Oriental Rugs in Japan III

Immediately he strode all the way back to the town and asked after the boy with the village constable.
    “What boy? We haven’t had so much as a stray cat.”
    Piko spun and sprinted down the road with the unnatural speed of a master of the Hiten Mitsurugi, lungs gasping for the first time in years. But when he got there, the dead bodies were gone, the boy was gone, dirt had been tossed over the blood. His heart lurched harder than it ever had before. There, in a clearing:
Crosses. Bamboo tied together over mounds of earth.  The boy stood before a cross with beads around it, and an old oriental rug lain before it. He didn’t turn around as Piko stood behind him. Piko gazed down at the head of shining light hair, the tiny, filthy hands. Had he dug seven graves himself?
    “You made graves for the robbers as well as your family?”
    “They weren’t my family. They were slavers.  But now they’re just bodies.”
    “And who is that?” Piko waved at the beads.
    “Sakura. From the brothel. I wanted to find her flowers, but...” he shed trembling little-boy tears, “it’s n-not spring anymore,” but he stood tall and straight.
    “What is your name, boy?”
    He finally looked up at the swordmaster. “Haruto Sorame. Sir.” His eyes were like the morning sky.
    “Sorame is too soft for a swordsman. You will be Ryuken.”
    “Dragon sword,” he breathed, eyes lighting, sounding like a child for the first time.     
    “You will be my apprentice. But never forget this, your first lesson.” He put a hand on the kid’s head, the sun finally lifted fully over the knife-edge of the horizon. “A sword is a weapon. Kenjutsu is the art of killing.”