Once a Knight - A Tale of the Daze of Chivalry

By Brian K. Lowe

When Bruce Legume, the fabled White Samurai "whose coming is foretold in terms both glowing and long-winded," is exiled to the West, it is civilization's regret that he finds none other than his own lost brother Stephen, a womanizing card shark whose coming gives the Mongol hordes a good reputation. Thrown together by a Fate that has a lot to answer for (and Bruce's unfailing selfrighteousness), they set out on the road to riches--or to where Stephen can sell his brother's gear, whichever comes first.

 

But the Fate that has it in for humanity has it in for these boys, and they're soon running around trying to find a missing princess, fighting lipstick-obsessed Valkyries, and dodging crowds of Stephen's creditors. And when their mysterious heritage becomes entwined with the fate of a besieged kingdom, Bruce and Stephen become the last hope of a desperate people.

 

Which means we're talking really desperate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian K. Lowe
• Release date: Sep 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223722953

Book preview

Chapter 1

The large amphitheatre opened to a sky of puffy white clouds like a maiden's breath or a simple haiku. In the center, silvery samurai swords sliced silently while wizened warriors watched, waiting. The swordsmen were white, and yet yellow. The alliteration was beautiful, and yet taxing.

Seated or standing on the grass, as their preferences, stations, and laundry bills dictated, one hundred samurai from the furthest reaches of Japan studied the two men in the center of the arena with critical eyes, awaiting the slightest lapse of form or execution that would disqualify one, or even both, from attaining the honor they sought this fine cool morning.

For the pair under examination were white, trained from birth for this test, and legend revealed that there could be only one White Samurai, whose coming is foretold in terms both glowing and long-winded.

Only one pair of dark, slanted eyes gazed upon the scene without rancor, without reservation. These belonged to the very old man who occupied the seat of honor raised above all the rest. This was the revered Yosemite-sama, daimyo of Whothat province, and mentor to both of those warriors striving before him today. Today, Yosemite-sama's heart was full. And yet it was a fullness unto breaking, for he knew that of these two men, both of whom he loved as his own sons, only one could prevail—and he didn't think it was going to be the one on whom he had bet ten thousand yen before the match.

The twain themselves were alike only in their common differences. Gaining now the upper hand with a viciously smooth swipe at his opponent's legs was Nathaniel Blackboard, son of a ship-wrecked seaman fresh from the Crusades who had left the boy in Yosemite-sama's care while he went off to film a basic cable miniseries and never came back.

But the other, a black headband holding back his straw-colored hair, leapt well above the deadly steel scythe and dropped on the blade just as it passed beneath his sandaled feet. With an agonizing snap, Blackboard's blade broke, and he faced his opponent wielding the world's most dangerous butter knife.

The crowd was on its feet in an instant, horror painted on every face. Never before had a katana blade broken—the lovingly forged steel was the finest in the world. But even as everyone was leaping up, Bruce Legume, horror painted on his own face, was flopping in the dirt, frantically turning up the soles of his sandals to see if he had any feet left.

Disgraced and defeated, Blackboard, his head hanging, quickly made his way from the amphitheatre. No hand was raised to stop him. Silence reigned until Yosemite-sama rose slowly to his feet and raised one hand for attention.

"Bruce Legume...Bruce-san...whom I have reared as my own son, who has shared my bath water, whose brains I beat into the floor every time you forgot to take off your shoes in the house, and who has just cost me 10,000 yen, I declare you to be the victor in this contest."

The normally disciplined samurai buzzed at this news, but none voiced a protest. Bruce stood, sheathing his katana in a precise demonstration of the proper form practiced by samurai for generations. The crowd buzzed again. The kid might be unorthodox, but he had style. Bruce's dark blue garments were brown with dust, but he did not brush himself off. Instead, he bowed deeply to his master.

"Yosemite-sama, my father in all but blood, who taught me the ways of the samurai and who has never learned how to place a bet, I respectfully submit that I have not earned the honor of becoming the one true White Samurai."

And Yosemite-sama bowed in turn and said: Damned straight, white boy.

Then tell me, honored teacher, what it is I must do.

A new expression came over the face of Yosemite-sama. Was it sadness? Was it a wistful feeling that perhaps things might have turned out differently? Or was it just a recalculation of the odds?

"You must undergo another ordeal, one that will prove conclusively if you are indeed the White Samurai, or just one of those jerks who never has to comb his hair in the morning. Prepare yourself, Bruce-san my son, for you are about to be sorely tested." Yosemite-sama turned to the samurai immediately on his right. Right-hand man, you will go to the How-lin temple, and you will fetch those of whom I have spoken, those who have devoted their entire lives to this moment.

But master, what if I cannot find them?

Then just grab anybody who's free. He turned to the samurai immediately on his left. Left-hand man, he whispered, go see Herb the Bookie and tell him it's double or nothing.

Alone in the center of the ring, Bruce stood with his head bowed, silent in quiet meditation.

"Bruce-san, it is time." The young samurai messenger stepped away from the lone proud white man, this single pale rose in a field of golden poppies. The samurai smiled encouragingly, and Bruce took heart. Maybe things weren't so bad after all. He still had friends. Maybe he could beat this rap. Maybe he could be the White Samurai...

...or, maybe he could have his head handed to him.

Barefoot in the dust awaited three people: a man, a woman, and a man. Dressed in simple black and yellow robes, they smiled at him, too, but their smiles never reached their eyes. These were priests of the How-lin temple, their hands, feet, heads, and every other bodily part feared as lethal weapons. It was said they could walk over burning coals, be buried alive for hours, or peel an orange with one hand. They cut their mustaches with samurai swords—and those were the women. Bruce's knees turned to water.

You're wetting your pants, observed one priest.

At the knees, added the other.

It is no disgrace to fear the priests of How-lin, pronounced Yosemite-sama. For widely are they feared, and with good reason. Priests, introduce yourselves to this man who was like a son to me and now that he is grown, does he ever write? No, of course not.

The man on Bruce's right stepped forward.

I am Honda. I am master of lung fu. And to demonstrate, he drew a small breath and blew. Bruce barely felt the breeze go by, but behind him samurai were scattered like straw in a storm. Bruce shuddered.

I am Mitsubishi, purred the woman. I am mistress of tongue fu. Slowly, sensuously, she stroked her upper lip with the tip of her small, pink tongue. Fights broke out among the younger samurai. Seasoned veterans swallowed hard and thought of duty. Even Yosemite-sama tugged at his collar. Incredibly, Bruce appeared unmoved.

What is wrong, White Samurai? Mitsubishi teased. Or are you perhaps more of a Pink Samurai?

Bruce said nothing—his entire nervous system had gone into gridlock. Mitsubishi, mistaking his silence for fear, laughed out loud. At this, one of the samurai howled like a dog and would not stop until someone threw him a bone.

And you? Bruce challenged the third priest when at last he managed to speak. Honda, Mitsubishi...I suppose they call you Toyota.

The priest stared at him. Whatever gave you an idea like that?

Bruce shrugged. Sorry.

My name is Chrysler, he said, and from inside his robe he produced a handful of gooey, soft pulp, off-white in color, that seemed to ooze between his fingers like the melting heart of an ice giant—and that possessed a life of its own. And I am the master of—tofu!

Bruce gasped, and the crowd drew back. Even Mitsubishi and Honda edged a bit further from their priestly brother. Tofu, indisputably the most deadly of all the martial arts, save perhaps dentistry. It was said that only one man in the world could master its secrets at a time—and that man was Chrysler! Inwardly, Bruce quaked, but outwardly he smiled.

You do not frighten me. You have stolen my dignity and ruined my pants—what else can you possibly do to me?

We could kill you.

Well, there was that.

Then, strangely, before the priests could surround him, Bruce was struck by a long-buried memory, a kind of flashback, during which, although it might take several minutes to replay, he knew the priests were morally constrained from attacking him. He saw himself when he was much younger, during one of the long summer afternoons when even he had finished his rigorous workouts and he could take some time to play with the other boys.

They were playing a game with a long bamboo stick and a stone. One boy would throw the stone at another, who would try to strike it with the stick. If he did, other boys would attempt to catch it before the boy with the stick could run to the boy who had thrown the stone, and hit him, hence the reason he was called the hitter. If the hitter succeeded in hitting the thrower, he was allowed to use the stick to try to hit the stone again. This did not ordinarily happen, as most boys were too bright to stand around and wait for someone to brain them with a piece of bamboo.

But that day, Bruce had hit the stone over a fence, and he had managed to beat the thrower halfway into the ground before they got the stone back. That was the first time Bruce ever won a game, but after that when he hit the stone over the fence the thrower would run home.

All this and more ran through Bruce's mind while the priests waited impatiently and some of the crowd sent out for sushi. But the important central point came to Bruce in a flash, and he raised his sword the way the boys had held their bamboo sticks while playing the stick-and-stone game, even though this meant the flat of his blade was facing his enemies. Disbelief seized the assembled samurai, but they put it down to round-eye insanity and settled back to watch the slaughter. They did not have to wait long.

As he had expected, the three priests came at Bruce from all sides. Closer and closer, Honda gathered his breath, his chest expanding. Closer and closer, Mitsubishi stalked, her chest expanding (but for different reasons). Closer and closer, the thing in Chrysler's hand seemed to pulse in anticipation.

Suddenly, Bruce went berserk! Screaming, he launched himself straight at Chrysler, flying headlong into the waiting mushy maw of death!

As though the young samurai were moving in slow motion, Chrysler calmly whipped his hand back and then forward, the gelatinous mass of off-white doom hurtling toward Bruce faster than the eye could follow. But to Bruce it was Chrysler who was moving in slow motion, for he was hearing his mentor, Yosemite-sama, in happier days, counseling him in a voice made ghostly and soft by time:

Use the fence, Bruce!

And at precisely the right moment, Bruce swung his sword around and under the tofu, smacking it into the air and with almost the same movement slicing it cleanly through the center.

Divided and conquered, the tofu swept straight into the faces of the other two priests! Honda managed to deflect the monster, and went down with only half of his face covered, but Mitsubishi instinctively licked the thing the instant it struck her. Both shuddered at the touch, priestess and dessert falling to the ground locked in a rapturous, moaning embrace.

The assembled warriors could bear no more. At the sight of Mitsubishi’s ecstasy, the crowd, to a man, broke and ran. Wives, girlfriends, entire secretarial pools fell to the aroused libidos of the samurai horde, and the next nine months kept every obstetrician and justice of the peace in Whothat province very busy.

Honda was still struggling helplessly with his attacker, but it was Chrysler who held Bruce's attention. The disarmed priest stood by, watching his weapon/pet/something-best-not-described consorting with a woman, and, plainly, his heart was broken. Slowly, painfully, Chrysler turned and trudged his weary way homeward, returning to the life his father had planned, destined for a great career and a happy marriage to the daughter of a frozen banana tycoon.

Now Bruce saw his own path open before him. There was nothing more he could do: Honda had stumbled onto the knack of eating his adversary, and would soon be free; Mitsubishi, while she might have to give up all claims to celibacy, had never been in any real danger. Bruce was free to go.

But go where?

I have lived all my life in Japan, he sobbed to the air as he staggered along some hours later. The empty road was lined with pink and white from the blossom-weeping trees that guarded the roadside. If I was not born here, then should it not make a difference that I remember no other home? The blossoms and the breeze had no answer. I mean, I would have become the White Samurai except for a technicality... It's not my fault Nathaniel Blackboard uses a cheap sword. Besides, he probably planned it that way. He's been sore at me ever since I hit the stone he pitched over the fence.

"You are much too blameful, Bruce-san. I don't care about that anymore."

Bruce looked up, startled to see Nathaniel Blackboard camouflaged among the blossoms, his pink-and-white costume rendering him almost invisible. Nathaniel grinned and swung down.

Surprised you, didn't I? I've been practicing. You see, Bruce, even before you beat me today, I had been thinking that perhaps I did not want to be the White Samurai. I've been considering a new line of work: ridding the roads and forests of bandits and thieves.

Bruce blinked. By wearing strange clothes and hiding in trees?

Yes! Nathaniel nodded excitedly. "I'll lie in wait, and when they rob some innocent farmer or young maiden, I will rob them. I will give all the money (minus a commission, of course) back to the people who lost it. I will rob the newly rich and give it to the newly poor. I will be a phantom for justice; no one will know who I am or where I may strike next."

Bruce shook his head sadly and put his hand on the shoulder of his boyhood friend.

It will never work, Nathaniel.

Why not?

Because you and I are the only two white men in the province—and I'm leaving.

I'll wear a hood.

You're six-foot-three.

I'll put on elevator shoes and pretend there are two of me.

You'll be the only man in Japan in pink-and-white tights.

Nathaniel's shoulders slumped. You have me there. What shall I do then? I'm too tall to be a jockey and they haven't invented basketball yet.

Why don't you go back to England? Your father was from there, wasn't he? You could reclaim his house and his lands and at least there you wouldn't stand out because of your color.

Nathaniel brightened, then his eyes narrowed in concentration. That's right! Everyone in England looks alike! I'll bet there's plenty of injustice and tyranny!

Bruce shook his head tolerantly. I doubt it. You've just been reading too many of those Western barbarian stories. Why don't you join up with one of those Crusades tours, then when you get back to England you can settle down with some maid and get married? Relax. Maybe take up archery again.

Nathaniel shook Bruce's hand warmly. You're right, old friend. I shall do as you suggest. And you? What will become of you?

Bruce drew a deep breath of the blossom-laden air. I? I think it is time I also returned to the land of my father—I was born there, even if I don't remember it. It is time I met my real family. It will be a pleasure to be related to some nice, normal people for a change.

OH, IF BRUCE ONLY KNEW WHAT WAS IN STORE, HE’D TAKE HIS CHANCES WITH THE TOFU. HOW IS HE GOING TO FIND HIS FAMILY HALF-WAY AROUND THE WORLD? HOW WILL HE INTRODUCE HIMSELF? WILL THERE BE ENOUGH CHAIRS AT THE TABLE? ALL THIS AND MORE WILL BE REVEALED IN OUR NEXT THRILLING CHAPTER: Dueling Dojos, OR He Ain't Chevy, He's My Brother!

Chapter 2

The grass was always purpler on the other side. No matter which eye he opened, the grass was always more purple on that side than the other. He'd have opened both eyes, but that would have been like looking through a wine glass—something he'd done more than enough of last night.

Wait a minute—grass?

He'd gone to sleep last night on a goose—well, a chicken-feather mattress, in a satin-lined, well, a velour-lined, okay, a felt-lined comforter, but he was damned sure he had gone to sleep with somebody, namely:

Jenny!

The thunder of his own voice echoed like a landslide inside his skull, and as pain overrode dizziness, disorientation, sleep, and embarrassment (in that order), Stephen Legume collapsed onto his feet, swaying in the non-existent breeze like a hung-over drunk who has just realized he's been rolled. Again.

Which he was, and had, and had been. Again.

Well, at least she left me my pants. I always get arrested when they take my pants.

At that moment his pants fell down. She had taken his belt instead.

Beginning slowly and building up speed as he went, Stephen began to swear with a facility bordering on that of an American longshoreman. In fact, had Stephen a mirror (Jenny had stolen that too), and the courage to use it, he would have seen someone much like the stereotypical American. Stephen sported a lean, weather-beaten face, broad shoulders and a slim waist. He had curly brown hair, a chin like Mount Rushmore, and eyes like Crater Lake—except that he had two of them. To top it off, he had been born on the fourth of July.

Someday, when they discovered America, this would all mean something.

Stephen prudently bypassed the village of Sweet Dalliance, where he had gone to sleep last night and expected to awaken this morning. He couldn't blame Jenny for making a living—and if her husband, the village blacksmith, liked to bend horseshoes in his bare hands, well, that was okay too.

Just outside of town, Stephen waved to the local sheriff, already posted behind the trees alongside the main road into town. He'd caught Stephen speeding on his horse yesterday at this same spot.

'Halt!' the sheriff had shouted, emerging from the shade with his sword drawn. 'Don't y'all know there's a speed limit hereabouts, boy? Can't y'all read the sign?'

'Now that you're not sitting in front of it I can,' Stephen had replied reasonably.

The sheriff greeted him now with a friendly, too-loud hail.

Decided to save yourself another ticket, eh, boy?

You took my horse yesterday, remember, sheriff?

Well, boy, if y'all ain't got the money to pay the fine, I gots to collect somehow, don't I? Y'all staying out of trouble, boy?

Stephen grinned. Actually, I did have a bit of trouble. I—

The sheriff nodded. Shucks, I could've told y'all to stay 'way from Jenny. Happens every time.

Then why didn't you warn me?

The sheriff shrugged. A man's got to look out for his sister, don't he? He pointed off into the distance to Stephen's left. When y'all get to the fork in the road that heads that way, take it. That way y'all won't pass in front of the blacksmith's shop. My brother-in-law's a mean one, and if your pants was to fall down right in front of him, he'd get real mad. Now git! Or I'll arrest y'all for vagrancy!

Dusk found Stephen just around sunset. The sounds of wolves began to rain through the darkness, a long low sound like squeaky air brakes. He cast about for a place to spend the night.

A patch of darker darkness, an ink blot on the blackboard of evening, an ebony field that sucked in light and did not give it back...in short, a cave, rewarded his searching. Having no tinder or torch, he stopped at the entrance and sniffed carefully. There was no spoor of bear or lion. It seemed safe.

Anybody in there?

No!

Stephen nodded, satisfied, and crawled into his shelter. He was immediately cold-cocked, netted, and shanghaied.

He awoke with a headache the size of Cleveland, but since Cleveland was mighty small in those days, it didn't bother him too much. The lights, ropes, and little people armed with axes bothered him a bit more.

One of the little men, wise and grey-bearded, jumped onto Stephen's nose. Stephen fought down an impulse to sneeze. The little man leaned on his axe, the head of which imbedded itself into Stephen's largest pimple.

Thou art the answer to our prophecy, the elder intoned. Vous êtes—

English is fine, Stephen interrupted hurriedly. I'm an American.

Well how was I to know? the little old man answered crossly. At that moment, the pimple popped, and he had to step lively, as well as remove the axe, which Stephen appreciated greatly. Anyway, the old man continued, you're the answer to our prophecy, as I said. And before you waste another line of this cheap paper by asking, 'What prophecy?' I'll tell you.

He waved the others closer, and suddenly it was raining two-legged fleas all over Stephen's body. He could not resist a shiver.

Earthquake! someone shouted, falling off his shoulder.

The elder regained his footing and straightened his clothing while Stephen tried to stay still.

"Right. I'm Hubert, and this is my village. We used to live further back in the cave—more toward the suburbs—and we were a peaceful folk, growing crops, mowing our lawns, bowling, that kind of thing. Then, one dark day, seven giants invaded the cave, and behind them, bigger than all the rest, a giantess. They took over the best part of the cave and threw us out of here. And as if that weren't bad enough, then the giantess left the seven giants and went away. We haven't had a moment's peace since. They drink, and play cards, and they