The Sword in the Umbrella Stand
by Maureen S. O'Brien
(7/23/04)

Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin does not belong to me.



The first time she saw her dead father's reverse-blade sword, it was 
in the hands of an American veterinarian. He held it backward, like a 
hand scythe, and the scraggly weeds at the edge of his garden fell 
before it like soldiers in battle. He cut with all the precision 
required in one trained to serve more than a single species.

Nevertheless, both English and politeness failed her, and she stared, 
eyes stinging, hands trembling. The reverse-blade sword did not 
belong in Ohio, by this little house and garage that served as 
hospital and house in one. The dark hilt did not belong in those sure 
hands, so pale among the blood red roses. The zip of air behind the 
blade did not suit the calls of these foreign crows and mourning doves. 
Only the first fireflies, dim against the daylight, looked right against 
the sword's wavy sheen.

He looked up and said, "Good evening! Welcome, Miss Himura. I'm glad 
you were able to find the place. No, there's nothing for you to do 
tonight; but I'll expect you bright and early tomorrow. There's a lot 
that needs to get done in in the morning, when it's still cool. How 
is your new apartment in Xenia? Did you make the trip from Ohio State 
all right?"

She grabbed back onto politeness as the only weapon she had, and 
managed to talk about the traffic, the journey, the clearness of 
the directions, the beauty of the countryside, the historical 
importance of this provincial town, its legendary hero Tecumseh, 
and whether or not he had had a love affair with a woman named 
Rebecca Galloway whose parents had founded the town. She had had 
this kind of talk before in Japan while visiting, and found its 
familiar banality soothing. 

But she thought he had seen her reaction. He had stopped using the 
sword. While they talked, he brought it inside, cleaned it carefully 
with some kind of American knife care kit, retrieved its scabbard from 
an umbrella stand, sheathed it, and then set it between them on the 
kitchen table when they sat down. The scabbard was still bound round 
with a yellowed piece of silk bearing her father's name and a prayer 
for his safety. She recognized her aunt's handwriting, and bowed her 
head again.

But the veterinarian said nothing. He must have spent enough time in 
Japan to learn a little about how to be polite.

However, she did not want to wait to go through all this again 
when his wife came back from shopping and his house was wrapped 
in darkness, or worse, tomorrow morning while she was arm-deep 
in a sick cow. Some things were better said with fewer witnesses.

So she led the conversation to her host's garden, and then commented 
blandly, "I noticed that you were using a reverse-blade sword as a 
trimmer. My father had just such a sword, but he took it with him 
to the war and did not return."  She hated saying it so blatantly. 
But sometimes Americans didn't pick up hints too well...and yes, 
she had too much Kamiya in her to like being subtle. "Perhaps you 
could tell me its story," she added for good measure.

Her host closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the middle-aged 
man looked very old. "I wondered," he said, "when I saw that your 
last name was Himura. Well, the old man said the family'd send 
someone to bring it back. I'm sure you've heard the story, but you 
deserve to hear it from me."

While she wondered what old man he was talking about, he told her 
about the island off the Japanese coast where he'd been assigned. 
Bodies of Japanese settlers who'd not wanted to die for the Emperor 
lay in heaps where they'd been killed by crazed Imperial officers 
who knew they couldn't do the same to the enemy. He hadn't seen the 
battles or the surrender, though. He had come afterward, to help 
clean up. He had wanted some kind of souvenir to bring home to show 
his family, but there wasn't much left on the island to buy or find. 
And if that wasn't bad enough, his sergeant made them take their 
rifles with them everywhere they went. With the bayonets on, since 
he didn't trust them to shoot straight.

One day someone had mentioned the caves near his camp. Imperial 
soldiers had built an outpost in there and left a lot of stuff behind. 
So he decided to go and take a look. It had turned out to be a 
very unpleasant place, filled with the indescribable smell of 
hungry, diseased, frightened men in a small place. He had found rats, 
and then he had found some stray bodies they had been feasting on. He 
had felt sick and turned to go, but stumbled. 

Something hit his helmet instead of his neck. He fell, scrambled to 
turn on his butt, and saw a short Japanese man looming over him, 
sword in hand. He skittered backward, tried to get to his feet as the 
man rushed forward at him again, and came up with his rifle. 

"My sergeant was right about the bayonet," said the veterinarian, 
as one of the dogs in the back room whined. "I was so panicked 
that I couldn't find the trigger. But I knew which end was the 
pointy one..." He stopped for a moment and swallowed. "I'm sorry, 
Miss Himura. But the way he came after me, I thought it was him or 
me. It wasn't until afterward that I realized the sword couldn't...."

She bowed her head, politely hiding the tears in her eyes though 
she was sure he knew they were there. "He wanted to die," she 
said. "It was the times. He must have thought our family would be 
shamed if he returned, that the other people would mistreat us. 
He didn't know that things would be different after the Americans 
came. No, it was not your fault. My father grew up learning the 
Kamiya Kasshin Ryu. Your blade would not have touched him if he 
had not allowed it. Perhaps it is we who should apologize, that 
he forced you to be his death."

She looked up. The veterinarian's expression turned a little wry. 
"That's what the old man said, too."

"The old man? You mentioned him before."

"I forget his name. He would've been your grand-...no, your 
great-grandfather at least...you know, the old man who was head of 
your family's school. When they sent me to Tokyo on leave, I went 
to look up your family, tell them what happened, and give them the 
sword back. I was really afraid to do it, but if it had been my 
parents, they'd have wanted to know. So I went. But everybody was 
out working or on errands, all except this tiny old man with a big 
cross-shaped scar on his cheek. So I told him."

"Ah. So," she said, in lieu of anything intelligent. "Yes, that 
would be my great-great-grandfather."

"He was really nice about it, actually, though he asked me 
all sorts of questions. He must have been in combat himself, 
back in the day."

She managed to cough instead of laugh. "Yes. You could say that."

"He even got me to tell him what I wanted to do after the war -- 
use the GI Bill to go to vet school. He liked that idea a lot. 
'Since animals cannot speak, you will have to listen to everything 
they cannot say.' I've always remembered that." He gave her a 
sharp look. "Since you're going to be a vet yourself, you should, too."

She nodded.

"Anyway, like I said, I brought the sword back. But that was when the 
Occupation law was in force. No Japanese could own a sword, and 
they had to turn them in to be melted down. So he said I should 
just hold onto it for a while, and the family would send someone 
along to fetch it when it was time. I guess that would be you, 
Miss Himura."

"I guess it would," she agreed. It would've been nice if someone 
had told her so, but that was her family.

"I didn't realize it would upset you to see me cutting weeds with 
a samurai sword. It just seemed wrong to have such a great sharp 
thing around the house and not use it. But I'm sorry if I caused 
you offense, or your family."

He picked up the sheathed sword on the palms of his hands, and 
bowing over the table, extended it to her. She bowed and took it.

"The Imperial sword was named Grasscutter," she said, smiling, "so 
gardening is probably not too humble a task for a sword. Besides, my 
great-great-grandfather Kenshin, whom you met, was not a samurai. 
The reverse-blade sword was really his. Since he was born a peasant 
on a farm, he probably would have understood."

"Kenshin. Yes, that was the old man's name. When did he die, by 
the way?"

"On the day that the Emperor spoke to the nation about Japan's 
surrender."

"But that was at least a year before I came to your family's house!"

"Yes." She shrugged. "Himura Kenshin was a remarkable man."


THE END
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Author's Note: This story was inspired by the very skilled and kind 
veterinarian we went to when I was a kid. We had always assumed that 
the samurai sword (not reverse-blade, of course!) in his umbrella 
stand was one of the many replicas available during the seventies. 
But my dad asked him about it one day, and was told something very 
like the hair-raising cave story above. A few years after Dad heard the 
story, one of the vet's patients recognized a mon or similar insignia 
about the sword. After a certain amount of research, my vet was 
pleased to be able to send the sword home. Kenshin's descendants 
got a little more help from him and me. ;)

The bit about sword law during the Occupation is absolutely true, 
btw. Seven tons of swords were confiscated. However, the Occupation 
officials decided that art treasure/heirloom swords could be 
returned to their owners. Unfortunately, thirty-five important swords 
are still missing -- probably somewhere in the US with the 350,000 
swords brought home as souvenirs by American servicemen.