Journal: I’m going to write this as if I’m talking to my journal. I may even put it online, who knows. Have you ever had things happened that you can’t logically explain? That seem beyond belief or like something from a movie? Well, I for one have. That’s what this is about. So read along and let me know whether this sounds believable to you or not.

Entry 1. Dreams. I’m not sure why, but for some reason I’m having dreams more frequently now. Not just regular dreams, either. Dreams that seemed like I was reliving something - and of course nightmares. Combat/PTSD nightmares I can understand, unfortunately they aren’t anything new for me. What’s new though is these combat dreams are from the past. Yes, I know any dream of memories are the past. But I’m talking hundreds of years ago past.

Last night’s dream was as if it were me in the dream. With a wife, son, and daughter. But the first part that didn’t make sense is that they were Japanese and spoke Japanese. The second part was it was in a fairly small village with wooden old fashioned buildings. But they weren’t just old fashioned. They were current for the time. I even recognized Mt. Fuji in the distance. But I didn’t recognize the area around it, because when I’d been there it had looked every bit a suburb of Tokyo with modern buildings in sight.

I shook my head a little, blinking away remnants of the dream. It did make me think of some amusing coincidences though. When I was still early in the Army I’d spent two years stationed in Japan. Somehow I’d been a natural in the language, picking it up and considering myself fluent within two months of being there. I’d also found my love of martial arts while there, with my wrestling background giving me a good start. I still had to laugh: my sensei had said I had an old soul. Even commenting how the first time he had me draw a katana I’d done it as if I were samurai trained. Sensei had never trained a US soldier before me and he explained the reason why was I spoke the language not just fluently, but with an accent as if I’d been born in his home town of Shimizu City.

I’d kept in touch with sensei over the next 20 years. Updating him on how my life and career were going, how I’d branched into other martial arts forms. He had always requested I continue my work in aikido and iaido. Challenging me to practice with the katana he had given me weekly. He also reminded me frequently that I had a drive to protect others and he wanted me to share my talent and continue doing that. I still took pride in the fact that he told me I was the best iaido student he had ever had. I didn’t want to tell him that aside from the sword just feeling natural in my hand, much of what helped me learn was things I’d watched in old ninja and samurai movies.

Painting of Sensei at 40

I was even more surprised when I’d heard of his death. While he’d already been old at 60 when I met him he had a vitality and energy that outdid much younger men. The katana that I had as my ceremonial sword was his last gift to me. Left in his will it was his own sword that had been passed down through generations of his family and was said to have been used by a samurai before he retired to be a Shinto priest. I walked over to where the sword was mounted above my dresser, taking it down a moment and running a finger along the engraved family crest on it. He’d been 40 years older than me, but I’d been honored to have his friendship and his respect.

Entry 2. I had another dream last night. The scene felt like something out of a Kirawasa film. Samurai were scrambling around a village and not only was I in the midst of the battle, I was taking lead and directing the men. We were outnumbered but it was a group of thieves attacking the village. With a handful of trained samurai and the villagers using what they had we were mounting an aggressive defense. The thieves failed to consider one thing: the villagers would fight harder to defend their homes and families than the thieves would for the money and food.

Even in the dream I seemed detached somehow. Calmly seeing the heat of battle and engaging where I needed while also tracking the bigger picture, shouts directing samurai or villagers where they were needed to deal with the greater numbers. It hadn’t been long for the advantage of greater numbers to dwindle. Even numbers not even odds, but starting to show to our advantage now.

With a jerk I started awake, the clang of metal on metal still echoing in my ears. My first thought was to wonder when was the last time I’d watched The Seven Samurai. The battle in my dream seemed reminiscent of it, but more realistic and colorized. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the sword I’d carried, but it had been at least similar to the blade my sensei had given me. That made sense though, it was only natural to include a familiar item into a dream like that.

Climbing out of bed I felt drawn to my ceremonial sword. Walking the short distance to where it was mounted on the wall above my dresser. Picking it up with my left hand my hands seemed to move of their own accord. The blade ending up positioned at my left hip, but angled close to center for ease of draw. My right hand moved to draw the blade, left guiding the handle to my right before sliding back and twisting slightly to allow the blade to slide smoothly out of the scabbard.

With the blade now angled in front of me I had several things go through my mind. The beauty of this ancient sword to start with. The blade itself I knew dated back to the 1190s roughly and had been used in numerous battles by its original samurai owner. As my left hand moved to grip low on the handle I was once more reminded of how the blade felt in my hand. The first katanas I had learned with felt comfortable and natural, the motions making sense to my mind and body. My sensei had described me as having a natural affinity with the katana blade.

But sensei’s blade had always felt different for some reason. While my practice katanas and wakizashi over the years had felt natural and comfortable weapons in my hands this sword felt at home. It felt like a natural extension of my hand and arm. Sensei had even let me use it in a forms competition towards the end of my time in Japan and I had won the competition, despite being one of the few gaijin to compete and the only one to make it into the upper half of competitors.

Sword (family markings not shown)

I of course had never used the sword to cut anything with, and rarely at all. While the blade had survived since it’s forging the hilt and scabbard had been replaced numerous times over the years. In doing so though care had been taken to maintain the look of the original. The family name that the ancient samurai took on was etched into the blade and had remained, the family crest incorporated into the handguard.

Prior to resheathing the sword I gathered an oil-treated rag and used it to clean the prized weapon, then upon setting it back onto the rack cleaning the remaining areas I had touched in moving it back. It was a magnificent weapon and I for one felt proud to be the bearer of his family’s sword now.

Entry 3. It wasn’t just dreams, though. There were now periods where I would black out and find myself in the gym downstairs practicing. But using techniques I know I hadn’t learned from my sensei. The most surprising blackout was one where I came to not in the gym, but out at the forge.

First thing to understand is my only knowledge of a forge was from watching Forged in Fire on TV. Sure, I was a fan. But I didn’t know the tools of the forge with any familiarity. Or at least I didn’t think I had. But when I’d come back to my senses I was quick to learn that a part of me at least was very familiar with the forge.

There’s something alarming about not knowing how you got to a forge to begin with. But it gets worse when you realize that not only did you get to the forge but you spent a half day working at said forge. I first felt the heat from the forge along with the muscle weariness from hours of swinging a heavy hammer. My shirt and pants were both soaked through with sweat.

But on the anvil in front of me sat a glowing red-orange piece of steel. Somehow my eyes told me it wasn’t just a billet of steel. It had been folded again and again the layers forge welded together and drawn out before repeating the process ... to make hundreds of layers. I knew from the show that each fold doubled the layers. So 1 became 2, then 4, 8, 16, etc so it wasn’t as long a process as you’d think in how it was described. But on my anvil was a piece of steel ready to begin forging a Japanese wakizashi. I was looking at a work few blacksmiths could do and somehow I had done it on autopilot. I had to believe that the only reason I’d snapped back to myself was simple: I had completed the days work in forging a new blade. While the skill wasn’t on a level with the skill that was used to make my sensei’s blade, there was still considerable skill on display here. This was a blade of much higher quality than my practice katana or wakizashi, just not up to the standard of my ceremonial sword. I did a mental start then. I had never considered it as my blade before. Always thinking and referring to it as my sensei’s sword that I now had. Until now. I could only wonder at what that meant. Was I just accepting it finally, or were the dreams and blackouts a sign of something more?

Entry 4. Another dream happened the other night. I’d call this one more of a nightmare but it seemed so real; as if it were a memory. I was with a group of samurai and soldiers once again defending our lord in battle. His rival had soldiers in the field but it felt off. Knowing we were coming the forces against us weren’t what I would have expected if we were half as many as we had. The battle itself seemed to go on for a fairly short time before the inevitable retreat of the enemy and our capture of the land.

Painting of Minamoto in armor

At the end of the campaign we were allowed to return to our villages. That was when we found out the real reason for the ease of our victory. The enemy had taken advantage of our meeting them on the field of battle, but with only half their forces. The other half had marauder through the neighboring villages, killing the women, children, and setting the villages to the torch.

I could feel the pain as if it were my own. Friends and family either too old or too young to fight hadn’t been spared. In fact, they had been hacked to pieces. Children of all ages had been cut down. My own children had been hacked down like weeds. One look at the scene was enough to know that my wife had done her best to fight the marauders but had been overwhelmed. The ropes around her wrists and ankles showing she’d been restrained and forced to watch while my children had been killed.

I could feel the hate and outrage searing through my body. The power of rage filled adrenaline wasn’t enough for what I wanted ... no, what I needed. The enemy had to pay. Battle was supposed to be honorable, soldier to soldier and blade to blade. But this had been specific targeting of innocents. Worse, not just targeting but torturing and raping in the process. The ripped clothes and battered bodies of the women revealed that defeat had only been the start of their pain. The rapes and beating must have gone on for hours and all while we had been on the battlefield fighting honorably.

There was no honor in this, though. This was pure rage-driven revenge. I could hear the words as they were spoken by the dream me. A vow and pact to the devil. A blood oath selling my soul for the power to seek revenge on my enemies. There were two things that surprised me about that part of the dream. The first was a lesser surprise with recent dreams, that I spoke Japanese fluently and with the local accent for the Shimizu City area. The second was when I saw the blade come into view slicing my arm to seal the pact with my blood. I knew that blade. I’d used that blade. The family crest on the handle and the family name engraved into the blade itself were familiar. Though the handle had been replaced over the years, it was the same family crest engraved on the blade above my dresser. The same family name engraved on the blade itself.