The Ninja and The Gaijin: Honor Before Life

The Ninja arrived at his destination on foot. His movements effortless, slipping through the air as a leaf blown by the wind. And whoever notices a blowing leaf? It made it no easier he walked the streets of noisy Westerners with their lazy eyes and self-absorbed conversations, for even they could have a Moment of Awareness - and that was dangerous. The Ninja didn't like the soft glow of the manufactured veneer; he recognized this neighborhood of young professionals same as anywhere in the world. Its inhabitants always had their eyes on the future, for the future was theirs.

Except for one - the one for whom he searched.

The bored, drifting leaf passed by its intended observation of the tony redwood condos but even he felt an inner disturbance when he first caught glimpse of the Japanese banner flapping in the wind, emblazoned with the Fūrin Kazan of the ancient Takeda clan that no longer existed. A storm was coming, the sky grey and angry, announcing its impending wrath with slapping gusts and whipping winds. It was in these twilight times when everyone else scurried in hasty evasion did the Ninja find invisibility most easily attained. Most of his kills had been committed during storms.

But seeing the banner had changed everything. The wind no longer an ally but a spy. A wind from centuries past breathing life to this warrior's creed the flag proudly bore: "Swift as the Wind, Silent as a Forest, Fierce as Fire, Immovable as a Mountain." The Ninja sensed the kami spirit in the swift-moving air, swift as the glorious Takeda cavalry who rode in the notorious Era of Warring States when the central government had collapsed, with decades of ensuing warfare in the struggle for power. But why? How did a kami come to breathe life into this banner of a barbarian Westerner in a barbarian country? A country that didn't even exist at the time of the Takeda.

But then...it made sense. Naturally his target would have a Japanese connection for his removal to be necessary. Yes, he could see it now. The Westerner was not in accordance with Japanese purity, a floating weed upon the water blocking the intended path of the ripples of greater destiny. Now the Ninja hated the man and his deed sanctioned as an act of sacrament, of maintaining Japanese order and wa. Order, always order. He liked these answers, quelling the mental ricochets the first sight of the banner had shot out. And yet...

Reconnaissance was the trickiest part of any assignment, where he took the greatest chances - so to minimize the chances later on. Most likely an alarm would sound after 30 or 60 seconds but that was a lifetime to the Ninja, allowing him to absorb his target with thousands of sensitive antenna gathering information at the speed of light. Once completed, the Ninja had an insurmountable edge of inside intelligence - even if the tripped alarm gave warning of the impending doom to his target. But what did that matter when he cannot be stopped?

The Ninja entered the property with his mind blank, walking passed the security gate after a tightly skirted woman as if he had done so a thousand times before. He picked the lock and entered when the beeping control panel of the alarm started the countdown. A katana! But not sharpened. A warlord's helmet. A deep green silk kimono with blood red lining lay carelessly draped over a chair. A simple wooden flute. High end electronics. A sense of Zen and sanctuary. Time!

***

The Gaijin got the call on his cell phone alerting him to the alarm. He rushed home from the office to find nothing disturbed, even his deadbolt still locked. Damn inconvenience, he muttered in his mind. Nothing was moved or altered in any way - but then he noticed the helmet. The helmet had been picked up by chance - or so he thought at the time. The two were drawn to one another, connected across the ages in present re-unification. And he knew at that moment the helmet had entered someone's consciousness for it was the treasure he most wished to share.

But no invitation could be made for its appreciation. The Gaijin never spoke of the imagery in his flashing dreams; watching Japanese films, struck by grassy hilltops and outposts along the eternal Tokaido road resurrecting memories as real as any object his fleshed hands could grasp. To the outside world his Japanese collection bespoke a curious fetish that some mused he took too far in his indulgence. But to him it was a reconnection, putting things back in their place. Order, always order. But an order he no longer needed.

On one hand the Gaijin was happy to have attained another fan of the brass and steel helmet that exposed his soul. How does one share the inexplicable? But he knew it meant danger for someone to have recognized it while in subterfuge. This break-in was a precursor. But why warn him? Why let him know he was in danger at all? Was this a form of Eastern arrogance? Or was he being arrogant in assuming so much? If he'd had his way, above all else he yearned to speak with the man who absorbed his helmet in precious awareness. He wanted to talk of the olden days so close to his heart when banners such as the one on his balcony flew in living anger.

***

As the Ninja departed, he became nothing once more. He did not try to be anything or not try to be anything. There was simply nothing to notice. Even he held no interest in himself, the helpless leaf blown back down the street. But he knew he was holding his breath against the pounding questions breeching the gateway to his mind's castle. He hurried as quickly as he could to unleash the torment where human eyes never bothered. But the Ninja knew even that was not enough to keep from disrupting the cosmic web that connects all living spirits. But he had a job to do and risks are part of the pact he lived by.

An unsharpened sword? Kuso! A man not worthy of any blade! A man of dishonor and disrespect. Against all codes is this gaijin! He must die. Even if I were not paid he must die. And to add insult he displays an Oda helmet! Ruthless and cunning, the great Oda would stomp this cockroach like the dirty bug he is. Oh yes, this worm must be squashed and I think of all my killings in this one I'll be the most artful. I'll write a death poem, committing myself fully. I'll create terror that even a barbarian can understand and before he dies he'll learn the true meaning of bushido. Hai!

A Western assassin spends his time learning the outside of a job, tracking the physical. But the Eastern assassin trains from within, meditating on the right time and place, allowing the answer to arrive in doubtless vision. The act must be done in perfect harmony. The more harmonious, knew the Ninja, the greater the art and the fewer the clues. For what clues exist when all is in harmony and nothing odd protrudes for the eye to see? Of course, a knowing eye could notice the harmony, realize it's not an accident, and find a clue in that. But most plodding detectives chalked it up to bad luck.

A Zen rock garden...its wavy lines in conjunction with the immovable boulders...neither resisting nor giving way...a place of purity

The Gaijin smirked. "Maybe it's Itikawa!" he laughed. "He's sent a ninja to assassinate me! That's who went through my house." The more he thought about it, the more it tickled him. Imagine getting Iti's goat so badly! To have such power over one's enemy is sweet indeed. Even hate can be turned into the strings of a puppet. The Gaijin never knew what might pop into his head when he traveled to the zen garden of his mind, but rarely did it disappoint.

The Ninja also saw clearly the garden as his eyes closed in search for the perfect moment of opportunity...when the tides of his target's awareness would be at his lowest...all the imagery of the condo sorted itself into psychological pieces, a profile emerging...I must put away my prejudices to obtain absolute clarity - and I dearly want clarity for this one!...but why is it a clouding fog stubbornly lingers in one corner...that could be my own doom in that fog...or wait, it could be...

***
Exciting conclusion in Part 2!

________________________