for a long time. Darius grabbed the black and red handle, just under the brass guard, and held it up in front of his face. The black scabbard practically glowed in the store’s lighting.

“You sure?” Darius asked, afraid that the old man would suddenly tell him he wasn’t and take it back. He held onto it almost greedily. The old man’s response, however, was to simply nod his head, a slightly bemused look on his wrinkled face.

Darius slowly pulled the blade free of its scabbard, using intense effort and care in handling it, and studied it closely. The surface of the blade itself was so perfect that it almost seemed to glow. The wavy pattern going down the length of the blade caught the light and threw it back. He didn’t know a thing about katanas, but he’d at least seen them before. A museum he’d gone to on a field trip back in high school had an exhibit with a bunch of them showcased. He’d found them intensely interesting even back then.

Something near the bottom of the blade caught his eye, right above the metal collar. A single Japanese character was etched into the metal there. He peered more closely at it, but he had no idea what it meant.

“What does it mean?” he asked, showing it to the old man. The old man, however, didn’t have to look to know what Darius was asking about. He knew the blade intimately and had once asked the same question to the friend that had given it to him.

“It means life,” he responded at once.

“Where’d you get it?”

“When I was stationed at Misawa Air Force Base, Japan. I became friends with a Japanese man there. The blade was his, passed down the line of his family for generations. It started with the samurai the sword was originally created for. He gave it to me before he died,” the old man explained, a touch of sadness on his features. “His ancestor was one of the greatest samurai warriors of his time. The right hand of an extremely powerful shogun.”

“Why’d he give it to you and not his kid?” Darius asked him.

“He didn’t have any. He was the only one left of his family line to carry the blade.”

Darius nodded his head. He didn’t really know how else to respond to that.

“The life symbol seems a bit oxymoronic I s’ppose. It’ll make more sense when I explain it. Apparently, the samurai etched it there himself as a reminder. That was some time after he got the sword, though,” the old man explained. “He was the best of his generation, but the shogun he worked for had grown corrupt. Instead of lettin’ him continue killin’ and robbin,’ the samurai murdered him. The way the story was told to me, the samurai didn’t like the way the shogun used his power so ruthlessly. Those who resisted were killed outright. Now killin’ his shogun went against everything he ever knew or believed in but he did it anyway. I s’ppose the alternative seemed to be a helluva lot worse to him. He couldn’t watch the man kill and destroy lives so callously.”

Darius sat there, taking in each word with wonder. The story was so similar to his own. The sword was like the power he’d been given. The sword had been used to take down an evil man. He’d used his power to take down an evil man.

The similarities were so strong he got goosebumps.

“The samurai had the symbol etched there when he turned ronin. He hunted down bad men of the same caliber as the shogun he murdered. No one, as the story goes, was able to stop him.” The old man looked at the kid.

“I can sympathize with him,” Darius said quietly, his finger tracing over the edges of the symbol as he admired the blade.

“That sword you’re holding was made by an ancient Japanese swordsmith by the name of Gorō Nyūdō Masamune,” the old man said. When he saw that Darius had no idea who he was talking about, he went on, explaining himself. “Masamune was the greatest swordsmith that’s ever lived or probably ever will live. See, kid, you gotta understand something. When he created that blade, he did it when steel was still impure. Primitive. Yet he worked with the stuff the way Monet or Da Vinci worked with paints. A true genius that one. You see that?”

He pointed to a somewhat gray shadow on the front of the blade.

“That’s what they called nie back then. It’s an art form where Masamune gave his blades that eerie quality where they look like they glow. Some will also tell you it looks like movin’ clouds or the stars at night. And that…,” he pointed again to the sword, this time indicating a strange lightning-shaped streak traveling its length. “That there’s called the kinsuji and those clear gray lines on the leading edge there are chikei. Katanas are special blades because they’re extremely strong without being brittle. The way they fixed that problem was to sandwich hard steel and soft steel together and then the sword smiths would fold it back on itself about a dozen times. That created thousands of paper thin laminations. The effect you get is a sword that is hard enough to carry an edge but still soft enough not break if hit just right. Masamune, however, was able to fold it so many times that he got millions of those paper-thin laminations.”

“Thanks for the history lesson.” Darius got up.

The old man calmly pointed to the chair and gestured for him to sit back down.

“I gave that sword to you for free. It’s priceless and many people would want that thing from me. So you’re just gonna sit there and listen.” He didn’t raise his voice or sound particularly menacing, but Darius sat down regardless. “Thank you.”

“Why is this important?”

“It’s important because I say it is,” the old man replied simply.

“Is the lesson almost over?”

“Just hush up.” He peered at Darius. “Swordsmiths from that era believed their creations possessed their own spiritual essence. Their own life, for lack of a better term. The man Masamune made that sword for eventually used it to give people back their lives. Free of fear. Free of oppression.”

The old man paused, looking closely at Darius.

“It looks to me like it'll do so again.”

Darius let the man’s words hang in the air. He considered them briefly. He got the feeling that the old man knew a hell of a lot more than he let on. He didn’t stop to think too long on it though. Instead, he grabbed the sword and scabbard, and slid the naked blade back into the wooden sheath. He liked the way it slid inside with ease, as if the scabbard were an old friend embracing it.

“Tie the sageo, that cord on the scabbard, to the handle so it won’t slide out,” the old man instructed, pointing to the black and red cord tied around the end of the scabbard.

Darius did as he was told, fiddling with it awkwardly before the old man got up and showed him how to do it.

“That’s what it’s for.”

“Uh…thanks,” Darius replied, a little awkwardly.

He turned, once again, to leave but he suddenly felt the old man’s hand grip his wrist. It was surprisingly strong and firm for a man his age. Darius shot him an inquisitive look, one eyebrow raised.

“Easy big fella, just had another question for ya.”

“All right.”

“You got a place to stay?” he asked, smiling somewhat. “I got an extra room upstairs that is yours if ya want. I thought I’d ask. You don’t look like a man that has someplace to get back to.”

“That would…work,” Darius told him. “Thank you.”

He stuck out his hand and the old man gripped it.

“How much a month?” he asked, thinking about the bank card he tossed into the trash can.

“Just do a little work in the shop and we’ll be square. And don’t bring trouble back here with ya.” His tone allowed for no arguing. “I’d also like to know yer name.”

Darius hesitated. For a second, he considered giving the old man a fake name. He disregarded the notion almost instantly. He didn’t do anything to deserve Darius’ mistrust. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to help him.

“It’s Darius.” He didn’t elaborate any further than that.

“Harold Garland,” the old man replied. “Nice to meetcha, Darius.”

They spent the rest of the night talking. Harold did most of it, telling stories of his time in the Air Force, living overseas, and the places he had been to. Darius, truly interested in them, asked questions and just listened the rest of the time. Harold didn’t miss the fact that his new tenant wouldn’t talk about himself, but he decided not to probe. If he felt like talking, he would have done it by now. Besides, as far as Harold was concerned, he knew everything he needed to know about the kid already.