Autumn Lightning (eBook)

Chapter1: Meeting with the Past Surroundedby the pines that closed in his yard, the swordsman crouched motionless. Hisgray kimono and black, skirt-like hakamagrewdamp in the predawn mist, but his attention was focused on the drops of waterthat collected first on a branch above his head, then dripped to the groundwith noiseless regularity. He seemed to be waiting for a particular drop, hisexpression reflecting a profound patience. The bead of water finally fell, andwith perfect celerity, his right hand tore the samurai sword from its scabbardat his side. Still kneeling, he slashed a wide arc in the heavy, wet air,stopping the weapon as abruptly as if it had struck some invisible barrier.Then slowly, methodically, he pulled a cloth from a fold in his kimono andwiped moisture from the blade's surface, for he had cut through the descendingdrop, shattering it into smaller droplets that sparkled on the steel likediamonds in the morning's new light. While the swordsman continued the solitaryexercises with his weapon, I wriggled farther under the handquilted covers mygreat-grandmother had patched together, burrowing to find a few more minutes ofsleep. Getyour motor runnin' Headout on the highway Lookin'for adventure Andwhatever comes our way Bornto be wild Themusic swelling from the alarm clock-radio by my head promised a heady freedomin that early autumn of 1968, but the blasting noise was also a reminder that Ihad to get up and get ready for another day of junior high school. Nothingin the morning indicated that the day would be different. On the long bus rideahead, I would have to fabricate a believable excuse for not finishing a mathassignment, already two days overdue. I would have to sit through eight hoursof uninspired attempts at educating myself, hurry home afterward to stuff thebulky jacket and pants of a judo uniform into a bag, and then be off topractice at the state university gym. For a thirteen-year-old boy of theMidwest, it wasn't a day—,or a life, for that matter—,too much out of theordinary at all. In those days, judo was an unlikely sport for a Missouri boy,but my adolescent passion might just as easily have been loosed upon cars, orstamp collecting, or girls. As it happened, I had always had interests both inthings Japanese and in the avoidance of getting beaten up, so three evenings ofmy weeks were taken with the art of judo, learning how to fall and how to makemy classmates at the gym fall. Infact, what had been the only disruption in my life that year was becoming somuch a routine that I hardly considered it outstanding anymore. Walking to judopractice, I would take a detour down a street near the university, where manyof the professors lived. It was a street of monstrous old houses with toweringceilings and three, or even four, stories, a street where sounds much louderthan the strains of Bach or Vivaldi were hushed by oaks and pines and maples,as impressive in size as were the houses beside them. I walked along the quietstreet until I came to a house nearly hidden by trees, with a front yard fullof iris and lily beds that probably never saw the sun until all the treesaround them were bare of leaves. Thiswas the house where a Japanese guy lived, as my judo friends had heard it, whowas supposed to be an expert in swordfighting. While we were all intrigued bythe idea of a modern day samurai living in the middle of the Ozarks, I was theonly one persistent and impudent enough to find out more. I did it by going tothe front door, knocking, and telling the Oriental woman who answered that Ihad come to learn...