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noticed he had sliced off a tiny section of it. He picked out other leaves and threw them in the air, repeating the process again and again and again until he was picking up two pieces of each leaf cut neatly in half. It was an unorthodox move with a sword, but Kaze practiced it as diligently as he practiced any move.
    The purpose of practice, his Sensei would tell him, was to transcend technique and take his motions with the sword into the realm of expression and art.
    By repeating the motions over and over again, you could reach a point where the mind and muscles no longer had to coordinate consciously. When that point was reached, the sword movement became a part of your body’s existence, like breathing or the beating of your heart—a natural movement of your body that required no thought to execute.
    Kaze still strove to learn his art and to perfect it. But despite the fact that he had great skill, he always considered himself a pupil who had to strive to learn just one more technique or movement. In the hands of a master like the Sensei, the way of the sword was an art, but it was one that could have unfortunate consequences.
    Kaze had thought that great good would come from his skill at one time, when he was much younger. But he understood the capriciousness of fate and that the movement of forces greater than one man often held the key to our lives. One swordsman, no matter how good, could not fight the changes transforming Japan.
    K aze came out of the woods and returned to the pushcart to find the merchant had found some dry wood and had a small fire going. On the fire was a black metal pot; in it was water boiling for tea.
    “It’s probably best not to light a fire,” Kaze said as he walked up to the merchant.
    “Where were you?” the merchant said quickly. “I was worried you might have left me.”
    “No, I simply went into the woods.”
    The merchant just grunted his understanding, thinking that Kaze was simply answering a call of nature.
    “The bandits might see the smoke,” Kaze continued.
    “I don’t care,” Hishigawa replied petulantly. “I have to get dried off and warmed up or else I’ll die.”
    Kaze shrugged. “Unless we get some help,” he said, “we will not be able to push that cart through these muddy pathways.”
    “Where can we get some help?” Hishigawa said.
    “A pathway always goes somewhere,” Kaze answered. “You simply follow it until you come to a village or farmhouse. There, we might be able to recruit some help to allow us to get this pushcart from here to the barrier.”
    “When do you think I should do that?” the merchant asked.
    “Right now,” Kaze answered. “If you go to a village or farmhouse, you’ll probably find a hot breakfast.”
    The merchant looked over at the pushcart. “But what about the cart?”
    “I’ll stay here and watch it,” Kaze said.
    “But…” The merchant let the word trail off.
    Kaze smiled. “Don’t worry, I can’t push the cart by myself either. So your gold will be safe. If you can’t recruit some help, we are going to be here two or three days, until the roads dry up.”
    Sighing, the merchant took one last, reluctant look at the water starting to boil in the kettle and said, “All right. I’ll go get some people to help us push the cart.”
    He started off down the road in search of a farmhouse or village. As he left, Kaze looked at the cart. He stared at it for several minutes, thinking about the possibilities.
    H ishigawa was tired, stiff, and cold. All these things drove the fear from his heart and replaced it with anger. He was used to ronin doing as they were told, not giving orders. In fact, he was used to most people doing as they were told.
    He was raised as the only child of a wealthy merchant family. First-bornsons of Japanese families were always special anyway, but being the only son of a rich household made him the object of constant attention and pampering.
    His first nurse, Ando, was barely older than