“Man’s fifty years are but a phantom dream in his journey through the eternal transmigration.”
Toshiro Mifune returned to his quarters at the center of camp. He placed his longbow and his sword in his weapons rack. He sat at his desk, lit a candle, and grabbed his quill to sketch in his notebook. He was a skilled draftsman, an economy of strokes filled the page, and his dimensions were pristine and precise. An artist reveals his heart through their drawings and Mifune’s heart was longing. He felt an invisible touch on his shoulder, and he places his hand there. The drawing was of the wife he left behind, the child he abandoned.
Mifune went to lay on his bed, staring into the crimson wash of the tent’s canvas and fell asleep. He dreamt of his old home on the outskirts of Miura City; a modest dwelling of stone and mahogany woodwork. Mifune leaned against the doorway to the nursery watching Mirko playing with Aisha. Mirko placed Aisha in her wickerwood bassinet and gazed into the sapphire eyes of her husband.
“When are you going to grow up?” Mirko asked. Mifune was caught off guard by the question. “When you’re going to be a man and take care of me and our baby girl? When are you going to stop fighting? Why do you always have to fight?”
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“Cause God put the fight in me. You’re asking me to fight my own nature, Mirko.” Toshiro said sorrowfully. Mirko was holding back tears, she buried her head into her husband’s chest. She looked up at him.
“Please. I can’t do this by myself, I need you here, living. Not a corpse that the vultures feast on in some place away from home. Please stay, I beg of you.”
Mifune resigned. “I’m a warrior. You knew what I was before you married me.”
“I thought you would change. I did”
***
Mifune woke up to the cool mist of dawn, it was soothing to the seasoned warrior. He said his morning prayers at the foot of his bed. He splashed water on his face and put on fresh dark breeches, and aged black boots. He armed himself with a spear and went out of his quarters only to meet Michael Leonhart against the wall of his red pavilion, sleeping in a raggy blanket. Mifune looked down at the boy with pity in his sapphire eyes. He went back inside to exchange his spear for a pair of longbows and two large bowie knives. He exited the tent once more and threw the bow on the lap of Leonhart.
“What?” Michael said incredulous.
“I was about to go fishing, but since you’re here, I elected we’re hunting together, boy.”