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“It was presented to my ancestor,” said Sam, “after a great battle.”
“How do you even have this?”
“It was in my apartment in Baltimore,” said Sam. “I got there a month after everything fell apart. It’s the only thing I have left from my family. I’ve . . . used it since. Many, many times.”
“I can’t take this, Sam,” protested Ledger. “Give me a rifle. You should keep this.”
“It’s not a gift, Joe,” said Sam, “it’s a loan. You told me that I have a brother—Benny. You told me he’s been studying kenjutsu, that Tom was training
him to be a samurai. You told me how he saved all those people from the Night Church. Well . . . if one of us survives this, and whichever one survives, that sword needs to be given to Benny. It’s his legacy. It has a name, Atarashi Yoake.”
“New Dawn,” murmured Joe. “Yeah, that fits. Or at least I hope it fits. But, man . . . I can’t accept this.”
“You’re a samurai too, Joe,” said Sam firmly. “You’ve been family to me and you’ve been family to Benny. You carry it for now. And, not to be corny, but I ask that you use it with honor.”
Ledger smiled. “That is the least corny thing I’ve ever heard, brother.”
They nodded to each other. Grimm barked loud enough to frighten the monkeys from the trees.
Ledger untied the silk cord, slung the ancient weapon across his broad back, and tied it firmly in place.
“Let’s go hunting,” he said.
Sam didn’t answer. Instead he slapped Peaches on the rump and then ran to catch up with the bolting horse. Grimm barked again and gave chase.
76
LATER.
Much later, Gutsy thought back to what Mr. Urrea had said as he and Ford were leaving. He gave her a sad, concerned smile.
“Gutsy,” he said quietly so that only she could hear, “I should probably be talking you out of doing anything about this.”
“You can’t,” she said.
“I know. Even so, I feel like even discussing the possibility of doing anything is enabling questionable behavior. Your plan—if I can call it that—is dangerous and possibly even suicidal.”
“I gave you all a chance to come up with a better one,” she said.
“Not having a better one doesn’t make this a good one.”
“I’m going to do something,” she said with a shrug. “Don’t know what it is yet, but you can’t talk me out of it.”
“I know,” he repeated, then sighed. “I would love to say that you’re too young to be doing what you’re going to do. And you are. But not really. War doesn’t respect age. Children have died in war as victims and died as soldiers. I know you’re fifteen and smart, and I know you’re tougher than anyone I’ve ever known, but you are still so young. You should be allowed to grow up without knowing what horror is, or without seeing or causing bloodshed. That’s what would happen in a fairy tale, but . . .”
“I read a lot of fairy tales, Mr. Urrea,” she said. “The old ones, in the books you gave me. Children weren’t safe in them, either. I don’t think we kids were ever safe.”
“You should be,” said Urrea.
She patted his chest. “This is the real world, and I don’t believe in happy endings.”
Pain lanced through his eyes. “That is the saddest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He left, shaking his head, looking even older than his years. That was an hour ago. Since then Gutsy had worked through a lot of different ideas, refining the admittedly bad idea she’d presented to her friends, discarding other ideas one after another as unworkable, unsafe, unwise, or downright crazy. The one idea left in her mind was the craziest of all, but it persisted. She stood up. It was full dark outside, but there was a brilliant moon in the sky. Plenty to see by.
That was good. She could use that.
“I can’t wait until tomorrow,” she told Sombra. “I don’t want to tell them, either. They’d try to stop me. Stop us.”
