A Hair's Breath

*Note: The following story draws heavily from accounts of the famous duel of 13 April, 1612, between Sasaki Kojiro and Miyamoto Musashi. What follows is a work of fiction, and despite similarities in terms and setting, should not be considered historical in any way. You can read about the actual duel between Musashi and Kojiro here.

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A stiff wind blew in from the sea, and the setting sun glared painfully in their eyes. Kenta Miyama squinted through the glare, appraising the sandy shore of the island on which he had spent most of the day. The challenger was three hours late, and Kenta’s master was not happy. He will split Kimura in two, Kenta mused of the armored, imposing figure down by the water: Sojiro Aoshi, known widely as, “The demon of the Western Provinces.” Red-faced and wrathful, Sojiro certainly looked the part of a demon.

“There will be blood,” whispered Genji, another of lord Sojiro’s disciples. “Such insolence cannot be tolerated.” The other disciples grunted or nodded in agreement. None spoke too loudly, for fear of bringing their master’s long-sword upon their head. It was called, “the Drying Pole” for the length of its blade—almost three feet—and in the hands of Sojiro Aoshi had once brought down a bird in mid-flight. For this reason, and because the downward strike, followed by a swift, upward pull resembled the flight of a swallow, it became known as the “swallow’s cut.” Between the reach of his sword and precision of technique, there was not a fighter in the realm who could defend against it.

So why Kimura’s challenge? Kenta wondered. He turned to the others and asked, “Who is this Ren Kimura from Rizen?”

“An upstart, nothing more,” spat Toya Hashimi. He was past forty with a squint face, and kept his hair tied back in a queue.

“Why would an upstart challenge lord Sojiro?” whispered a new disciple who Kenta did not know.

“Desperate for fame, of course,” Toya retorted.

Aria Saito chuckled and shook his head. He was the same age as Kenta—twenty-three—and could almost perform the swallow’s cut as well as their master. His face was hard-set for a young man, yet it wore an arrogant look that seemed to find everything about the world amusing. “Ren Kimura does not lack for fame as Toya does for wits. It’s said he defeated the Shinta school of Tenika, a revered style for over a century, and brought down the whole Minotaro Gang in a single day. Gross exaggerations, to be sure, but where are the Shinta brothers today? And Minotaro and his cronies? They did not go quietly into the ground. Someone put them there, and that someone is Ren Kimura of Rizen.”

Toya fumed, as red-faced as Sojiro. Be careful, Toya. “If this Kimura child is mighty in skill,” Toya began, “then why is he not here? The appointed time is long past, and now what appetite for mercy Lord Sojiro might have had is surely exhausted. Not too smart of the little bird from Rizen, neh? Nay, the smart thing now would be to disappear into the mountains, and pray that Sojiro or one of us doesn’t find him.”

Saito merely smiled. “I’m sure Kimura would do much and more to avoid your company,” he said, at which the others nervously laughed. Toya fumed, and had a hand on the hilt of his sword before withdrawing it, slowly. “That is the wisest thing you’ve done all day,” Saito said, gravely and without a smile. He then laughed, as though dispelling any serious feeling he might have had. “Our master has been in armor for hours on a hot day, with a temper as short as his sword is long. By now his legs are surely tight, and his arms as heavy as lead. How quick do you suppose his famous swallow’s cut will be now? If anything, this Kimura fellow has decided that making lord Sojiro wait is more advantageous to his cause than punctuality.”

He’s not wrong, Kenta thought, looking down the beach at his master, pacing furiously in the sand with sword in hand—still sheathed—and perspiration flowing down his face. Even the demon of the Western Provinces gets tired.

“A boat!” cried someone, and Kenta turned toward the sea. There was indeed a boat approaching the island from the north, a small skiff with a single man aboard, rowing with his back turned toward the shore. Soon enough, the small craft ground up softly on the wet sand, and the man in the boat turned and bowed with a smile to Sojiro and his retinue.

Something’s wrong, Kenta realized, seeing the man’s flimsy, grey beard and tanned, wrinkled skin. This man must be sixty or more. There’s no way he’s Ren Kimura of Rizen.

By this point Sojiro was halfway down the beach. He drew his “drying pole” from its sheath and tossed the latter into the surf. “Prepare to die, Kimura!” he bellowed toward the smiling man, his hasty pace causing him to struggle in the sand. “Such affronts deserve nothing less!”

“You’ve already lost, Sojiro,” said a voice, though it did not sound like that of an old man. Suddenly a figure rose from the bottom of the boat, coming gradually to full height. He was slight of build, and lightly dressed in a plain blue kimono with a white obi about the waist and thatched sandals upon his feet. His hair was long and black as jet, which he kept tied back except for a few bangs in the front. He wore no swords, but held an oversized bokken in his right hand. The weapon had a rough look to it, as if it had been carved from an oar not long before. “Only a defeated man tosses his sheath into the sea.”

Kimura stepped into the knee-deep surf, then turned and with great care tied a band about his head. The band was plain and white, and did nothing to keep the bangs from its owner’s eyes. He bowed to the man in the boat, saying something that made the made smile. When he turned, Kenta could find nothing tense about the man from Rizen. He could be preparing ink for a painting, Kenta thought, finding that his own hand had moved to the sword at his side. There was something unnerving afoot, though what it was Kenta could not say.

“Enough of this!” Sojiro cried, ripping the helmet from his head and tossing it to the ground. “We’ve wasted enough time. Now we fight.”

Kimura said nothing, but leered softly in the direction of Sojiro. Veins pulsing, the demon of the Western Provinces raised his mighty sword and charged with a ferocity only he could muster.

“Here it comes!” came the voice of Toya, “The swallow’s cut! The unbeatable attack!”

Yes, Kenta thought, there’s no mistaking the swallow’s cut. He looked sideways at Saito, who had his arms crossed and seemed to be watching Kimura with great interest. Everyone else is watching Sojiro, but not Saito. He knows how our master fights. Now he wants to see how Ren Kimura of Rizen responds.

The motion was quick, but not too quick for Kenta’s trained eyes. As though in slow-motion, he watched Kimura raise the bokken above his head, and with a surging lunge bring it down right upon Sojiro’s skull.

The last few inches of the weapon snapped upon impact, and the sand at the challenger’s feet was now peppered with splinters. These were joined shortly by the headband, now fluttering toward the earth. A thin cut appeared on Kimura’s forehead, just between his eyes. Not deep, it wept a trickle of blood that ran down his nose and cheek.

 Sojiro Aoshi lay motionless in the sand, face-down in a growing pool of blood. Before anyone could react, Kimura bowed to them all, and leaving the shattered bokken in the sand, beat a hasty retreat to the skiff and on the tide made a swift exit before anyone could react.

The silence that followed was stunned and heavy, broken only when Toya finally rushed forward and cradled the head of their master in his lap. “He’s dead!” Toya cried, and wept with grief.

Composed yet unsmiling, Saito ignored their master’s corpse, stepping forward and reaching for the bokken. He held it at arm’s length for a time, and seemed deep in thought. “So that is how you defeat the swallow’s cut,” Saito said, almost at a whisper.

“Saito?” Kenta said.

Ignoring the wailing of Toya and the others, Saito pulled their master’s sword from the sand and held it up to the bokken. They were of nearly the same length. “Except the bokken’s tip is now in pieces upon the sand,” Kenta said.

“Just so,” said Saito, deep in thought. “A longer blade would serve to outreach the Drying Pole, but be too slow to hit the mark before the wielder’s throat was slit. Kimura is fast, that is plain, but no faster than our master, even when fatigued. A few inches difference would be all he could afford, yet still any mistake or hesitation would mean certain death.” Saito paused then, dropping the Drying Pole and gathering up the tattered remains of Kimura’s headband. “Sojiro lost by a margin of inches,” he said, and it seemed to Kenta that Saito’s hands began to shake. “Our master never guessed it, but Kimura knew all along what he had to do: disorient his opponent, then design a proper tool for the job. He made this bokken just long enough to bring him to within a hair’s breadth of death. To strike ahead of the swallow’s cut was his only chance of victory, and he took it.”

“He was not afraid to die,” Kenta said, more to himself than anyone. “He did not hesitate to die the warrior’s death.”

Saito sneered, but paused, and softened as he spoke. “Death is death, Kenta. A warrior’s purpose is to win, not die. Call it strategy if you wish, or luck, but Kimura lives and Sojiro does not. Such is the delicate line between life and death—a hair’s breadth, in moments such as these.”

Feeling tears in his eyes, Kenta turned from Sojiro and looked out across the water toward the skiff, now a shrinking dot in the distance. A hair’s breadth, he thought as the sun dropped below the horizon, and night fell.

**Image from above retrieved from here.