The Historian

The waves sang to him wordlessly, catching the wind on their lips as breath. They spoke of things hiding beneath, swirling and shifting as he watched from the shore. They did not know his name and even if they did, it would fade as they crashed along the sand. He stood, just barely stemming the flow with his legs. They moved around and through him like time and hope before ebbing away. But he knew he could capture it, perhaps not with his hands, but with his eyes, engraved onto his soul.

Kenichi started his day as usual: smelling just a bit like death. He was a phenomenal butcher. Like anything that gets used too much, it grows blunt. And his heart was used quite often.

He made sure to sharpen his knives though. They went through flesh like air and bone like butter and quite nearly through the chopping board as he cleaved through the fish’s head.

“He didn’t come for breakfast again.’ he grumbled. “Stupid big head always making me worry.”

He angrily set aside some sashimi for Hitode.

“Who didn’t come for breakfast again?” asked a man.

Kenichi didn’t jump, but his soul certainly screamed.

“Shop’s still closed.” he managed, face turning red from trying to hold his surprise in.

“Sorry, the door was open.”

Kenichi didn’t remember opening the door. The customer seemed familiar, although he didn’t know anyone with such long hair. There was a shock of white on his shoulder. As it yipped at him, he realized it was a fox.

A level of excitement gripped him that showed only in the form of a popped vein.

“No pets in the store, please,” said Kenichi, turning pink.

“She’s not a pet. She’s as much of a customer as I am.” said the familiar stranger.

“Can she pay?”

“Her tab’s on me.”

Kenichi bit his lip. It was so cute.

“Fine, just don’t let her near the fish.” he said begrudgingly, surreptitiously saving some slices for the fox on the side.

The stranger began to look around.

“This place is quite old, isn’t it”.

“How’d you figure?” asked

“This little marking over here. It’s a very old symbol.”

“It’s just a random thing my great grandfather marked.”

“Yeah, did you know it meant something?”

Kenichi raised an eyebrow.

“This is a mother’s nails, symbolizing the hardship of birth.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“No, your grandfather told me himself.”

Kenichi set his knife down.

“Who are you?”

“Oh please don’t stop on my account. I’m just a historian. I love to study bits of information.Although really i’m here to curate what to preserve.”

Kenichi picked up his knife again.

“Just call me the Historian.”

“Our families were close once. Right at the start of the previous century. My dad would go fishing quite often on your family boat.”

The Historian ran his finger along the wooden walls.

“He wanted it passed down from generation to generation. Although, I don;’t think he intended for it to be a mere decoration.”

“We still have that boat. We just replace the pieces.”

“Which is the real boat then I wonder?”

Kenichi shook his head and grabbed a live fish from a tank and placed it on the cutting board. Just as he was about to dispatch it, the Historian interjected.

“Oh I love this part!”

The fish wiggled helplessly in his hands while Kenichi looked up at the Historian, annoyed.

“Please! I told you don’t stop on my account. He’s already struggling.”

Kenichi’s eyes narrowed. He drove the spike through the fish’s skull.

“Splendid! Now you’ll make the incision on the back of its neck, correct?’

Kenichi ignored him but did exactly that.

“Now you drive the wire through its spine.”

Kenichi felt the fish wriggle one last time as its nerves were systematically destroyed.

“What a wonderful way to kill.”

“You describe it quite graphically, Mr. Historian.”

“Well, it is a graphic act. And terrifyingly thorough.”

He put the fish away as he prepared another live one.

“I have one more question.”

“What will you ask now?” Kenichi said angrily, tossing the fish back into the tank.

Suddenly, the Historian was very close, dark eyes meeting his own.

“Have you ever tried it on a person?”

Kenichi tightened his grip around the cleaver.

The fox locked the door.

“Now, now, I’m just asking a question-”

He struck the cleaver into the man’s face without hesitation.