Katana
KATANA. (See also, BLADED WEAPONS) A katana is characterized by a single-edged, curved blade and a circular guard that protects its two-handed grip. Forged by layering steels of different flexibility, the blade has a soft, nearly unbreakable center while keeping a sharp, hardened edge. For swordsmiths crafting this ancient Japanese weapon, beauty was not just an option, but a requirement of the trade. Though the preservation of that artistry was not a priority to many in the bayou, knowledge of how to maintain the sword was passed to many Hunters so that no katana would be irreparably lost to rust.
The Journal of Alvise Seiko
Undated
Green leather bound, handwritten, 6 x 8.25
1/3
An all-encompassing lantern of cloud hangs over the swamp. Lightning shatters the sky, and rain pours from the heavens, unperturbed. We are trapped in this shack with the stink of catfish. Bullets spent. Food perished. Hope fading
Mr. Bakin, my guide and hunting partner, sulks with me on the floor as I cling for life to our only weapon: a curved, foreign sword, scrounged from a corpse of our only weapon: a curved, foreign sword, scrounged from a corpse of our making. Of Mr. Bakin's making, to be specific. He calls it "katana," but it resembles a weapon once described to me by a Japanese scholar, who I swear used a different name. How a sword of that ilk found its way to these swamps, I do not know, but I admit it gives me some comfort. Mr. Bakin's companionship is dependable, and his callused hands have been a savior, but his silences are made too unsettling to bear by his grimacing mask.
My studies have been fruitless, and I remain awed that a storm can last this long. I did not think this much water existed across the globe: we seem to float at the bottom of a falling ocean, one filled with wrath and ruin and wraiths.
"It is a storm, and you are sleepless," was Mr. Bakin's insight.
I have been a man of science for a lifetime, and I entered this accursed place to disprove my childish fears. Yet, my new horrors are most certainly mature, and I am terrorized by the suspicion that I shall leave this place a man of incorrigible faith.
Mr. Bakin has deserted me. Moments ago, he wordlessly vanished into the blanket of rain, and I know not if he will return. Fear will not let me follow.
The Journal of Alvise Seiko
Undated
Green leather bound, handwritten, 6 x 8.25"
2/3
Mr. Bakin's return was comfort only for a fleeting moment before I saw the leeches entwined around his left arm. I screamed and slashed wildly at them until their bodies dropped to the floor to reveal bloodied bone, protruding from his ruptured limb, just as he fainted on top of me.
His bandages were not yet tied when I froze at the sight of a bloated behemoth lurking in the doorway, devoid of ahead.
I did not summon the courage to slay the behemoth. Instead, Mr. Bakin ripped the sword from my trembling hands and held the hilt to his hip with a confident stance. The behemoth lumbered through the doorway, and I stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. Mr. Bakin stood fearless; his scream having faded into silent trepidation. From behind I saw his two hands snap into position: one quivering in pain over the sheath, and the other over the handle, unnaturally steady as the monster's bladed arm raised above its neck stump.
Inky blood splattered across my face as the katana' s blade cut through flesh and thunder. The foe froze with its arm aloft as Mr. Bakin, spent, fell onto one knee. It was a horrific, enthralling display, but it was not over. The behemoth stumbled forward and bore down upon the weakened Mr. Bakin. Unarmed and unthinking, I threw myself at the creature. I clawed and ripped with a fury I have never felt, plunging my hands into gashes both fresh and faded so that I might tear at something vital beneath. I found only leeches before its blade pierced my shoulder and hoisted me in the air.
Surely this was the end, I thought raised against a ceiling beam by a monstrous brute. I closed my eyes to die, but opened them from the floor and saw Mr. Bakin, having regained a mite of his strength, standing over the behemoth's corpse, the katana embedded up to the hilt.
Now we are both slumped next to our broken door, bleeding, and still I cannot meet his gaze without blushing. I pray we do not die in this odious, perverted storm.
