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    Six Days in Matsugi
    Six Days in Matsugi
    Six Days in Matsugi
    Ebook43 pages35 minutes

    Six Days in Matsugi

    By Timothy J. Meyer

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    About this ebook

    The wars are all won and now a shogun sits in power. The demand for swordsmen of any stripe or skill has evaporated. Like orphaned children, masterless samurai roam the land, invariably falling to banditry when no other employment can be found. When one such wretched figure stumbles into the defenseless village of Matsugi, he's given the rare chance to both reclaim his honor and redeem his months of ceaseless wandering – all without a proper sword.

    Six Days in Matsugi is a Japanese period drama about one ronin, one village and one week. Written as a sister story to "Six Days in Malt Springs", Matsugi is nonetheless a standalone work and counted as Volume Six in the Year of the Horse Anthology, a collection of monthly short stories by Timothy J. Meyer, released in 2014.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTimothy J. Meyer
    Release dateAug 14, 2014
    ISBN9781311530813
    Six Days in Matsugi
    Author

    Timothy J. Meyer

    TIMOTHY J. MEYER is wanted on five counts of piracy, two counts of brigandage and one count of enthusiastic corruption of the galactic good. If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact the local branch of the IMIS (Imperial Ministry of Interstellar Security).

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      Book preview

      Six Days in Matsugi - Timothy J. Meyer

      SIX DAYS IN MATSUGI

      A July Short Story

      by

      Timothy J. Meyer

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014 Timothy J. Meyer

      Thank you for purchasing this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

      About the Author

      Other Works by Timothy J. Meyer

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      Read a Sample from Six Days in Malt Springs

      MOKUYOBI

      The point of the sword was surprisingly sharp against his stomach.

      With a broken blade, he'd – erroneously now, it seemed – been worried that the act of seppuku would be rendered downright impossible. Worst case, he'd assumed, he would be unable to actually slice his belly fully open, no matter how hard he pressed with the jagged edge of his blade.

      Indeed, no; what remained of the katana's folded steel appeared more than sharp enough to cut, perhaps somewhat unevenly, through his bowels and so end his life. Nothing, it seemed, would now stand between the ronin and an honorable, if belated, death.

      Not even the mud and the horse dung he knelt in, at the bottom of this ditch.

      Even dawn's pink horizon would not bring any workers to this rice paddy. The water that pooled between the rows now lay still, undisturbed by the presence of man or animal. All the plant matter, all the green chaff that once filled this whole valley, this whole section of the country, had been blackened by a hundred fires and trampled by a hundred thousand boots. The warring clans had ridden over all these farms and villages and all that remained was burnt, broken and useless.

      So too was the ronin's plight. A new shogun now ruled from his seat in Edo Castle and 300 daimyo ruled the country around him. The wars were won, the victors sat enthroned and the ashes of their esteemed enemies were all entombed within the earth.

      All except the ronin and those like him, his kindred of the broken sword.

      For a year since the death of his master, for a year since he'd awoken, somehow alive, upon that battlefield and fled into the countryside, the ronin had wandered the country, north to south, east to west. For a year, he'd avoided capture as an outlaw and the opportunity to swear his sword to a new daimyo, to recover his honor, avoided him also, as though offended.

      For a year, he'd carried one weapon, the only piece of his shattered honor that he could recover from the killing fields that ended his career as a samurai. That sword, severed six inches above the hand guard, would serve him one last purpose now.

      There was no ink and paper for a death poem. There was no white kimono, no elaborate ceremony, no onlooker or loved one

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