The Wooden Samurai
By Alex Morgan
Fifth day, first month, 1708
Hirata reined in his horse at the edge of the rocky shore of the sea. His steed tossed his head and snorted, creating wisps of vapor from his nostrils in the cold air.
“Easy, Tora,” he said, patting the horse’s strong neck. “We must wait for the rest of the patrol. You are too fast for the other horses.”
Tora stamped the ground and laid his ears back, showing his impatience. Hirata regretted not being able to let Tora run full speed as he liked to do. The horse seemed to love the cool morning and, after being cooped up in the stables for weeks of rain and snow, was eager to stretch his powerful legs. The roads around the daimyo’s estate remained treacherous with the melting snow making the ground wet and muddy. One slip co
