Takamori, or: American Shogunate
(This will be a novella at some point)
[It’s 1950. Six years ago, Japan invaded the United States. With most of America’s young men already dead or wounded, there was no one left to protect our own shores. Six months and another hundred thousand bodies later, Japan offered terms for a ceasefire. Roosevelt resigned. The senate and house of representatives were forcibly removed from office. Most of the federal government was dissolved. What remains is held under close scrutiny by the American Emperor, and serves at his behest. Large companies and industries were given to family members of the royal house and their close friends to manage/oversee. The Japanese nationals who desired to move to the states were allowed and encouraged to. Americans are generally treated well, but Japan imports its conservative and very militaristic culture.]
Takamori was sitting on a stump watching the coal come out of the mountain as a steady black river. His rifle leaned against a nearby hemlock. His sword remained in his belt, hands draped across its handle. It was August; his shirt was half unbuttoned. His pant legs were rolled twice, revealing sandaled feet with a heavy layer of dirt.
From his seat, the men were small. They walked back and forth from the mouth of the mine to the railway, a train so long neither end could be seen, its cars being filled a few hundred pounds at a time with dusty anthracite headed for Richmond. Takamori preferred to be above and away from them. Being in the bottom of the holler made it hard to see everything, hard to keep watch. The workers didn’t like him anyhow, saw him as a traitor. Takamori understood their anger, but saw the reality of it: there was only dying or doing what you’re told, which was sometimes the same thing, and that some shit work was less shitty than other kinds.
It had been five years since Takamori was in the Pacific theater, mowing down by the dozens the same people he now protected with Japanese steel. The irony was not lost on him. If anything, the war had taught him that very little was certain, and even less meant much of anything at all.
The mosquitos had begun to find his exposed feet. Takamori picked up his rifle and stood. The years had worn under him a path around the ridgeline, high enough to see for miles, and enough overlooks to watch the mine operations. His master’s house also laid on the ridgeline, built from local wood in the traditional Japanese fashion.
Takamori began to walk, the rich soil masking the sound of his footfalls. He saw a woodpecker flit across an opening and come to land on a pine tree. He stopped to watch it. The bird inspected the tree, found it dissatisfactory, and flew away. Takamori went to continue on, but heard leaves rustling on the backside of the ridge. They continued gently, rhythmic. He stepped off the trail and lowered himself to the ground. He brought the rifle to his cheek and scanned the holler below. The scope reticle passed over a man crouching behind a felled pine tree. The man had a pistol in one hand, and a Winchester Model 70 in the other. He looked to his left and right, nodding. He slowly extended one leg over the tree. Takamori fired a shot into the log, sending splinters into the man’s face. The man fell backwards and then stumbled down the hill and out of sight, two pairs of other, unseen crashing feet going along in parallel.
Takamori rolled over onto his back and stared up at the canopy, bushels of green coerced by the wind into empty dances. He got up, brushed himself off, and continued walking along his path. He ejected the spent casing, caught it, and put the warm thing in his pocket. He rounded a corner and saw an officer trotting towards him, beckoning.
“Takamori. Come. Come.”
Takamori followed the guard to his master’s house. The guard pointed inwards toward the open door. Takamori walked up the steps, leaned his rifle against the wall, and stepped inside. His master was sitting at a desk in an adjacent room. Takamori paused and bowed.
“What was that?”
“Some men were coming up the other side of the ridge with guns. I took a shot at them, and they ran off.”
“You hit one?”
“No.”
“Why you no hit one?”
“Spilling blood all the time makes for bad water we all gotta drink from.”
“What? What that mean? No. I say, you do, that it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“How long you work for me?”
“Several years.”
“Uh. The workers. Men. They scared of you. Respect you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It true.” He motioned for Takamori to move closer to his desk. “Your sword. Give me.”
He removed the sword from his belt, laid it across his palms, and extended it outwards. His master took it and slowly removed the scabbard.
“You know why we call you Takamori?”
“No, Daimyo.”
“He last samurai. The point at the end of a very long katana. By time he die, old man in new world.” He eyed the stitching of the handle. Faded, but intact. “This very old, more than my father’s father’s father.” He held it lengthwise with a single hand and inspected its edge. “Ended many men. And now you carry it. It has purpose. Do not forget.” He returned it to its scabbard and handed it back to Takamori. “It had name, but lost to time. Maybe you give it new one. That all.”
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