I saw a man walking along a beach, at dawn.
I was the man.
It was very peaceful. The sea so very calm. I could hear my footsteps crunching through the damp sand, above the soft lapping of miniature waves. The water’s surface was iridescent with colour, reflecting back the subtle shadings of the sky. The light grew in the east.
My armour was comfortable around me, my sword secure. Polished and sharpened in its scabbard, it awaited its moment, as I walked on.
I woke slowly, smoothly, the beach fading gradually into the darkness of my room.
Outside, it was nearly dawn, but the noises were those of the early traffic, not the gentle sea. They were noises that promised a day of frenetic energy, not of peace.
The digital clock was a harsh electric-blue brightness, casting shadows. ‘5:03’ it told me.
I slipped out of bed, relinquishing the comforting warmth, and padded silently across the room, to the wooden case in the corner. The case my Grandfather had left me in his will. As quietly as possible, I entered the combination, eased the catches off, and opened it.
The sword rested within, on its stand.
In my dream, I had not looked at the sword. But it had been familiar to me.
This sword, Grandfather’s sword, was familiar. I reached out and ran a finger along the lacquered surface of the scabbard, remembering how I had done that as a child.
I lifted it gently from the box, gripped the hilt, and eased out a few inches of blade. Polished metal flickered, reflecting blue light back to me.
“Be careful.” I heard Grandfather say. “It’s not a toy!”
“Is it very old, Grandfather?” I asked.
“Hundreds of years old!” he told me. “It was carried by great warriors. Samurai.”
Later, when I was older, he taught me how to care for it, oiling and polishing the blade, always respectful of its deadly sharpness and its crafted beauty.
“Whose sword was it?” I asked. “Was it used in battle?”
But Grandfather did not know of its history, nor did he ever tell me how he came to own it.
“Isn’t it very valuable?” I asked once, when times were hard and money short.
“I suppose it must be.” Grandfather admitted. “But I don’t keep it for its value. I keep it for its inspiration.”
Behind me, I heard a stirring.
“Why are you up so early?”
“I had a dream.” I answered, and gently laid the sword back into its box.
“A bad dream?”
“Not really.” I closed and locked the box. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You should come back to bed. It’s an important day for you.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
I slipped back into bed, the warm sheets welcome on my chilled skin. Even more so, the gentle touch of my wife’s hand.
The room faded. Dawn light through the curtains became dawn light on the sea. Offshore islands dramatically silhouetted against the growing light.
I marched on down the beach.
Ahead of me, there were figures, emerging from the trees and lining themselves up across my path.
Where there should have been one, five warriors awaited me. They were honourless.
It did not alter the beauty of the morning, nor my steady pace.
They did not advance to meet me. All the better, I thought, since it gave me more time to appreciate the coming day. I sniffed, smelling the soft salt tang. I listened, hearing a breeze rustling in the trees to my right. The sun was now showing round the edge of one island, and it cast a line of shimmering fire across the sea towards me, gold and blood red.
So would my blade shine when I drew it.
It was ready. I was ready. I walked on.
The alarm dragged me away from the beach and plunged me into the whirl and rush of the day. Up, coffee, shower, breakfast, dress. Check my case, my papers, my laptop. Kiss goodbye.
Driving. Fast along the main roads, weaving round the slower traffic. Forced down to a crawl as I came into the city, choked and crowded and regulated by imperious lights.
Behind my concentration on driving, behind the morning news on the radio, behind my concerns for the day, I remembered the beach, the feel of sand crunching beneath my feet and the weight of the sword at my waist.
A fortuitous combination of traffic lights allowed me into the parking lot in time to claim one of the better spaces. I switched off, climbed out, locked up, and headed for the entrance.
And paused. Thinking of the beach.
The combat that faced me would not draw blood, but it would be vicious. The opponents that awaited would show me smiles, not steel. But they would not be bound by honour.
I stood for a moment. I looked, and listened, and smelled. The sun was high enough now to cast a beam through the canyons of steel and glass. The trees planted round the entrance caught the light, a gentle green against concrete slabs. The wind was rustling their leaves. I stepped closer to hear them above the roar of the city. The freshness of the new day’s air was contaminated by the fumes from my car and the thousands of others. But I remembered how it had felt on the beach.
“Thank you for your gift, Grandfather.” I whispered.
I was ready. I walked on.
I was the man.
It was very peaceful. The sea so very calm. I could hear my footsteps crunching through the damp sand, above the soft lapping of miniature waves. The water’s surface was iridescent with colour, reflecting back the subtle shadings of the sky. The light grew in the east.
My armour was comfortable around me, my sword secure. Polished and sharpened in its scabbard, it awaited its moment, as I walked on.
I woke slowly, smoothly, the beach fading gradually into the darkness of my room.
Outside, it was nearly dawn, but the noises were those of the early traffic, not the gentle sea. They were noises that promised a day of frenetic energy, not of peace.
The digital clock was a harsh electric-blue brightness, casting shadows. ‘5:03’ it told me.
I slipped out of bed, relinquishing the comforting warmth, and padded silently across the room, to the wooden case in the corner. The case my Grandfather had left me in his will. As quietly as possible, I entered the combination, eased the catches off, and opened it.
The sword rested within, on its stand.
In my dream, I had not looked at the sword. But it had been familiar to me.
This sword, Grandfather’s sword, was familiar. I reached out and ran a finger along the lacquered surface of the scabbard, remembering how I had done that as a child.
I lifted it gently from the box, gripped the hilt, and eased out a few inches of blade. Polished metal flickered, reflecting blue light back to me.
“Be careful.” I heard Grandfather say. “It’s not a toy!”
“Is it very old, Grandfather?” I asked.
“Hundreds of years old!” he told me. “It was carried by great warriors. Samurai.”
Later, when I was older, he taught me how to care for it, oiling and polishing the blade, always respectful of its deadly sharpness and its crafted beauty.
“Whose sword was it?” I asked. “Was it used in battle?”
But Grandfather did not know of its history, nor did he ever tell me how he came to own it.
“Isn’t it very valuable?” I asked once, when times were hard and money short.
“I suppose it must be.” Grandfather admitted. “But I don’t keep it for its value. I keep it for its inspiration.”
Behind me, I heard a stirring.
“Why are you up so early?”
“I had a dream.” I answered, and gently laid the sword back into its box.
“A bad dream?”
“Not really.” I closed and locked the box. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You should come back to bed. It’s an important day for you.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
I slipped back into bed, the warm sheets welcome on my chilled skin. Even more so, the gentle touch of my wife’s hand.
The room faded. Dawn light through the curtains became dawn light on the sea. Offshore islands dramatically silhouetted against the growing light.
I marched on down the beach.
Ahead of me, there were figures, emerging from the trees and lining themselves up across my path.
Where there should have been one, five warriors awaited me. They were honourless.
It did not alter the beauty of the morning, nor my steady pace.
They did not advance to meet me. All the better, I thought, since it gave me more time to appreciate the coming day. I sniffed, smelling the soft salt tang. I listened, hearing a breeze rustling in the trees to my right. The sun was now showing round the edge of one island, and it cast a line of shimmering fire across the sea towards me, gold and blood red.
So would my blade shine when I drew it.
It was ready. I was ready. I walked on.
The alarm dragged me away from the beach and plunged me into the whirl and rush of the day. Up, coffee, shower, breakfast, dress. Check my case, my papers, my laptop. Kiss goodbye.
Driving. Fast along the main roads, weaving round the slower traffic. Forced down to a crawl as I came into the city, choked and crowded and regulated by imperious lights.
Behind my concentration on driving, behind the morning news on the radio, behind my concerns for the day, I remembered the beach, the feel of sand crunching beneath my feet and the weight of the sword at my waist.
A fortuitous combination of traffic lights allowed me into the parking lot in time to claim one of the better spaces. I switched off, climbed out, locked up, and headed for the entrance.
And paused. Thinking of the beach.
The combat that faced me would not draw blood, but it would be vicious. The opponents that awaited would show me smiles, not steel. But they would not be bound by honour.
I stood for a moment. I looked, and listened, and smelled. The sun was high enough now to cast a beam through the canyons of steel and glass. The trees planted round the entrance caught the light, a gentle green against concrete slabs. The wind was rustling their leaves. I stepped closer to hear them above the roar of the city. The freshness of the new day’s air was contaminated by the fumes from my car and the thousands of others. But I remembered how it had felt on the beach.
“Thank you for your gift, Grandfather.” I whispered.
I was ready. I walked on.