Post by tsurume on Feb 26, 2006 1:34:00 GMT -5
Written History will always take on the bias of the one who writes it, be they the victor or the looser, good or evil. There is no such thing as a truly neutral observer no matter what the teachings say of the Shintoism of the Imperial Court, or the Buddhism of the people. And so truth is found in the statement the barbarian’s are so fond of: Nothing is truly as it seems.
It is as they say – you see before you a young woman, who by her appearance you may deduce she is a native of Tokuno and you would be correct. Perhaps by her clothing you might believe her to be a servant sent to clean the dojo – she is, after all, wearing the simple homespun garments of the lower classes, and holding a rough-straw broom in her hands. But in that you would be incorrect.
So it is with the island of Homare-Jima. That island that is known only for it’s recent past of being ruled by the Hanzagiri clan and remembered for its evil and cruelty. But it was not always this way.
Before the Hanzagiri fled the capitol and took refuge on Homare-jima, it was an island ruled by provincial Daimyo’s who gave fealty to an Emperor that lived far away. It was in no way peaceful, but it was certainly orderly and ruled by the laws of strength and honor. The latter of which was sorely lacking upon the arrival of the Hanzagiri. My father was one of the Daimyo’s who rule Homare-jima and was a loyal and honorable man. He was a deeply spiritual man, skilled in the art of Haiku, and deadly with a Katana. He moved with grace and I remember being fascinated by the deadly dance he practiced. As a child I would escape my tutor’s and hide in the garden’s watching as he taught my brother’s and made even the wooden bokken they practiced with look like the rising dance of graceful cranes. The fear of the beatings I received at the hands of my tutors paled in comparison.
My father was a traditional man, and as I grew older, my garden hiding became nearly impossible, until the time came where I had to content myself with watching from within my room, safe behind my screens from the eyes of visiting men. My father was also a dreamer, and dreamed of an Imperial alliance through marriage. Because of this, he spared no expense on my education, and arranged marriages for my brothers with young women of noble families.
All of that changed when the Hanzagiri came to Homare-jima. They hid their true nature at first, paying court to the provincial Daimyo’s and accepting their gifts of lands and servants. Each Daimyo attempted to outdo the others in order to impress members of the Imperial Family. And when it came to be my father’s turn to host the Imperial brother’s, he took great pains to observe the traditional ceremonies and gifts. His words were poetic and his etiquette flawless, his gift exactly appropriate for the rank and station of the Imperial brothers – but this did not satisfy them. They had been building their army in secret, paying ronin and clan less Ninja; all the while they had been paying lip service to the traditions of Homare-jima. This secret made them bold, and they began to reveal their true nature. They insulted my father, belittled his rank and station and demanded more than he could give. My father, whose honor was impeccable, refused to lower his standards for dishonorable men, even though those men were of Imperial blood. He would not insult them in return and he would not give in to their demands. They had attempted to use their rank and station to force him to break his oath of fealty with the person who sat on the Imperial Throne.
When the Hanzagiri clan withdrew from my father’s house, he quietly began to prepare for the inevitable attack that would come. It had become apparent that with the arrival of the Hanzagiri, strength now ruled Homare-jima and honor had been forgotten by all save a few such as my father.
It was the swishing-scratching sound of the broom that I am holding that gave me cause to remember the day that the Hanzagiri returned to my father’s house. I was standing at my table, paper in front of me, and brush in right hand; my left hand holding back the folds of my Kimono sleeves. My arm extended, I had begun the strokes of the brush to draw the tree outside my window. It was spring and the house screens were opened to let in the scent of the cherry blossoms. The gentle swish-scratching of the brush on the paper and the breeze blowing the cherry blossoms inspired me to add Kanji of my father’s haiku to the drawing. But the sudden, startled flight of cranes interrupted the muse of my reverie, and I looked out at the hills above my father’s house. I remember the brush dropping from my hand as I saw the armies of the Hanzagiri lined up on the hills, the silk banners displaying their house and clan Mon flapping in the same breeze that was disturbing the cherry blossoms.
But I must return to my work. The Dojo does not clean itself. Perhaps I will continue the story tomorrow if you wish to hear it.
It is as they say – you see before you a young woman, who by her appearance you may deduce she is a native of Tokuno and you would be correct. Perhaps by her clothing you might believe her to be a servant sent to clean the dojo – she is, after all, wearing the simple homespun garments of the lower classes, and holding a rough-straw broom in her hands. But in that you would be incorrect.
So it is with the island of Homare-Jima. That island that is known only for it’s recent past of being ruled by the Hanzagiri clan and remembered for its evil and cruelty. But it was not always this way.
Before the Hanzagiri fled the capitol and took refuge on Homare-jima, it was an island ruled by provincial Daimyo’s who gave fealty to an Emperor that lived far away. It was in no way peaceful, but it was certainly orderly and ruled by the laws of strength and honor. The latter of which was sorely lacking upon the arrival of the Hanzagiri. My father was one of the Daimyo’s who rule Homare-jima and was a loyal and honorable man. He was a deeply spiritual man, skilled in the art of Haiku, and deadly with a Katana. He moved with grace and I remember being fascinated by the deadly dance he practiced. As a child I would escape my tutor’s and hide in the garden’s watching as he taught my brother’s and made even the wooden bokken they practiced with look like the rising dance of graceful cranes. The fear of the beatings I received at the hands of my tutors paled in comparison.
My father was a traditional man, and as I grew older, my garden hiding became nearly impossible, until the time came where I had to content myself with watching from within my room, safe behind my screens from the eyes of visiting men. My father was also a dreamer, and dreamed of an Imperial alliance through marriage. Because of this, he spared no expense on my education, and arranged marriages for my brothers with young women of noble families.
All of that changed when the Hanzagiri came to Homare-jima. They hid their true nature at first, paying court to the provincial Daimyo’s and accepting their gifts of lands and servants. Each Daimyo attempted to outdo the others in order to impress members of the Imperial Family. And when it came to be my father’s turn to host the Imperial brother’s, he took great pains to observe the traditional ceremonies and gifts. His words were poetic and his etiquette flawless, his gift exactly appropriate for the rank and station of the Imperial brothers – but this did not satisfy them. They had been building their army in secret, paying ronin and clan less Ninja; all the while they had been paying lip service to the traditions of Homare-jima. This secret made them bold, and they began to reveal their true nature. They insulted my father, belittled his rank and station and demanded more than he could give. My father, whose honor was impeccable, refused to lower his standards for dishonorable men, even though those men were of Imperial blood. He would not insult them in return and he would not give in to their demands. They had attempted to use their rank and station to force him to break his oath of fealty with the person who sat on the Imperial Throne.
When the Hanzagiri clan withdrew from my father’s house, he quietly began to prepare for the inevitable attack that would come. It had become apparent that with the arrival of the Hanzagiri, strength now ruled Homare-jima and honor had been forgotten by all save a few such as my father.
It was the swishing-scratching sound of the broom that I am holding that gave me cause to remember the day that the Hanzagiri returned to my father’s house. I was standing at my table, paper in front of me, and brush in right hand; my left hand holding back the folds of my Kimono sleeves. My arm extended, I had begun the strokes of the brush to draw the tree outside my window. It was spring and the house screens were opened to let in the scent of the cherry blossoms. The gentle swish-scratching of the brush on the paper and the breeze blowing the cherry blossoms inspired me to add Kanji of my father’s haiku to the drawing. But the sudden, startled flight of cranes interrupted the muse of my reverie, and I looked out at the hills above my father’s house. I remember the brush dropping from my hand as I saw the armies of the Hanzagiri lined up on the hills, the silk banners displaying their house and clan Mon flapping in the same breeze that was disturbing the cherry blossoms.
But I must return to my work. The Dojo does not clean itself. Perhaps I will continue the story tomorrow if you wish to hear it.
