Chapter Twenty-One Sen
Sen woke to the sound of a sword cutting through the air.
She rolled to her feet, barely dodging her father’s blade, which sliced through the space where she’d been resting moments
ago. The slick sound of the cut echoed through her mind, bright as a star.
She’d returned too late.
Last night, she’d tried to disappear after Lee fell asleep, but the door between their worlds had been concrete once more.
She’d paced the yard, not wanting to wake Lee when she knew there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t until the sun broke on
the horizon and the sea retreated that Sen was able to cross back over. She’d hardly slept, had forgotten to meditate before
the sunrise, and now her father had come looking for her. He sheathed his sword, his eyes glowing gold with the reflection
of dawn. Sen prepared to bow in apology, but her father spoke first.
“Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going into town.”
Before Sen could ask why, her father turned and headed back outside, slamming the door behind him.
Sen stared at the space where he’d been only moments ago, feeling strangely cold.
Why would her father want her to go into town?
Ever since they’d come to Chiran, he’d said how important it was for the whole family to stay hidden.
Sen’s world had shrunk down until it was only the house behind the sword ferns.
Slowly, Sen dressed and tied her hair up, standing far from the door to her closet, as if Lee could see straight through the
paper. He would be confused when she didn’t return right away, but she couldn’t disobey her father.
When she finished dressing, she walked to the front of the house, past the sleeping servants, to where her father stood waiting
on the front porch.
“Leave your sword behind,” he said, barely looking at her.
Sen stood frozen, unsure if she’d misheard. Ever since she was a child, her father had told her to bring her katana everywhere
she went, to be ready to fight at any moment. Why would that change now? Her eyes scanned her father’s form, where his sword
was missing as well. He undoubtedly had another weapon concealed in his clothing, but his usual katana was gone.
At her hesitation, her father turned to her, eyes dark with impatience. “Are you deaf, or just incompetent? I won’t repeat
myself.”
Sen turned without another word, pulling her katana from her hakama with numb hands and setting it on the hooks on her wall.
She tugged at her sleeves, unsure what to do with her hands. How did her father expect her to defend herself if they ran into
trouble? Either he was certain there wouldn’t be trouble, or he didn’t want her to handle it herself.
She went back outside and followed her father through the main gate. The winds grew louder as they crossed the threshold,
as if some invisible force had been shielding the house from the bite of morning air. Sen walked a few paces behind her father,
trying to match his silent footsteps, but his stride was longer than hers and he did not slow down for her, for anyone.
Her father turned at the end of the road, heading toward the horizon and the hazy silhouette of the town center cast against the early-morning light. It was the same way Lee had taken her into town.
She wondered, with a jolt, if her father had made her leave her katana behind because he knew she wouldn’t like wherever they
were going. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to marry her off to one of the Shimazu sons and had found someone else who would pay
for her, had decided that their family needed the money more than they needed a female samurai.
He wouldn’t do that , Sen thought, her legs numb as she followed her father through the main gate into the sleeping town. He needs me to fight. But doubt rang through her regardless.
In the pale morning light, the town looked similar to when she’d walked through it with Lee, so many years later. The streets
seemed wider now, the roads made of dirt carved with tracks from rickshaw wheels rather than the smooth gray stone in Lee’s
world. A few elderly people meandered through the streets and some windows glowed from within, but most of the town was still
asleep. Her world felt like a hazy dream compared to Lee’s world.
The sun began to glare white across the horizon, and her father walked faster, as if afraid of what the light would reveal.
Sen smelled fire in the distance. The familiar tang of molten metal and crisp embers made her eyes water. Her father hurried
toward its source, down a darkened side street. He drew to a stop in front of a blacksmith’s shop, where paper windows glowed
red and flickered with the echoes of flames.
Her father knocked three times on the door. As they waited in silence, Sen wondered if she was being sold to the blacksmith
as a bride in exchange for a sharper sword, and ignored the way her heart clenched as the door unlatched and an elderly man
waved them in.
Sen stepped into the small shop, and the blacksmith closed the door behind her with a resounding thunk of the metal lock. An oven pulsed with fire in the far corner of the room, its heat waves blurring the shop in a dreamlike
haze. Pieces of metal and heavy tools lay scattered across the table in the center of the room, boxes stacked on the opposite
side. Sen could hardly breathe through the sudden heat, her eyes watering from the sting of smoke.
The blacksmith picked up a box and set it on the table. To Sen’s surprise, her father ignored the box and turned instead to
her.
“Open it,” he said.
Sen remained still, sure this was some sort of test or trick. What could be in the box that her father didn’t want to open
himself? At her hesitation, his lips pressed into a tight line, so she turned to the box and flipped the lid open.
Inside, she found a long, narrow package wrapped in fabric. She looked to her father, then the blacksmith, who watched her
expectantly. Slowly, she untied the bindings and brushed the fabric cover aside.
A katana.
She lifted it from the box, holding it delicately with both hands. In the fire’s light, the blade glowed orange like the morning
sun. The reflection of Sen’s eyes in the narrow blade stared back at her, her pupils red in its immaculate surface. Golden
thread wrapped tightly around the handle, like the first breath of sun piercing the horizon at dawn. Sen admired the keenness
of the blade, how light it felt in her hands. The blades she’d used for training were all hand-me-downs from her father, dull
and scarred.
“Try it,” her father said.
Sen took a step back so as not to hurt anyone, then steadied the blade in her hands. When she closed her eyes, she could sense
the shape of it, like it was an extension of her soul. She steadied her breath, then struck down.
The blade whispered through the air, the clean song of a perfect strike and an immaculately sharp blade. This katana could spear the moon and slice down each individual star. The sword is the soul of the samurai , her father had once said. Sen wished her soul could be this pure.
“Is it acceptable?” her father said, his arms crossed.
So it was a test , Sen thought. Her father wanted to see if she could ascertain the quality of a blade. She didn’t know where he’d found the
money to buy himself a new sword when they could hardly afford food, but it wasn’t her place to ask.
Sen considered her answer carefully, scanning the blade for any chips or flaws in the surface, trying to recall if it had
felt unbalanced. But she could think of nothing but the keen whir of air as she’d cut down, like the strike of a whip, that
pure and elegant perfection.
“Yes, Chichiue,” she said at last.
Her father nodded. I’ve answered correctly , Sen thought, letting out a breath.
“Then it’s yours,” he said. He turned and passed a small satchel of coins to the blacksmith, who bowed deeply as he accepted
it.
Sen froze, gaze snapping back to the katana. “Mine?” she whispered. Her father would never give something like this to her.
This had to be another test. Did he think Sen was too greedy? Too gullible? Her father only glanced at her coolly before heading
for the door.
The blacksmith was already rewrapping the sword, closing the lid and bowing as he slid the box toward her. Sen picked it up
with numb hands, clutching it close to her chest and hurrying after her father.
“Chichiue,” Sen said, shouldering the door open, “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to misunderstand about a katana?” her father said, still walking forward. “If this is too confusing to you, return it.”
“But why would you get this for me?” Sen said. She held the box tight to her chest, as if it would disappear the moment she
stopped touching it. “I don’t deserve it.”
A frown carved down her father’s brow. “It is vain to seek out praise,” he said.
“I’m not seeking praise,” Sen said, shaking her head quickly. “Chichiue—”
Her father sighed and ground to a stop. They stood alone on an empty street, her father backlit by the morning sun, his eyes
focused only on her. He so rarely looked her in the eye that his undivided attention startled her.
“The imperial soldiers will come for us one day. You know this,” he said. “You will stop them with a blade worthy of your
skill.”
A strange warmth bloomed in Sen’s chest, steadying her hands where they trembled against the box.
“The sword is the soul of the samurai,” he said. “My daughter’s soul is not cheap, or worn, or brittle like the blades you’ve
been using to train. There is no metal on earth that is pure or strong enough for you, but I hope this will suffice.”
Sen clutched the box, feeling like her whole body was suddenly made of the brightest light.
He loves me , she thought, the dangerous feeling rising to the surface of her mind.
He respects me. He sees me. She clenched her jaw against the tears she knew her father would despise.
She would have cut her own hands off if it meant
she could be perfect for him for just a moment longer. She would not cry, or breathe, or shatter this moment for anything
in the world.
Behind her father, the doors of town hall unlatched as the morning workers made their way inside. One day, her death would be recorded in the koseki and filed away in that very building. This dream would pass, like all things.
She shook her head, dropping her gaze down to her feet. “It should be your blade, not mine,” she said.
Her father scoffed. “My soul is disgraced,” he said, turning away. “I am lost. But you, Sen, are ready to be what I could
not.”
Sen’s throat closed up, tears burning at her eyes. He has no idea that I’m going to die , she thought. I’m going to fail him. His praise stung keener than any blade because she knew she didn’t deserve it.
But in that single moment, her father believed in her. Sen wanted to wrap this memory up in fine fabric and ribbons like the
katana in her hands, store it carefully inside a beautiful box. The fierceness of that love, that faith, was almost enough
to convince Sen that her father was right. Maybe something as futile as vengeance could change the past and overpower fate.
She wanted, with every part of her heart, to believe him.
Her father, now apparently done with his rare show of sentimentality, took off walking again. Sen hurried after him, holding
the box close to her heart. She would treasure this sword for the few days she had left.
The sword is the soul of the samurai , she thought. Sen’s soul might have been made of foolish hopes and shattered dreams, but it was hers for as long as this
world would allow it.