Musings: The Souls of Swords

Many apologies for the late posting; the storm last night knocked out the Internet, and it wasn't fixed until Dad came home from work...by which time I was leaving the house for the vaccines I needed for a college course, and afterwards a coffeeshop date with a friend. So I didn't get home until late. Anyhow, without further ado!   

         I prefer swords to guns. Always have. And for a long time, it wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't just wake up one morning and say to myself, “I like swords better.” I didn't even say it to myself as I was going to bed, when I am much more likely to be coherent. It was more like something always in the back of my mind. I like movies with swordfights better than movies with gunfights. I liked a hero who could wield a sword better than one who was a gunslinger. It just was.

He's cool.

He's cooler. 

         
Then I read a book. A good book. Not a reference book or a philosophical thesis outlining the differences between guns and swords. It was Waking Rose by Regina Dolman, a modern retelling of 'Sleeping Beauty.' In a single scene, I discovered why I preferred the old weapons to the new. The hero, Fish, is talking to Alex, the proctor of a college dorm that takes the ideals of knighthood very seriously (i.e., they all have swords and know at least marginally how to use them). Fish mentions that, after being kidnapped several years back, he carries a gun, and has a concealed-carry license. Alex agrees with the need for it, but also adds that a gun is an ugly, soulless thing, unlike a sword.

            Fish is not truly convinced—a weapon, after all, is a weapon, and a gun is a more efficient one than a sword—but it made me think. And after thinking for some time, I realized that Alex is right.

            The sword, above every other weapon, has a soul.

            Not everybody will agree, not even other writers. They have Fish's more prosaic view: a weapon is a weapon. All you need bother with is how efficient it is. But these I invite to enter a sword shop and peruse the weapons, and then tell themselves what they take away from the viewing.

            Each sword means something different, says something different. Whether or not each particular sword would be practical for fighting is one thing (most of them won't even have an edge.)  What the sword declares to the viewer is another. I might not be attracted to, say, the five-foot long monster with an oversized, jagged-edged blade and a fanged skull decorating the pommel. But I know at once who would wield it, and I know equally swiftly that he and I would not be friends.

            I cannot speak for the wakizashis, the Japanese straight swords; I have seen too few of them to know whose aura they have taken. But I know at once what the katana means. The katana has taken on itself the bearing of the samurai: it suggests that he or she who holds it has great skill with the blade, is fast and straightforward, and bears a sense of honor more powerful than their love of life. The katana may not be a chivalrous weapon—but it is darn well an honorable one.

Honorable sword. 

            The huge claymores and bastard swords have an even better repute. They are the choice of the Scottish knights. I don't know about you, but I heard good things about the Highland warriors growing up: William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. And for some reason, about a third of the old romance novels seem to involve a bonny Scots knight, which may or may not be realistic, but does tell you what sort of stories have come down about them. When I look at the claymores, I see, maybe not some romantic guy, but one who is brave, honorable without being rigid, loyal to his people, and chivalrous. Perhaps they're not as sharp or as agile as a katana, as weapons go...but I think I like claymores better.

I see this...

I think this.  

           Now for two swords of similar make and similar bad reputation: the Eastern scimitar and the cutlass. I don't know about you, but when I see these things, a shiver goes down my spine. The scimitar was the weapon of choice for the invading hordes that swept out of Arabia, killing, pillaging and destroying wherever they went. (I know that's not politically correct, but it's true.) The scimitar hanging on the wall at the Knife Guys may have a jeweled pommel and be polished so well you can see your face in it—but I see it dripping in the blood of innocents.

  

         Same with the cutlass. This isn't the weapon of the swashbuckling Hollywood pirates. It belongs to the real ones: Calico Jack, Blackbeard, Sir Henry Morgan, the whole unpleasant lot. Hollywood tends to glamorize pirates. I'm not sure that's a good thing. Pirates back in their day were a true scourge, and if they made landfall in a civilized town, it was just as bad as if the Vikings had come through: pillage, rape, murder, whole nine yards. And the cutlass has absorbed their dark aura, until it's a sword I can't visualize a good person carrying.

 

          Speaking of Hollywood, however, there is a sword that, thanks to the Golden Age of films, has acquired a reputation for swashbuckling: the rapier.

I don't know how true it is, but...well, when you see that long, slender blade with the fancy basket hilt, chances are real good you think of dashing heroics: Zorro, Prisoner of Zenda, Errol Flynn, Dread Pirate Robert, that sort of thing. (If you think of Reepicheep, more power to you. He fits the type!) Considering that a lot of the men who carried rapiers tended to be the heartbreaking, ladykiller type, I'm not sure how far I'd trust someone carrying one...but he'd at least be charming!

Dread Pirate Roberts

Zorro

   








    

Reepicheep!

           A Crusader's sword would say different things to different people, depending on which Crusade it was and what the person knew about the Crusades. (I'm not going to debate the cause or justness of the Crusades here.) But when I look at one of them, I see a noble thing: tainted a little, perhaps, because of the behavior of some of the soldiers, but strong and shining nonetheless, filled with the strength,  courage, and sheer determination of the men who marched and led the fight to reclaim the Holy Land.

Maybe not shining, but he's definitely a knight.

            And for me, at least, I see the same thing looking at a Knights Templar or Knights of St. John sword. In fact, looking at these, I come about as close as I ever get to a fangirl moment. I know that both orders were composed of sinful, fallible men...but still. These guys were the Marine Corps of yesteryear—in fact, they might have been tougher than the Marines. They did not fight fellow Christians, and the Muslims dreaded having to go up against them, because they did not surrender, they did not quit, and if you killed them, you had to fight over a mountain of your own dead to do it. I've never seen a sword belonging to a Knight of St. John or a real Templar sword. Which may be a good thing, because I'm not sure I could stop drooling if I did!

            You wouldn't expect a mass-produced type of sword to have an aura of its own, and to be honest, I was going to skip over the saber at first. But then I realized that I would also have to skip over the gladius, and that would be an injustice. It's not exactly an impressive weapon, but what's behind it certainly is.

 This short, wide-bladed sword; you look at it and you hear the tramp of a hundred men marching in unison. Units of a hundred each, marching under the wide-winged eagles: strong-limbed men, disciplined and brave, that under their leaders conquered the known world, and held it for much longer than anyone else ever did. That Rome fell into disarray and debauchery later I won't deny; but I also won't let that steal the knowledge of what she started as.

            And with that, you realize that, in an odd way, the saber does have its own aura: that of the tough, stubborn soldiers of the late Victorian times. Don't get me wrong, here: I really don't have a lot of respect for the Victorian times, especially if it involved England. But there were some good things about that time, and I will admit that their soldiers were a hardy lot. I particularly equate the saber with Teddy Roosevelt—who no doubt had some problems, but can we say tough?

I mean, anybody who can do this is dang tough.

            The gun, on the other hand, does not have a similar aura. It's become particularly pronounced now: after all, an M-16 in the hands of a Marine is virtually the same as an M-16 in the hands of a Jihadist, and a policeman's revolver looks the same as a mugger's. There's no difference in the weapon; nothing that marks the one held by the honorable soldier as opposed to the one held by the terrorist. Most guns are like this: it looks pretty much the same on both sides of the line. There's only kind of gun where that didn't matter, and it picked up an aura anyway: the Colt pistol.

            And I don't think it was any coincidence that it comes from the Old West, where you had the struggle between civilization and barbarism, where brands might fight among each other as did the lords of Europe—and where the chivalry, though rough, was very real and very much there.

            Because for something to pick up an aura, there's got to be something behind it to give it one. Something high, strong...and bigger than life.