Sweet Grass: The Story of Fletcher Nine Fingers, #1

By R C Ducantlin

I accept the sword, turn to the bully, and silently wait. Today I will die. It will be a death in a battle for pride and acceptance.

 

The challenger is brave and willing, but undisciplined and chaotic. My katana meets his willingness to charge forward and attack death.

In victory, I must leave to find my future.

 

My friend Masa knew the secrets of the shrine and why it was built on the mountain. He shows me the passage. I step into the room and leave my home to meet my future.

 

In the land of my home, Samurai vowed loyalty to their Shogun. In the place on the other side of the room, the Shaolin monks pledge faithfulness to the discipline at the heart of Gung Fu.

 

True Samurai and Shaolin will not stray from their training or fail to stand when called. I do not waiver from faith in the skills I have been taught.

 

Today, I stand called to face my death.

 

P.S. Reviews are always appreciated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R C Ducantlin, Ltd.
• Release date: Nov 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781949211627

R C Ducantlin

Fortunately, in secondary school, my interest in reading was sparked. A close friend and an instructor, who took interest in a boy he later called ‘The rebel without a clue.,’ were instrumental in my learning the value of a good book. Both piqued my interest in reading. My lifelong friend inspired me to read J.R.R. Tolkien and I became addicted to the fantasy genre. The instructor required I read interesting historical novels for academic credit. Frank Norris, Leon Uris, and Ken Follett are inspirations and fuel my love of history. Born to a military family, it was logical that I follow the military tradition. However, after four years of “yes sirs” and scraping the wax off floors I decided there must be more fun in a corporate career. Thirty plus years of work experiences across the globe, the corporate career landed me in Colorado, where I live with my wife and I can be close to my children and grandchildren.

Book preview

Preface

Humanity is connected on levels forgotten and lost to time. Consider the idea of enjoying a soul. The accepted definition of a soul: Life embodied in the spiritual principles held by all human beings.

Contemplate the idea of a soul transcending time and space to bring harmony where chaos erodes the soul.

This is the story of Fletcher Nine Fingers.

Prologue

We are the Abahkangee.

Before I saw a white man, I met Fletcher.

Fletcher is not white.

He is not Abahkangee.

My people know how Fletcher came to us in the spring after the snow stopped. He gave the elders the story of his journey from a clan on the other side of the Crazy Mountains. He told the story of walking over the mountains, down the hills, and across the Sweet Grass until he found our village. The elders accepted his story and kept the history true, but they did not believe him.

So that I would know his honesty, before he left us, Fletcher told me of his origins.

My friend told me the truth.

He told me ninety winters ago that he came from Wakoku. When the white man put me in the school, I learned Wakoku is Japan.

When she was alive, my great-aunt, She of Many Lives, claimed she was Fletcher’s daughter. Only I believed the old woman’s tales. Soft Claw, mother to She of Many Lives, was Fletcher’s mate, but many women visited Fletcher on cold nights. From her Sight, Soft Claw had foreseen bonding with Fletcher. In a vision the year she became a woman, Soft Claw knew the father of her only child would leave us.

Tribal legends have said that Fletcher comes when mothers weep for lost sons. The elders say: Fletcher comes when the Abahkangee need a warrior who cannot be defeated.

We need a warrior now.

The Blackface clan sent word.

They will no longer honor the treaties.

War parties are raiding our villages.

Our sons are dying in battles.

Our women are taken in the raids.

Abahkangee warriors are fierce, but we are few. We have turned back the Lakota Sioux, the Cheyenne, and the Arapaho. Without Fletcher, we will soon fail to turn the enemies away from our lands.

I keep our history alive with the promise my friend gave to me. I retell the stories of Fletcher battling our enemies using fighting skills no one here has seen.

I am the last Abahkangee to have seen Fletcher Nine Fingers. In the spring, when the snow stops, I will see Fletcher again.

He promised.

The Time Before

Ichi

My friend, Takamasa, told me he was the youngest until I came to the temple. Being the youngest, but old enough to work, Takamasa was responsible for cleaning the snow from the steps of the Shrine. Here in northern Hokkaidō, the winter snows are fierce.

High on the mountain, our home, the Gokoku Shinto Shrine, faces the winter fury. Clearing the snow from the steps keeps the priests and students from being trapped on the mountain.

One hundred and eleven steps lead from the shrine’s arch to the temple gates.

Takamasa found my mother and me under the snow, wrapped in layers, between the pillars of the arch. He was only twelve, and not knowing what to do, Takamasa called for help.

The alarm brought the priests and the students to the steps under the arch. The First Master knew how to save me.

Takamasa, take the boy and put him in a cool bath. Start with cool water, and warm it slowly. Give him warmed rice milk.

The students gawked and moved for a closer look and the odd child.

He will lose the finger to save the hand.

Possibly, but not until we warm him. She walked here from the sea. Her hands, feet, and nose are black from the frost. She knew the fisherman’s clothes would be warm enough to save the boy. She gave her life to the boy. We will bury her with grace.

Master, there is a note.

Takamasa bows deeply, handing the note to the First Master.

His name is Fletcher. He is hāfu, the son of a white man and this woman. Hurry, take him, now. Remember, start with a cool bath and slowly heat the water. Give him warmed rice milk. Naomori, finish removing the snow from the steps. Everyone, return to the morning meal.

Many say an infant can’t know, but I remember Takamasa pouring warm water into the bath. I remember him telling me to call him Masa. I remember looking up and seeing the kindness in his face. Many winters passed before my friend Masa grew to become the First Master. Masa knew the secrets of the Shrine and why it was built on the mountain.

Before he became the First Master, Masa saved my life.

In the twelfth year of my time at the shrine, the only First Master I had known left us. He went into the other life in the winter, on my birthday. The day I was found on the steps.

The new First Master finished re-telling our Shrine’s history at mid-day, ending the mourning ceremony.

That is the story of the Gokoku Jingu. For one-hundred and fifty years, we have lived the life of the Shinto. It is our purpose to ensure tranquility. Many leave us for the warrior way. Our teaching gives well to the Bushido life. But, here, our life is one of serenity. Gokoku Jingu is a peaceful and harmonious life. Now, we prepare for the guests and the observance.

Masa cannot accept my story not being told as part of the temple's history.

Master, what of the story of Fletcher coming to the temple?

That is a story for later today. It will be retold for the guests at the observance. Fletcher, clean the steps and remove the snow. The guests will arrive soon.

Every student of the Gokoku Shrine learns the story of the incident at the observance. What happened at the commemoration is a tale told with pride by the believers.

In my dreams, I see the future of the temple. Every year for three hundred years, the story of Takamasa finding me under the snow is retold on my birthday. The believers relive the story of what happened at the observance for the new First Master.

Ni

Our Prince ordered his Shogun to send Samurai to the observance for the new First Master. It is known. Samurai warriors cultivate the Bushido code of virtues: Rectitude, Courage, Benevolence, Respect, Honor, Honesty, and Loyalty.

The insignificance of pain is the Samurai way. Educated and brave, the Samurai keep the peace and protect the prefecture.

It is a truth: Too much sake is never a good thing.

It will become my experience that battles often begin for minor reasons. Today’s clash, at the observance, is the first of many I will experience. The youngest of the Samurai sent to the commemoration, a man with too much pride, too little humility, and too much sake decided to use the hāfu for fun and laughs.

Come here, freak. Look at you, a boy the size of a man. Is all of you too big? The girls will not want an enormous hāfu.

I choose the way of harmony. I ignore the insults and rise to leave. The young warrior is not finished.

Come here, boy. Show us how big you are.

The priests and the students dissolve into silence, focused on the drunkard and me.

I said come here, boy. Show us your size, so we can tell the girls to run from the monster in your pants.

I try to leave a second time when the drunk warrior flings his cup toward the back of my head. I don’t know how it happened, or why, but it is talked about to this day. I wheeled, raised my bad hand, and batted the cup in one motion. The blow broke the porcelain cup. My hand felt no pain. It was many years before I understood how I knew the cup would hit me.

I see the hāfu has skills. Please give him a sword. Let’s test his skills.

Priests, students, and guests move to clear the area between the obnoxious drunk and me. His companions remain silent and observant.

Everyone, especially