Wheat Hair

That day, the sun hadn’t shown its face. It was known it had come, of course; there’s no denying its inexorable routine, but the clouds followed the will of the winds. Thick as they were, they obscured the brightness of Amaterasu’s disc with their gray. All the colors of the day became shy in the morning rain, distinguishable almost solely by the contrast of their hues. Even so, there were those whose obligations forced them to leave the comfort of their homes.

Several hours’ journey from any village, the roof of a small wooden inn caught the raindrops and welcomed weary travelers coming and going along the single road that cut before it. A young man entered through the main door, but not before removing his Taka-ashida sandals . He had not been a man for long, but age would grant him the title until the day he died or until he lost his honor, and it was precisely his dignity that had brought him here.

— I’m looking for Komugi no ke, — he said, bowing to those present. — Can anyone help me?

Only three of the five low tables were occupied. The men sitting on the floor around them watched curiously, but soon lost interest when they realized they couldn’t help. A young woman serving them responded only with a negative shake of her head. However, one of them was sitting alone and raised his hand, beckoning him over. Invited to sit, the young man did so.

— You’re looking for Wheat hair with a sword in your waist. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into, boy?

The man was tall, with a lined face and black hair tied back on top of his head. On the floor beside him rested a katana and a wakizashi . The kamishimo he wore was impeccably clean and indicated that he was no ordinary traveler. He ate cooked rice accompanied by sake. The young man had no doubt that he was a samurai.

— I apologize, my lord.” Kneeling, he lowered his forehead to the ground in respect. “I saw no better way to honor my dear sister’s death.

— I’ll overlook the weapon you carry. I’m sure you know that normally only samurai and swordmasters have the proper permission to adorn their waists with them. I don’t imagine you have a dojo or represent a clan.

—No, sir. I am the son of a smith, and the weapon I carry I forged myself, but that’s no excuse, I know. I thank you for your compassion.

— Tell me then, blacksmith, what do you know about Wheat Hair?

— I know he has gaijin blood, and that’s why his hair is yellow. I know he’s a swordsman and that he killed my sister. And now I’m trying to find him. After that, I won’t need to know anything more about him, and no one will hear from him again.

The man took a sip of sake without taking his eyes off his companion.

— You’re lucky, young man. I know him well and can take him right to where he is. We’re not friends, he and I, because I would never count on him to help me with my problems, but we’ve shared a table like this many times, and I’ve learned to appreciate his company. He was here only recently, as you might have guessed.

The young man’s eyes risked leaving the ground and looked at his new benefactor with excitement.

— But I’ll only show you where to find him after you listen to me. I feel obligated to tell you who your target really is. Do we have a deal?

The young man nodded in agreement and the samurai spoke again.

— The man you seek does indeed have gaijin blood. His grandfather was a samurai, and his grandmother was a fair-haired foreigner. He’s a poor man who had to grow up shaving his head to protect the honor of his father, who, by chance, was born with the right hair. He grew up away from his grandmother, of course, and was trained in one of the great clans. You’re not looking for just any ronin, boy. Killing a samurai would condemn your life in the eyes of the law.

— I know that, but I would kill that samurai with pleasure, my lord. Raised by a mixed-race father, he couldn’t have turned out any differently. I’m surprised you know this and haven’t done anything about it.

— That’s not the point here, boy. Wanting isn’t the same as being able to. Even though you know he has samurai training, you want to exchange sword blows with him? I wouldn’t dare unless I were ready to die.

The question was met with a stiff expression.

— So be it, then. Death may be a blessing after all, but let me continue to try to change your mind, for the man you seek is no ordinary man. His bad blood has made him different from the common man, for while everyone considers the yellow in his hair a controversial color, he only had eyes for red. Literally, I should say. For him, every day was gray like this. More so! Only one color could his rough eyes see perfectly, and that hue governs his life to this day.

The man took another sip of sake as he put his memory to work.

— They say it’s the color of love, of passion, and I can’t disagree, because I know that to him, everything painted red seemed beautiful and exuberant. It’s not hard to imagine how magnificent the color red seemed to him. It’s natural for us to seek beauty in all aspects of our lives. How can something colorless and lifeless compete with the warmth and power of red?

It was a rhetorical question, but the boy found himself thinking of giving an answer he couldn’t find.

— When he was a boy, he developed a taste for painting. As you might imagine, his canvases were marked only with shades of black and red. He compensated for the lack of other pigments by creating his own special paints, capable of reproducing perfect gradients of almost every variation of his favorite color. He painted sunsets, fruits, flowers, and everything red. His art was acclaimed by his clan, who displayed precisely that palette on their banners. It wasn’t long before he had a space for his exhibitions. Despite this, he was never satisfied. Something was still missing in his art, the “Perfect Scarlet,” as he came to call it. Anyone who works with painting can understand. For a good brushstroke, the artist must first choose the color. Often, he mixes it with others to achieve the ideal hue, but he doesn’t always achieve it the first time. Imagine the torture it is for a painter to be unable to reproduce what he wants; he will create work after work, always feeling like he’s missed the mark, no matter how much acclaim they receive. Every painting seemed imperfect, lacking the right hue in one place or another. It became an obsession. He made numerous purchases and traveled extensively, experimenting with new materials in new mixtures, while advancing his samurai training. When he was old enough, he became known as Shinku no ha, Crimson Blade, for in combat he wore red armor and blades. He would only be called Wheat Hair long after he killed his first person, when he finally lost his inhibitions. It was this event that made him who he is today, for better or worse.

The listener shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t know where the conversation was going and was tired of wasting time.

— Did he mention my sister? Killers like him sure love to brag about their latest kill.

— He’s not a simple assassin, my dear. He’s never been simple. Anything masterfully done should be admired. Don’t confuse the author with his work. Calling him a murderer would be like calling the greatest martial artist a brawler. What he is is a master. A shinigami ready to take your soul. An assassin kills for trivial, earthly reasons. He, on the other hand, kills for beauty and transcendence. He transforms any soul into the most beautiful art, so that it shines like the sun before extinguishing forever. No one treats their enemies with more respect. You can be sure it was no different with your sister.

— It doesn’t matter why he killed her or how he did it! The result is the same. I’ve lost someone I love, and there’s no peace until I can do to him what he did to so many. I want to see if he’ll like it when the blood that spills is his own. I’d like you to take me to him quickly, for I don’t want to risk him straying beyond my reach. There’s nothing you can say that will dissuade me from my mission.

— You speak with emotion. I spoke of a samurai trained in the art of killing, and yet you still want to face him. I see that, for you, dying isn’t as bad a fate as living with this hatred in your heart. So be it, then; there’s no point in continuing my story. Sooner or later, you’ll understand. I’ll take you to him. You’ll have your revenge, and I’ll have a spectacle. If it’s up to me, it will be a fair duel.

The samurai placed his kasa on his head and offered the rest of his drink to the young man, who downed it in one gulp. “For courage,” he thought. Money was left on the table, and soon they both left the room. Outside, they were greeted by the rain and its sounds. Countless frogs croaked in the distance, and the wind played its part in fluttering their clothes. Unconcerned by the wetting of their clothes, they advanced along the dirt road heading east.

They walked in silence, and the blacksmith used the time to let courage take over his heart. His hatred contained his fear of death, but only to a point. At a certain time, his guide, who was walking ahead, stopped. He removed the kasa from his head and let the water wet his face. He turned his face upward and remained there, eyes closed, before speaking.

— He told me it was his sister’s lipstick that caught his attention. He confessed that her kiss was as hot as he suspected.

The words reached the boy’s ears and bothered him more than they should have. Imagining his sister being harassed by a monster like that was unnerving. Had she been raped before her death? Amidst such thoughts, the boy finally realized. The rain had been falling on the samurai for ages, but only now had it wet his hair. Washed, black dye dripped from it, revealing strands as golden as wheat.

— You!? — said the armorer as he drew his sword.

Komugi no ke calmly turned to face his challenger and drew his dark-bladed sword that reflected red in every light it caught.

The boy-man hesitated, but when his rage overcame him, he decided to attack. His blow was wide and powerful, but it was easily deflected by his more experienced rival. With a swift counterattack, the crimson blade cut the enemy under the arm. The excruciating pain sent the victim staggering. He could no longer lift his arm, and from it, his most precious liquid leaked.

— Look, my boy. This is the most important moment of your life. You’ve never been more beautiful. Pour out your true inner beauty. Let my Perfect Scarlet pour out!

With his other hand, the young man attacked again, but the samurai limited himself to blocking and dodging with ease until the attacker fell from exhaustion.

—Save yourself. We need to prolong this moment. The more you fight, the faster you’ll fade away.

He kicked the weapon away from his fallen adversary, who now watched him with fear on his face. He finally understood what his tormentor had tried so hard to explain at the inn. His endeavor had an obvious and banal end; he had been foolish to expect anything different.

— P- please...— he began to babble.

— No! Don’t beg! How you die is as important as how you live, my boy.

The young man’s tears mingled with the rain that hid them, giving him a shred of dignity. The samurai never took his eyes off the wound he had inflicted. He was proud of his blow, and his hand trembled, begging for another . The color of the blood was the most beautiful red. It was like seeing firsthand God’s most beautiful work. There was the Perfect Scarlet. It had a hypnotic and addictive effect. In the past, he had painted the most macabre battle scenes with it. Open wounds, mutilations, massacres... the themes of his works had definitively shifted to more cruel and violent ones.

Eventually, art was no longer enough. Animals were the first to suffer at his hands. Then, death followed him wherever he went. Only human blood possessed ideal beauty. He needed only the slightest reason to kill. His crimson blade cut arteries, not vital organs. Part of the pleasure was watching the liquid seep through the still-living victim’s body. They were like works of art, and his sword was the paintbrush. With it, he unleashed true inner beauty. It seemed poetic to him how perfection could course through even the most despicable men’s veins. No wonder the nobility valued his blood so highly. The boy’s was being diluted in the rain. It wasn’t red enough. He needed more.

— She always wore a kimono and cherry lipstick when she knew I was coming. I loved it when she blushed. If only she hadn’t despised my yellow so much, I wouldn’t have sought out her red. That was a beautiful canvas to work with, but now is your time.

The boy crawled on the ground, searching for his sword. The mud hampered his every movement, and water regularly obscured his vision. With a violent foot, Wheathair flipped him over onto his chest.

— My love of color has dominated me my entire life, boy. But for me now, honor is as important as for any samurai. Your sister wounded her, and I had to defend it. You don’t have to suffer the same fate.

With those words, he removed the upper part of his kamishimo revealing his scarred torso and arms.

— My body flows with what I need. A samurai needs self-control, and by pouring mine instead of an innocent’s, I finally achieved it. This is my penance. You demonstrated courage, loyalty, honor, and a sense of justice. These are Bushido concepts that I must value. I must repay you with those that are lacking: respect, compassion, and honesty. Tell me, is it today that you intend to die?

Sobbing and pressing on the wound he replied:

— N-no ...

Only the rain made a sound in the next few moments. The samurai’s hand trembled, wanting to fulfill the desire in his heart, but he restrained himself.

— Then get up. Return to the inn we left for treatment. Your sword remains with me. I took your sister’s life because it could not be otherwise. Now I give you yours, for while some deserve to die, others do not. Calm your spirit and accept it.

The young armorer stood up, his legs still trembling. His face was a scowl of hatred. He took his own sword in his hand and walked toward the enemy. With his arm outstretched, he handed the sword over. Shinku No Ha received her respectfully. With a bow, the two greeted each other. Slowly, step by step, the challenger walked back the way he came, fighting the loss of blood and filled with heavy thoughts of revenge and shame. The samurai, in turn, took the road in the other direction. A few steps further on, he cut himself once more where there was still no scar and quenched his thirst for the Perfect Scarlet.

Years passed until they met again twice by chance. The first time was while visiting the grave of the only person they knew in common. The second time was because the samurai’s katana needed repair, and the no-longer-so-young blacksmith had the talent to fix it. The job was done and paid for. If there were any hostile thoughts or memories of what had happened in the past, they were hidden. Despite finding no forgiveness in his heart, alongside his wife and children, the craftsman knew how to recognize the gift of life.