The Wanderer

The Wanderer

Act One: Present

A row of emerald hillsides stretches into the distance holding rice paddies within their palm tree fingers as a petite man wearing a burgundy silk kimono winds between them, cream samurai pants flowing in the wind. A gust of air pulls his scarlet hair left to right, threatening to loosen the brown band holding back his crimson mane. A ruby mop of bangs falls delicately over his sapphire eyes, two steel daggers that pierce the souls of the unjust. His mouth is drawn down like a wooden bow. His skin is like Chinese silk in its purest form. His left-hand caresses the cobalt hilt of his Japanese sword, while the right hangs loosely, like sun-dried soba noodles, at his side. His feet are strategically wrapped in auburn cloth, parted in the middle by two cords holding his wicker sandals to his bird-like feet. He walks in time with the setting sun, guided only by a simple stone-cut path as he passes from village to village, stopping neither to rest nor eat. A wanderer, he has no home to call his own. A killer, he has no friends to mend the deep cross-shaped regrets engraved on his heart. An imperialist, he has no shogun to serve in the last days of the Meiji Era; his only company is his inner self.

Act Two: Past

His eyes close momentarily as he reminisces on the days of the first uprising. He recalls the moonlit nights when he could walk freely with his love hand in hand; those moments are now lost forever to the ebbs of time. With remorse he softly whispers; "To settle down is to forgive the killer within; wandering is the only remedy for my blood-stained past," for he is a shadow of an age cut by sweat and tears. He journeys through the lush jungles and sun-kissed valleys of his nation, helping the remnants of those he slew in the revolution, with his reversed-bladed Katana; a symbol of his vow to never kill again. As he wanders through the city of Kyoto the image of the young woman that once intoxicated his senses plagues his mind; a rare beauty with long ebony hair, gentle azure eyes, hands soft as cotton, and plum-scented lips. He recalls that she had always worn a cerulean kimono in the days of the revolution; one with an intricate yellow floral pattern on either end. Her feet were always wrapped in white cloth parted by the thick leather cords of gold rattan sandals. Her smile had always brought serenity to the hidden scars wound tightly around his body and mind. For a moment her memory brings solace to his warrior spirit but quickly dissipates with the storm of sorrow raging deep within his heart. "To love is to justify the man-slayer that lies within my tormented past; an act unthinkable by any virtue." His thoughts cut deeply into his essence as he remembers the day he gave up his feelings for his one true love; the final atonement for his sins. Standing at the edge of Kyoto, he lets the memory of the woman fade. He journeys deeper into the countryside seeking peace in a nation carved by blood; like the thick wine liquid he had once spilled on the tombstones of the last shogun lords of the era with his own hands.