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Listen, children, and keep this tale within your heart.
In ancient days, when the world was wilder, there were wolves and people living together in the forest. To say that the wolves were wolf summons would be as accurate as to say that the people were humans, which is to say not accurate at all, but as close as anyone is likely to get.
In the world of civilized people, the small villages dotted about, tending their meager rice fields, the odd forest pack was only a whisper on the wind, a rumor of danger, sharp white fangs in the dark of trees at night. The townspeople did not see the wolves, both four-footed and two, but the wolf-people were clever and wary and they looked out from their forests and watched, and they knew the ways of their two-legged brethren, though they did not practice them.
The days were wild still, and the trees were tall and the forests free, and the nations were just beginning. But the nations were beginning, the Daimyos coming to power and beginning to rule their lands and guard their people and hire shinobi to fight their wars and kill their enemies, and the people of the forest knew which way the winds were blowing.
They had lightning in their veins, these wolf children, and blood on their souls. Their hearts were in the pack and in the hunt and their ways were not human ways, but the Shinobi were not-quite human either, and the people of the forest could not escape war, not for much longer.
So their leader emerged from the forest. He brought furs with him and sold them in a town that showed signs of one day being a city. He was not used to money, but he was clever, and knew how to use intimidation to make up for ignorance, so he got fair prices for the furs, enough to go to the best tailor in town and buy himself a set of clothes that a prince would not be ashamed of.
And so, dressed respectably in fine human clothes, cloth so much flimsier than the fur and worn leather that had kept him warm all his life, he presented himself to the Daimyo of Fire Country.
“Who are you?'' the Daimyo asked him.
His name did not exist apart from his people. It meant the scent of coming rain.
“I am Amekaze,” he said instead, “I am a shinobi, and I have come to offer the services of my clan.”
“What payment would you demand for your service?” the Daimyo asked cautiously. Shinobi were a well valued commodity, and one that Fire country desperately needed, but they were a dangerous force, one able to demand payment to the ruin of the Daimyo.
“Amekaze” grinned, teeth sharp behind his silken veil. “We would ask for land,” he said, “On which to grow our crops and raise our children. After that our swords will be pledged to you. We will, of course, expect payment for any personal requests you may have of us, but we will not turn against you, and we will defend your land as it will be our land also.”
This was an arrangement in the interest of both their parties, for Amekaze was clever, and he knew that justice is often the wisest choice if it can be managed. He was not human, not quite, but he understood them. And he understood better than the shining that power, even more than in strength, was in land. So long as they had their own space to guard, no matter how far men ventured into the wild forests, their people would always have tall trees to hide beneath and deep burrows to raise their cubs. Trust is not rational, and the young countries feared what they did not know, and the shinobi with their wandering and their violence were foreign to them. But if the wolf people appeared civilized, if they owned land and tall houses and fine clothes, they would be the last people the Daimyo would turn against in times of trouble.
“Your wish is granted,” the Daimyo said, as though he was performing a great service, instead of the other way around, “Tell me the name of your clan for me to put in my records and draw up a contract.”
Amekaze found that his mind was blank. For all his plans, he had not thought of this. The wolves of the forest had no name for themselves, it was enough to simply be.
He racked his brain to think of the most human thing he could think of and remembered the strange, swampy rice fields he had passed through on his way.
“Hatake,” he said.
And that is the story of how the Hatake got their name.