A Coffee For Your Sorrows
“Coffee pony!”
The sackcloth-colored pony snapped his head to see Kintarō marching through his humble cafe. “Greetings, Kintarō-sama, how can I help y–”
“Give me a kahii. Now,” he demanded, slamming his sword onto the counter and giving perhaps his hottest scowl.
Nightbrewer frowned and started working. “O-of course, samurai-sama. But what has gotten you into such an attitude?” he inquired cautiously. Angry samurai bore hungry swords, after all, and the coffee pony certainly did not want to be the blade’s next meal.
“Since when were you my mother, huh?” the samurai chided. Nightbrewer sighed.
“Well, I just… care for you, you know,” he mumbled, giving a cursory peep under the boiler to make sure the fire was still going.
“I don’t need your pity, pony,” the samurai grumbled. Nightbrewer nodded and withdrew the cup from beneath the press, serving it up with a bowl of brown sugar for his customer.
The samurai said nothing as he sipped the hot drink. No thank you, no complaint, nary a word exited the samurai’s mouth. Nightbrewer found the situation awkward, but he did not want to encroach onto personal territory – especially when said territory belonged to a warrior. So he simply retreated into the inner depths of his shop, checking stocks and ensuring there were no termites feasting on his walls – a non-existent issue, by the way.
His ears pinned towards the sound of clinking. He’d finished? That was rather quick, considering that he previously detested the drink. Curiously, he returned to the counter, only to witness the samurai’s head buried in his arms.
And crying.
“Kintarō-sama?” Nightbrewer called, surprised at the unhindered display of emotion.
“Leave me be, pony. I s-said… I don't need your pity!” The samurai slapped his hoof away when it came near. Nightbrewer wasn’t going to give up. He moved closer and reached another hoof out.
Lightning suddenly flashed, blinding the coffee pony. When his vision cleared, he found a blade straddling the soft flesh of his neck. His eyes trailed from the blade down to the hilt, and from there rested on the face of the man who held it.
“K-kintarō..?” whispered Nightbrewer, eyes focused, body tensed, and ears pulled back. The samurai trembled, and for a moment the sword wavered. Nightbrewer finally noticed just how haggard he looked – a loose topknot slouched upon overgrown, weed-like hair, while wild stalks of a beard sprouted from under his chin. Completing the sad portrait was a face marred by cracks, wounds, and mucus.
Afraid, but resolute, Nightbrewer kept silent as he timidly pushed away the sword and stepped closer to the man. Or what was left of him. With all the strength he could muster, he brought two hoofs around the warrior in a hug. With his head pressed against the man’s body, he could hear the speeding, then slowing down of a fragile heartbeat.
A loud clink pierced his ear. He flinched, ears erect, but he soon calmed down and tightened his embrace, turning around to see what had fallen.
It was the sword.
He pondered. Something must’ve happened. Perhaps Kintarō lost in a duel? Maybe his honor was soiled. Or he had a fight with his wife? No, it also could be that his lord had scolded him.
“I-I’m.. sorry,” stuttered the samurai. Nightbrewer smiled, and nuzzled his head into the cavity of his chest as a token of his forgiveness. The pony soon felt a hand roughing up his mane, perhaps a sign of human affection.
After a long while, Nightbrewer let go. The samurai sat himself at the counter while the pony picked up the fallen sword and presented it to the man.
“Feeling better, samurai-sama?” he asked.
The man nodded. “Thank you… pony.” Then he exhaled, a sigh heavier than a hundred bronze bells. As if to complement that statement, the dull moan of a bell rang all over Edo city, heralding the setting of the sun and the beginning of night.
“See how the day has turned to night, just like that,” remarked Kintarō. Nightbrewer nodded in agreement. The last cry of the bell scattered in the evening wind.
Kintarō closed his eyes. “My lord’s house… was abolished.”
Nightbrewer’s eyes widened as he registered what Kintarō had just spoken. “Your lord… abolished?”
The samurai opened his eyes and caressed his sword. “I promised to protect him. I vowed to serve him. I swore loyalty to him till the end of my days. And now…” He paused and gazed at the pony, eyes dulled and hollow. “I have no one to call master. No one to call lord. No one… to call father.”
Nightbrewer exhaled, putting two hoofs on the counter and leaning closer. “He was your..?”
“Yes.” Grief oozed from Kintarō like sores on a hot day; Nightbrewer could see it, feel it – just like the ache that maimed his heart on the day he’d lost…
“Paddy…” he whispered, reverently.
The samurai frowned. “...Who?”
“O-oh, I said it out loud?” wondered the pony. The samurai nodded.
Now it was Nightbrewer’s turn to sigh, though it was more of a wistful, longing breath, the surrender of a soul who’d accepted fate’s mysterious workings.
“I… I had a wife. Or a mate, if you will,” began Nightbrewer. “Paddyfield was her name, but I called her Paddy out of affection – I’m sure you understand.”
“I didn’t know hor– ponies could have wives,” remarked the samurai.
“Oh yes, we do,” confirmed Nightbrewer. He smiled, nostalgic. “She was the least likely in the village to find a mate, because she was… barren, amongst other things. But when I met her, oh” – he chuckled, imagining her broad smile on that chilly winter day – “she was more than beautiful. She possessed not only the most capable mind I ever knew, but also a kind, caring spirit that kept us together through hard times.” His smile faded a little. “You remember the epidemic?”
Kintarō bowed his head. “Yes, I do. My uncle and brother fell under its sword.”
Nightbrewer nodded. “Her heart for medicine drove her to save all she could, for she was selfless,” he continued. “Perhaps…” – he bowed his head – “A little too selfless.”
“She succumbed to it,” the samurai deduced.
Nightbrewer looked up and nodded slowly, eyes misted with sorrow.
“I understand loss, samurai-sama. It’s… tragic that you now understand it too.”
The shop was dim, lit by a few paper lamps flickering hesitantly. Silence reigned, as this part of town was quiet. Only two souls remained, sharing their griefs and exchanging comforts.
“You know, I never really talked about my grief to anypony. I dealt with it as quietly as I could,” revealed the pony.
“It seems that I did the opposite of you, coffee pony,” returned the samurai.
“Yes, and it’s good, not only for you, but for me too. I feel a little better tonight, and all because of you, friend.” Nightbrewer smiled.
Kintarō chuckled. “Friends. We are that now?”
“If you want it to be, then yes, samurai-sama.” The pony began clearing up the cup and cleaning out the coffee-maker.
“Then stop calling me sama. San will do.”
“Three will do, yes. It’s a lucky number after all,” teased Nightbrewer.*
“Luckier if my wife doesn’t come back before I do,” upped the samurai.
“Luckiest if you prepare supper for her,” advised the pony.
“I wield a sword, not a kitchen knife.” He tapped his sword for emphasis.
“Read Ryōri monogatari. It’ll help a lot.” Nightbrewer began closing up.
“How much?”
“12 coppers, I think. You’d better go if you want one – Kitasuke’s shop will close soon.” He grabbed a broom and began sweeping the samurai out. “Now shoo, I want to retire for the night.”
As the samurai stepped into the darkness, he turned around and called, “Coffee pony!”
Nightbrewer halted his sweeping and turned to look.
“...Thank you,” offered the samurai, bowing deeply.
“Likewise, samurai-san,” Nightbrewer returned gently. A soft smile broke upon his face as he watched the dark form of the human turn and vanish into the shadows of night.
Author's Note
The coffee pony returns!
Here are a few supplementary notes for the eggheads to feast on:
- Abolishing a house basically meant "no more clan." The samurai who served that particular lord would then have to find some other work; many become rōnin and turned to banditry or crime.
- Japan was no stranger to epidemics. The three most dangerous diseases were smallpox, measles, and cholera – the last one was brought by foreigners.
- *It's a play on words. San can mean either 1) an honorific ending, or 2) the number 3, which was considered lucky in Japanese superstition, an idea borrowed from China.
- Ryōri monogatari is the title of a cookbook published in A.D 1643. The book covered a wide and diverse range of recipes and dishes.
