Globetrotter Ingrid gets a fabulous fresh start when her job takes her to Melbourne, Australia. Here she meets wise and sweet Oliver, who makes her forget she doesn't have a heart.
This successful stability prompts Ingrid to accept an invitation to...
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December 2018
Hitoshi drove Ingrid to his family's traditional house on Christmas Day. It was a sprawling, regal residence, an elegant hybrid of ancient Japanese values and Western modernity. It'd been around since the time of the shoguns, when Tokyo was still called Edo, before the Americans forced Japan to open its borders to the world.
As a result, it had its own dojo and even a private onsen. The plan was to get some sparring in before lunch, soak in a hot-spring bath while taking in the scenery, then sit down for a traditional homemade meal.
Keeping to the old-meets-new theme, they wore gym clothes instead of full kendo gear for their little sparring session. Hitoshi went easy on her, Ingrid could tell, giving her ample room to predict his movements. She did and made him regret it. After she landed a few hard strikes on his exposed body, he tightened up his defence and upped his offence.
The years of practice showed – once he got serious about it, he had Ingrid blocking blows and backing away until she hit the wall, panting, his shinai under her chin. Ingrid dropped hers and put her hands up.
"You win, Hitoshi-san."
He distanced himself, and she picked up her bamboo sword before they bowed to each other. As they put the shinai away, something caught her eye across the expanse of tatami-matted floor. A black stand mounted on the wall, holding sheathed swords in its brackets. Hitoshi followed her gaze to it.
"Are those... katana?" Ingrid asked, frowning. As far as she knew, those were – ironically – pretty much illegal in these parts of the world.
"Oops," Hitoshi confirmed her guess. "We are legal owners," he added as if he'd heard her thoughts, "these are family heirlooms. But displaying them like that is not exactly... kosher, as they say, so this will be our little secret, yeah?"
"Sure... if I get to hold one for a minute."
Hitoshi laughed. "All right. I suppose it won't hurt." Except a tinge of unease rang in his voice.
They walked over, still barefoot. He lifted one sword off its bracket, balancing it with ceremonious precision on the underside of his fingers, and passed it from his palms to hers like some precious ritual offering.
"Careful," he warned her in a whisper, "it's very sharp."
Ingrid held onto the scabbard just below the guard and wrapped her fist around the handle, tugging the blade free with utmost caution.
Hitoshi watched her with curious intent and proceeded into a flourished tale about the ancient origins of the Nakamura katana. How these were rare authentic articles, Japanese-made by seasoned swordsmiths, long before the swords were effectively outlawed in their home country.
Ingrid heard only snippets. The smooth silver blade, shining in the winter sun, had her undivided attention. The scabbard came off in full and she held the naked sword upright. Felt a strange sensation rush through her blood. Lowered the katana, her eyes tracing its subtle curve in the light. Twisted her wrist to take in each gleaming side, every line, and every angle.
