Grandmother never told me what the people in Azu advised her to do, but when she came home the evening after consulting them, she informed me that there were going to be a lot of changes for us both. I put the book I was reading down and paid close attention, trying to ignore a rather nervous feeling in my stomach. Changes were things I was beginning not to like very much, since so many of them seemed to be bad.

"We will use candles and firewood, not electricity," was her first statement. That was no big change, since we hardly used the electricity anyway. It was too unreliable, and I pointed that out. "That is true," she agreed absently, "but I mean all electricity. The dishwasher, the clothes-washer and dryer, the heat-tables- we will continue to use the refrigerator, though," she amended after a moment. "That is necessary, but the rest is not. Clothes and dishes can be washed by hand and dried by the air itself. And the gas- there is no need for heat in the summer, and I will cook on the fireplace. Winter...well, we will see about winter when it comes."

I agreed as casually as I could that as long as I was getting wood for the fire anyway, we might as well make more use of it than just as heat. Grandmother smiled a little and suggested that the time had come for me to learn to use the axe, before the woodpile got too small. "Of course, I can use the axe," I almost bragged, and felt my insides flutter a little more. Obviously, things were not good at all.

Her next observation was that there was concern in the village about all the chemicals in the drinking water; several people had been ill lately and the health people were suggesting that purification systems be installed. "These are very expensive, and there is no sense to them when we have our own river so close," she said pointedly, exaggerating a bit. The 'river' wasn't much more than a creek, though it was pretty close to the house. "We can bring water from there, boil it to drink or cook with- in case a rabbit has relieved himself there, yes?- and it will taste better than that of those poor village folks."

I sat blinking for a moment, then stoutly agreed that we were lucky to have a good water source, even if it meant a little trouble to boil it. "Only we'll need good buckets," I added thoughtfully. "And, Grandmother, perhaps we could get many buckets and boil them one after another and then put the water in a tank or something to store it, so we won't have to do it every day."

"There speaks my wise one!" she replied, with a real smile. "We will do that. I will get half-gallon buckets from the village and we will keep track of how many gallons we use. Metal ones, I think; they will last better and the heating will purify them, too. Plastic ones might melt."

So we did. It was strange at first, hauling water and cutting wood- and learning to use the axe was not the privilege I had hoped it would be, but I did get very good at it- but it wasn't long before we had a set routine. Every night I would cut some wood for the next day, and every morning, I would haul a few buckets of water before I left for school. During the day, Grandmother would boil that water and add to the 'tank', a ten-gallon drum with a lid that she got in Azu. What it was normally used for was beyond me to figure out, but it held our water easily enough. We stood it in the pantry, where it would stay cool during the summer and wouldn't freeze when winter came, and whenever we needed some, we scooped it out and carefully replaced the lid to keep the dust out.

It made things...interesting I guess is the word for it. Getting a drink of water was easy enough, and cooking wasn't much trouble, but heating enough water to wash dishes and clothes was more time-consuming. And heating enough water to have a hot bath- that took ages. I eventually started skipping that step altogether- no, not like that! I took my soap down to the stream! That obviously wasn't going to work when it got cold, though, so Grandmother partially solved the problem with a large, shallow metal tub that one could pour several buckets of water into and then heat all at once on the fire. But it still wasn't the same as having a nice long soak.

No, I don't like showers- did you guess that?

We did end up saving a lot of money on gas and water bills, but getting the tub and buckets and water-drum meant spending money, which was exactly what we were trying not to do. Grandmother said it would all pay for itself in the long run, but she seemed uncertain of that and I caught her looking worried sometimes. I wasn't too sure we'd done such a sensible thing either, especially since our meals started to get awful small around that point. Grandmother often tried to give me her portions, saying I needed more than she did and she wasn't very hungry anyway, but I wouldn't let her do it. She was already too frail and not very well, and I was awfully concerned about her. As the summer wore on and things didn't get better, I got so worried that I went into Azu to look for some sort of job that might help out a little. In a moment of pure desperation, I spotted a 'hiring' sign on the window of the new dojo and went in to see what that was about. I had no real hope- I assumed they wanted a teacher, and I knew not a thing of martial arts- but to my amazement, I was hired right then and there and told I could begin the next day. I ran most of the way home to tell Grandmother, and the look of pride and relief on her face is one I've never forgotten.

What I was hired for was to do chores around the building so that the teachers could concentrate on their classes. My first duties were basic: cleaning and waxing the floors, helping with the mats, and laundering the students' uniforms. There was an art to that; I had to make sure the right top went with the right bottoms and belt, and after a while I started using safety pins to keep everything together. The sensei was impressed and gave me a bonus for sensible thinking.

I still didn't like money, but by then I had missed enough meals that I understood the importance of having it. So when school was about to start again, I asked if I could keep working in the evenings, after soccer practice. The answer was yes, and since the last class was over at six in the evening, it worked out well for all of us. During the slow times when the two practice rooms were full, I would sit on the dryer and do my homework. (I stopped sitting on the washer after it went into spin cycle while I was writing an essay. I was not happy about the result and I think I kicked the machine after I hopped down.) Every now and then I would pause to put wet uniforms in the dryer or hang up the dry ones before they wrinkled. Then, when everyone had left and the doors were locked, I would roll up the mats and mop one of the two floors, then mop the other while the first dried. Then I'd repeat the process with the wax, which was the worst part of the job. That stuff stunk! I was usually done by a little after seven o'clock, and always went out the open back door, since it was closer to the road leading to my house. I liked walking home in the twilight, too; I often saw deer in the woods, and once, a fox. Grandmother worried a little, but the pay I brought home was a big enough help that she didn't forbid me to work there.

There were two teachers in the dojo, the owner Kigan-san and his younger brother, the assistant. Both of them were very good men- quiet and reserved, but good-hearted and kind. The younger Kigan taught weaponless martial arts, and Kigan-san taught weapons: katana and longsword, nunchucks, and stick-fighting. I was fascinated with the swordwork, particularly the katana, and after a while I abandoned my homework in favor of standing in the doorway of the practice room and watching as the students ran through their exercises. I often picked up a stick on my way home and went through the same maneuvers myself, or even tried them out with the replica sword that had been Father's last present to me. I learned not to do that in my room after I accidentally put a hole in the wall, so my sword and I once again became a menace to the long-suffering trees around the house.

I never imagined anything would come of my interest in katanas, but after I'd been working at the dojo for a couple months, Kigan-san started teaching me how to care for the practice weapons. We didn't sharpen the swords, naturally, but we did have to grind the nicks and dents out and make sure none of the wooden staffs or nunchucks was splintering. And one night I couldn't resist taking a few practice swipes with one of the swords, using a technique the sensei had been demonstrating just an hour earlier to his class. He caught me, of course, and I was afraid he'd be angry, but he just looked interested and told me to do it again. I did, and he began telling off the positions he wanted me to demonstrate.

That was my first lesson, and it started a whole new routine for me. Every night after I finished the floors and helped Kigan-san with the weapons, he would hand me a practice sword and drill me for about half an hour. He taught me katana-work first, then no-daitchi, and then showed me how to mix the two styles, in case I ever wanted to confuse an opponent. We usually got out of there by eight o'clock, sometimes a little later, and I generally got home right about eight thirty. I would eat, do the homework I hadn't finished in the dojo (which was sometimes quite a lot), and then drop into bed. I didn't waste any time falling asleep, either, not after that workout.

Grandmother didn't like this new routine much, for several reasons. First, she didn't like that I was getting home so late; second, she didn't like that my homework was being delayed by sword work; and third, she was displeased at the thought that I was getting lessons I could not pay for and might not ever use anyway. At her insistence, I reluctantly brought the matter up to the sensei and suggested that perhaps I should only work- and train- when school was out. He asked me if that was what I wanted, and when I admitted that it wasn't, he explained why he was training me so intensely. "You have a natural skill," he told me; "You are quick to learn and very determined and could easily become one of the best swordsmen in Japan. I would like to make use of that potential, with your honored Grandmother's permission. I want to train you to be a teacher, Sanada. I want you to work with me and train my students. You will be an excellent teacher, and I think you could make the name of Kigan-do a highly honored one."

That settled it. I was going to be a katana teacher- it was all I wanted in the whole world, from that moment. I bowed deeply to my sensei, who smiled at me and sent me home to get the final approval from Grandmother. To my enormous relief, Grandmother dropped her objections. In fact, a few days later, she went so far as to say that, after all, it was fitting. Many of our family line had been trained in what was known as a ninja school, and she concluded that swordwork must be in my blood for the sensei to see such potential in me. I never got a chance to find out if there really was a school for ninjas or if it was just called that as a joke, but I suspect it was the first. It certainly explains why no one ever told me much about my family history. Ninjas are more notorious than respectable; it's sort of like telling people you're Yakuza. I think Grandmother rather liked the thought of a ninja-house descendent using their inbred skills as a highly respected teacher, for she began to ask how my lessons had gone each day.

It was a Wednesday when everything changed again- a cool, rather damp Wednesday near the end of September.

The house was dark when I got home that night, and as I went down the hall to drop my bookbag in my room, I noticed that Grandmother's bedroom door was closed. That was not unusual- not anymore- but it still gave me a sad feeling to see it. I never figured out whether she went in there to grieve or to rest, but either way, it troubled me. Her spirit and enthusiasm had died with Grandfather and I often got the feeling that she was just waiting, marking time. She was like Father had been: never laughing, never teasing me, seldom even smiling. She wasn't well physically, either; the summer heat had been very hard on her, but she never told me what was wrong with her that the heat had made worse. "It's the way of the old," she would say with a little shrug. "We grow slow and stiff and weary, little one. Our bones ache and our eyes dim. It is something to be accepted, and not everyone is so fortunate as to have a strong and responsible grandson to make their days easier." Once she told me that I must try to get used to the thought that she might not live many more years, but I refused to talk about it and tried to keep from thinking about it. She was all the family I had left.

So the darkness of the house and the sight of her closed door were depressing, but I didn't see anything particularly ominous about it until I went back to the kitchen to see what was for dinner. That was my first clue that something wasn't right, for there was nothing prepared. That had not happened before. Grandmother was almost religious about seeing that I had something to eat the minute I got through the door, for despite having a snack at the dojo, I was always starving by the time I got home. Today was no exception, but after seeing nothing waiting for me on the stove or in the refrigerator, I was suddenly too worried to feel much hunger. I told myself to calm down, she'd probably just slept through dinner, there was no need to think she had taken ill while I was gone. She'd been fine yesterday, after all. Still, just to be sure, I went back down the hall and tapped softly on the door. Then I saw what I hadn't seen in the dim light; the door was hanging open several inches. The interior of the room was pitch black and there was an unpleasant smell that I couldn't place. The uneasy feeling inside me turned into genuine fear, and my voice sounded thin in my ears as I said, "Grandmother?" in a soft, shaky voice. "Grandmother? Are you all right?"

Silence. The house was full of silence, pressing down on me, and I started to shake. I think I knew what the silence meant- that it wouldn't be so still if I could hear her breathing- but I pushed the idea away fiercely. I eased the door open a little further, reached nervously into the room, and felt for the light switch on the wall. The light came on- I shielded my eyes- I looked- and the thought was the reality.

She wasn't sleeping. She wasn't ill. She was lying on the floor beside the bed, twisted, a dust-rag near her knee and one hand near her chest. Her eyes were wide open and had a terrible shriveled look to them, and her mouth was partly open.

I remember staggering back a few steps, and then I turned and ran.

After that, the next thing I remember is Kigan-san rising sharply from his chair as I burst through his door into his home. I was panting too hard to talk for a moment and he came to me with a worried look on his face. "What has happened?" he asked anxiously, gripping my shoulder. "What frightened you?"

"My- my- Grandmother," I got out at last. "She's, she's gone-"

"Gone?"

"Lying on the floor in her bedroom!" I gasped. "Her eyes- she's dead, Master. She's dead!"

His arms went around me and I didn't resist as he held me against him. Over my head, I heard him speak to his brother, heard the door close quietly, and after that, things stopped making sense for a long, long time.

I really don't remember much of what happened over the next few weeks. I do have a hazy memory of the funeral, and I know I stayed several nights in the sensei's spare bedroom, because I remember the streetlight that shone in through the window and the dry chill of constant air-conditioning. I remember several men in suits talking very deferentially to me while I perched uncertainly on a chair- lawyers, explaining things that I didn't take in until much later. I also remember that Kigan-san hovered in a corner of the room, listening to the discussion, and though I don't think I looked at him, his presence was comforting in a sort of distant way. After the men left, I decided to go home, though I'm not sure if something they said triggered that decision or not. The sensei urged me to remain with him, but I politely refused- at least, I hope I was polite about it, for he and his brother had been very good to me during that time- but I couldn't remain there. I told him I would continue working with him, and then I gathered up the few things that had been brought to me from home and headed for the woods.

I should have waited another night and come home in the daytime, but I didn't think of that until I saw the dark house waiting in the clearing and heard the terrible silence that hung over the place. I remember flinching at every slightest noise as I opened the door and went inside, and I was shaking so badly that it took three or four tries before I could light the candle near the door. Don't ask me why I didn't just turn on the electric light, I haven't the slightest idea. I hurried to my own room as quietly as I could, pulled the door most of the way shut, then put the candle on my desk and sank down on my bed. I wasn't exactly afraid of spirits- any ghosts would be Grandmother's, Grandfather's, and perhaps Father's- but the silence was another matter. It was emptiness and loneliness; it was me, only me and no one else. Everyone who had loved me was dead, it was as though I was a curse. That was why I hadn't dared stay with my sensei; if I was some sort of death-bringer, I didn't want to bring it to him.

I must have lain down on my bed and gone to sleep, because the next thing I knew was waking up with a wicked neckache and a puddle of melted wax on my desk. I suppose I was lucky the house didn't burn down, for when I went into the living room, I counted five more burned-out candles in various corners that I didn't remember lighting. 'Grandmother's going to have a fit,' I thought, and then I remembered and tried to blank my mind by cleaning up the melted wax. In the process, I noticed something I hadn't seen the night before: the neat pile of envelopes on the dining-area table. I had seen the same things after Grandfather's funeral and knew they contained death-money for Grandmother's family- me- but I ignored them as well as I could and went into the kitchen, knowing I ought to eat something.

That's the other thing that I remember very clearly: feeling emptiness in my stomach, going into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and finding the shelves filled almost to bursting with discardable foil pans and bowls full of food. I even remember that I wondered if I had walked into the wrong house by accident, but a look around the kitchen settled that silly question. I stood staring for a while, wondering how I was going to eat it all before it went bad, and then it dawned on me: the freezer. It must have taken almost half an hour for me to check the contents of each container and then find a place for it in the freezer where it wouldn't spill or crush, but by the time I was done, all but three bowls and two pans had been safely stored away. I almost felt proud of myself, for it had taken quite a lot of stacking and re-stacking to get everything to fit. I was very hungry by then, and had something out of one of the bowls for breakfast, but I couldn't tell you what it was.

I don't know what I did for the rest of the day. Thinking about it, I may not have done anything at all. I certainly didn't go to school; I hardly remembered there was such a thing until I nearly tripped over my book-bag, and then I immediately dismissed it. But I think habit took over, for I do remember getting up the next day with my alarm going off, sitting in the classroom on several different occasions, and I clearly recall taking off my soccer uniform one afternoon and thinking I needed to wash it. I went back to the dojo, too, of course, and those are my clearest memories: the mop, the stink of that floor-wax, and the familiar weight of the katana in my hand. I don't recall how the sensei greeted me, though. He never did talk a lot, so it might be that neither of us said much of anything.

I forget how long it took me to get my nerve up and start opening those death-envelopes, but I know it took me several days to get through them all. It wasn't that there were that many, I just couldn't face them for very long. When it was finally done and I counted up all the money, I was surprised at how much there was; people had been very generous. I put it aside for food and whatever clothing I might need for winter, knowing I wouldn't use it for a while.

A couple of weeks passed before I got my head on straight again and stopped being so vague and forgetful. But with a clearer mind came the feelings I'd been holding back. It was bad- very bad. The worst of it was that I was so alone; my schoolmates were sympathetic- in fact, everyone in the village was- but that didn't help me any when I walked into the house every evening and heard that terrible empty silence. At first I tried to pretend that nothing was different, that Grandmother was just down the hall behind that closed door, sleeping, but it never really worked and finally I had to admit I was just lying to myself. She had died, just like Grandfather and Father and Mother- and the more I thought it, the more I feared that anyone else I ever cared about would die, too. So I held the people I did care about, like the sensei, at a distance, and made things much harder on myself. Total isolation on top of extreme grief and insecurity is a horrible mix, and I cried myself to sleep every night.