10.

  Carved into the wooden columns of the inner temple, No-Belt recognized the commandments of the samurai code—though interpreted in the unique fashion of that province, slightly different from what he had learned since childhood.

  Kneeling before the altar, Bishop Naomi fixed her gaze and extended her hand toward each inscription as she passed judgment on the foreigner's conduct.

  Think little of yourself and much of the world.

  “You came to us in need of care, food, and shelter, hoping to claim a wife, a name, and a piece of land. It never occurred to you what that would cost our community,” Naomi said coldly.

  Never make decisions based on partial impressions.

  “Upon finding a village of widows, you immediately assumed them to be fragile, foolish, and dependent, and thus saw no risk,” the priestess continued.

  Do not cultivate arbitrary preferences, and do not act out of habit, tradition, or instinct.

  “You accepted without question everything that was offered, exactly as it was offered, completely lowering your guard in exchange for small comforts,” she reminded him.

  Practice detachment from things and superficial sensations.

  “What’s more, you proved to have great appetite and lust. I should gift you the bar tab under your name at the cellar. Even you might be surprised,” she mocked.

  Hold no regrets, but always correct yourself.

  “As for the terrible nightmares you experienced—they merely reveal your corrupted nature, since rhododendron honey opens pathways to memory but carries no content of its own,” she went on.

  Resentment is inappropriate behavior.

  “Today you came here looking for someone. Perhaps the bandit Bear-Hand? Those types often seek shelter in temples they think are abandoned,” the priestess mused. “This one, as you can see, is very well protected.”

  Do not hoard weapons or tools beyond what is necessary.

  “You never surrendered your sword. Why do you live always ready to commit violence arbitrarily?” she asked, stepping away from the cushion in front of the altar and approaching a column that read:

  Meditate.

  “Tell me, samurai: what kind of treatment do you deserve in our village?”

  Throughout the speech, No-Belt’s ashamed eyes darted between the polished wooden floor and the words carved into the columns, always avoiding Naomi’s stern gaze.

  Then he turned to the final inscription of the temple, pleading for ancestral wisdom:

  Respect all Buddhas, but rely on none.

  “I challenge you to a duel to the death—for Honda, and for my freedom,” he finally replied.

  11.

  With a swift gesture, Bishop Naomi reached a wooden rack by the wall and drew a naginata—a pole weapon with a blade like a sword, and thus with twice the reach of No-Belt’s katana, which, besides everything else, could not be unsheathed. She spun the shaft around her body with great skill and assumed an impenetrable guard before her.

  Stolen story; please report.

  A little more than ten paces separated the samurai from the priestess. The temple hall before the altar, filled with lit candles and many golden statues of the fat, smiling Buddha, awaited solemnly for the sudden clash of two lives against death.

  HAIAH!

  Naomi’s heels thundered against the wooden floor as she rushed at No-Belt, executing several frontal thrusts and slashes with the blade to pierce and slice flesh. The samurai dodged as best he could and used the scabbard of his sword as a defensive staff, striking the naginata to deflect the blows.

  NYAH!

  You’re the leader of the widows! No-Belt thought, euphoric, narrowly avoiding several fatal injuries. You tried to kill me! You lied to me! his mind screamed, collapsing even in the face of a far more immediate and real threat. You… I… I don’t know you!

  KIAH!

  Naomi leapt back to reassess her opponent and catch her breath. She had already deciphered No-Belt’s movements and was convinced that the next torrent of attacks could not be avoided.

  What a terrible spirit! You fight without accepting the possibility of defeat! You fight for all the people you love… That’s why you fight far better than I do, the young man pondered, deciding to adopt an extreme strategy.

  The samurai dropped his guard and released the sword’s hilt, letting it fall to the floor with a thud; he removed his helmet and loosened the knots securing the breastplate, slipping his arms free from the pauldrons like a cat escaping a collar. He threw everything to the ground with a loud clatter and stood shirtless.

  “What is this!? You think I’ll accept a surrender?” Naomi asked, wary of a hidden trap in the unexpected gesture.

  No-Belt said nothing—he simply charged at Naomi. The Bishop aimed and swept the naginata’s blade across the side of his chest with firm momentum, tearing off a strip of flesh and a spray of blood, exposing the outer curves of his ribs.

  He did not stop. Once inside the weapon’s range, he grabbed the shaft of Naomi’s weapon with all the strength he had left, preventing further blows and locking her in place.

  “Your sword… with a spear’s handle… has long reach,” said No-Belt through gritted teeth, breathing deeply to keep from collapsing. “But no elbows,” he concluded, a provocative smile curling on the edge of his mouth.

  He stood a step from Naomi, close enough to touch her hair. But his knees buckled, his vision dimmed, and he dropped to the ground.

  12.

  In the end, Naomi took pity on the defeated No-Belt—but it is hard to explain how she got to that point. At first, she remained in shock at the obvious fragility in her defensive position and at the sight of the young man unconscious in a pool of his own blood.

  Never, since being elected spiritual leader and protector of Hope Village, had she seen a samurai voluntarily surrender himself to certain death in such a way—a decision certainly foolish, made for foolish reasons, yet one that nevertheless contained, at its core, a venerable gesture of surrender and sacrifice.

  Could she take the life of a defenseless person—someone who had just taken a step toward enlightenment? What would that make her? To the Bishop, herself far too young for such responsibility on her shoulders, deserters and bandits were the ones who behaved that way—ravenous, violent, disloyal.

  It was her duty to be better.

  So, that day, she bandaged the samurai’s bloody torso at the very spot where he had fallen, then returned to kneel on the cushion before the Buddha’s statue to contemplate the impermanence of all things. After that, for five weeks, she cared for No-Belt’s health.

  In the first week, she moved him to a mattress at the back of the Temple, changed his bandages often, and moistened her fingertips to drip cool water onto his lips.

  Once, curiosity got the better of her, and she tried to draw the blade that had remained sheathed during their duel. When she couldn’t, no matter what she tried, she understood her patient’s burden.

  Is it possible for a man to live surrounded by his own lies, and no longer be able to perceive the difference? she reflected in the temple’s silent solitude. So says the Buddha.

  In the second week, No-Belt awoke. In the third, he suffered a high fever and seemed on the verge of death—but eventually recovered. In the fourth, he began to speak, and finally had the chance to truly meet Naomi.

  They reached an agreement: he would be allowed to leave Hope Village in peace with his horse, as long as he never returned, and never uttered a word about the village or its widows—omitting entirely the time he had lived there and everything he had learned.

  One day, once he had recovered sufficiently, he leapt onto Honda’s back before sunrise and disappeared over the horizon without a word. He left behind a battered samurai armor, the useless family sword—and a seed in Naomi’s womb.