Taro, who had been holding his breath, finally let it out in a shaky puff. He didn't question the decision. He simply bowed, his forehead nearly touching the dirt, and began packing with a renewed, frantic energy. Fear was a powerful motivator, and Taro was a man fueled by little else.
The next two days for Taro was a nerve-wracking journey toward what he clearly saw as certain doom. For me, it was a fascinating, if tedious, exercise in managing this new form. We fell into a routine dictated by the body's insistent demands.
At dawn, Taro would prepare a meal. It was always the same: bland, filling rice and whatever bitter greens he deemed safe to eat. I would eat quickly, barely tasting the food, and then we would walk.
During the long hours on the road, I continued his education.
"Tell me about the first man I killed in the temple," I said on the morning of the first day, tossing him a fallen branch to use as a practice blade. "The one with the bad leg."
