Read The New Madrid Run for Free Online Page B

Japanese martial arts. He taught Karate and Aikido as well as Iaido, which is the art of drawing and using the Samurai sword. The Japanese explained that his name was Higado, and that “sensei” meant instructor. He and three of his highest-ranking students had been making an historic sailing trip around the world in his specially built sailboat when disaster struck. His students had been killed when the Black Wind, as he called it, hit them. Only the sensei had survived. He had been without food or water for two days when Travis found him.
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” Travis said after he had heard the story. “But all things considered, you’re lucky to be alive.”
    “Maybe luck, maybe Karma,” said the Japanese stoically. “And you? You survive wave in this?
    “No. I’m a pilot. I was in a plane when the wave hit. I found this sailboat just before I ran out of gas.”
    “It is true something terrible has taken place. The land?”
    “All gone around here,” Travis said.
    “Where will you go?”
    “I feel a little like Dorothy without the yellow brick road, but I think the best plan is to set course for the mainland—wherever that is now. And we need to find some supplies.” The Japanese nodded in agreement.
    After their meager supper, they were sitting on the deck watching the sun perform its magic against the distant horizon when Travis turned to his new friend and asked, “What did you mean today when you said you had waited long enough for me? You couldn’t have known I was coming.”
    “Oh, but I did,” replied the older man. “I was in cabin of my ship when the great wave struck. Others were on deck. I was thrown against bulkhead and knocked unconscious. For a moment, my spirit passed into the void and an ancestor came to me. I was told it was not my destiny to die at sea; that there was yet a distance to travel on this path. I was told you would come and we would walk together for a while.”
    If someone else had said that to Travis, he would have laughed out loud. But coming from that quiet, serenely confident man, the words rang with an eerie veracity that he wasn’t willing to challenge.
    Later that night the castaways retreated to the cabin, illuminated by the yellow glow of a single oil lamp. The sensei pulled out the silk bundle he had saved from the other vessel. Travis looked over curiously as the man laid it on the bunk and opened it carefully. Inside were two magnificent swords. The Japanese reached for the longer sword, and in one smooth, electric-fast motion, he had drawn the sword and laid it before him. Travis, stifling a gasp at the man’s speed, thought: This ol’ boy moves faster than a cheetah on bennies. Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.
    Higado Sensei looked up. “I must clean my swords tonight. The salt water is not good for them.” He spoke as if they were friends of his. The sensei worked a rag across the gleaming, razor-like blade. “These have been in my family for over four hundred years, handed down from father to son for generations.” He raised the long sword. “This is called katana . The short sword is called wakazashi”
    “Quite an heirloom, Higado, just like Benihana’s,” Travis replied.
    The sensei stopped rubbing and stared at the man across from him. In an instant, his eyes had changed and Travis saw something in those bright black chips of obsidian that scared the hell out of him. “This,” the sensei said, holding the point of the sword at Travis and speaking in a slow, deliberate fashion, “is not for Benihana’s. This blade has drawn blood and taken lives hundreds of times. It is nexus of all that is truly Japanese. This is, as I am, Samurai!”
    He started to bring the blade down but suddenly stopped, still staring at Travis. “You will call me Sensei.”
    Then, as quickly as it had come, the expression was gone, he lowered the sword, and smiled that half-smile of his. “Forgive my intensity. There is part of me that has lived