Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  Now we were on a private quest to solve the problem of Dato's death-blow. Hiroshi, at his dojo, had performed a remarkable demonstration. He had set up a concrete tile, placed a soft pillow on it, and a second tile on top of the pillow. Then he had patted the upper tile gently with his hands in a peculiar and building rhythm, and suddenly the bottom tile had cracked across. Not the top, not the one touched, but the one protected by the pillow.

  We all gaped. "How?"

  "The vibrations," he explained. "I establish a pattern, a harmonic reinforcement, that increases until the object at the focus is sundered. A similar process can be started in any object, even a living one, and arranged so that there may be a considerable delay before the proper harmonics manifest."

  "A delayed death-strike!" I exclaimed. "But Dato didn't pat on me that way. He hit me, once. Could that have started the vibrations?"

  "Not under such conditions. You are fortunate."

  "Fortunate? Why? He said he had—"

  "Because there is no cure for the pattern I have demonstrated. Once it is started, only its natural culmination can end it."

  "Oh. Yes. But still—"

  "He must have used a cruder technique. A gradual nerve-damage attack, or a strike on a vein such that an embolism is formed, a clot of blood, that travels through the system until it reaches a critical point."

  "Such as the heart!" I exclaimed. "That would account for all the cases in my area. That should be curable."

  "Unfortunately it is very difficult to locate a small embolism, or to anticipate its progress through the body," he said. "Exercise would facilitate its motion, but I doubt a doctor could abate it, short of open-heart surgery at the instant of crisis."

  "Uh-uh!" I said. "I can't afford to hang around a hospital for months just waiting for—"

  "Then I think you must see my O-Sensei, Fu Antos."

  Makato passed the map along to me. We seemed to be on course. We had many miles to travel on foot, but at least we knew where we were going.

  We climbed. It was slow, because we were not sure of the way despite the map, which was not detailed. There is a big difference between knowing a precise path in trackless wilderness and knowing to the nearest few miles.

  This was central Hokkaido, near Daisetsuzan National Park, whose environs encompassed one peak of seven and a half thousand feet and others not far short of that. Not exactly Everest, but quite sufficient challenge for the duffers we were, particularly in winter. Climbing is a different kind of exercise from level running, and I knew there would be specialized stiffnesses in my muscles tomorrow.

  Pedro was worse off. He had nor been walking long, and despite his program of exercise the muscles had not had time to re-develop completely. How could he manage a heavy pack? But he was proud, and sensitive on this point, so that it was awkward to lighten his load.

  Pedro stumbled, and had to sit down in the snow before he fell. Jim leaned over him. "You okay, sir?"

  "Of course!" Pedro snapped.

  Jim didn't seem to notice the tone. "Hey, look at that snowman!" Down the slope was a snow-covered shrub that did resemble a child's creation. "Take care," I said. "The abominable snowman is following us."

  "I'll knock his block off!" Jim said, making a snowball. "I'm the best pitcher this side of the Mississippi!"

  "Insufferable Yankee arrogance," Pedro muttered.

  "Oh yeah?" Jim said. "Bet I can score on that head before you can!"

  Oh-oh! Jim's usual lack of discretion was operating again. He had already aggravated Pedro by paying undue attention to Amalita, though she had given him a chili shoulder. But still there was that in me that held me back.

  "Shall we establish a small wager on that?" Pedro said, not smiling.

  Jim glanced insolently at him. "Wouldn't be fair. I know I'll beat you, but it's not right to bet you money when I couldn't pay in case I did lose."

  "I'll loan you enough!" Pedro said, fashioning a snowball himself. Worse and worse. If only Jim would learn to stay out of sensitive situations!

  "No, I—" Jim paused. "Hey, we don't need money! I'll bet you my pack to yours for the next mile that I can beat you!"

  Pedro was perplexed. "What would I want with your pack? Your things don't fit me, and your abominable American food—"

  "To carry," Jim explained. "I win, you have to carry yours and mine. And vice versa. Those are real stakes, that'll make you sweat no matter how much loot you have in the bank."

  This was too much! "Jim, leave him alone!" I said. "Can't you see—"

  "Keep out, Striker!" Pedro cried furiously. I had muffed it, only antagonizing him further.

  "Chicken?" Jim inquired.

  Pedro's face was red with rage. He stood up, hefting his snowball. "Throw, gringo!"

  Jim smiled confidently. "Sucker," he said, and hurled. His ball, thrown too hard, overshot the mark.

  Now Pedro threw, using a sidearm motion. His aim was low, but he struck the base of the bush, knocking down some snow. Diago chuckled. "Counts!" he said.

  "Sure wasn't dead center," Jim grumbled. "Lucky shot, too. Wouldn't happen again."

  Pedro smiled with all his teeth. "Then you shall have a chance to earn it back, youngster. Throw again."

  "Okay!" Jim made another snowball, sighted carefully, and threw. This time his aim was true, and he struck the edge of the mound.

  Pedro, almost nonchalantly, flipped his second. It struck just inside Jim's.

  "Closer, again!" Diago said, grinning.

  Jim glowered. "Okay, that's two. Double or nothing, this time!"

  "Very well," Pedro agreed.

  They fired off another round apiece. Jim clipped the other side; Pedro scored dead center.

  "Hey!" Jim cried, suddenly realizing. "The shrunken! The throwing knife! You've had practice."

  "Shuriken," Pedro corrected him. "You should have thought of that before you challenged me. Care for another try?"

  Jim shook his head. "I'm four miles in the hole now, and I'll never beat you! I'd better quit before I'm stuck for the duration!"

  "The professional always defeats the amateur," Pedro said smugly. "I would not have wagered had I not been certain of success."

  Jim picked up the second pack and held it in his arms. "Man! I see how you made your money!"

  Pedro nodded, and we resumed the climb. Diago winked at me, and then I realized what Jim had done. He had relieved Pedro of his load, with honor. But he was lucky Pedro hadn't caught on to the ruse.

  Pedro fell back to walk beside me. "That young man has a future," he murmured. Then I knew he hadn't been fooled, either.

  We came across a small stream, and there was a black Asian bear, there for water or fish. I was surprised, supposing the creature would be hibernating in this cold, but apparently hibernation is a variable among bears.

  Pedro brought out his shuriken and let fly immediately. "Hey!" I protested. "That bear's harmless; he'll run at the sight of us." Too late. The little dagger had already winged the animal, and a wounded bear is not at all the same customer as an untouched one.

  The bear stood on its hind legs, pawing at its face. It roared, showing a mouthful of salivamoist teeth. I saw that the shuriken had actually scored in its eye. I was revolted at this senseless brutality. It ripped the blade out so violently that its eye socket became a mass of blood and torn flesh. It howled in pain. Then it charged. The bear had appeared to be not large, but now it loomed much more massive than a man, with sleek muscles under the black fur, and gaping jaws.

  Pedro threw again, and the blade sliced into the creature's snout. The bear's fury only intensified. It rose again on two feet. I stood helplessly. Then something swished by my ear. Makato had thrown his cleaver and it scored in the middle of the bear's chest.

  It took the animal time to die, but after that it never had a chance. Jim hit it right over the gaping eyesocket with a hard iceball. Diago threw two knives that caught it in the stomach, ripping it open so that the guts began to spill. The men
started carving it into bear steaks before it even stopped shuddering. I said nothing. Why was it necessary that an innocent creature be bloodily slaughtered—in the middle of the quest for my life? How could I condemn these men who were helping me—yet how could I thank them?

  At dusk we reached a primitive native village. The houses were frameworks of wood roofed with grass or bark; it was hard to tell under the snow. Each had an entry shed with a low doorway.

  "Ainu," Makato said, and that needed no translation either. I had heard of the Ainu: aboriginal white men amid the Oriental hinterland, separate in culture from the Japanese. They were supposed to have lived in northern Japan for something like seven thousand years, and once were spread much more extensively. Had the Caucasians once dominated all Asia, before losing out to the Mongoloids there? No one could say for certain, but here were the Ainu, with their distinct physique, language and culture.

  A man emerged from one hut and approached us. He was about sixty, with a large white mustache and beard. As he came near I saw that his skin was almost as pale as mine, his eyes were round with prominent brows, dark brown, and the lobes of his ears were long. No Japanese, certainly. Trim the whiskers and put him in a Western suit, and he could have walked the streets of my hometown without being distinguished from any other citizen. He spoke Japanese, greeting us. Diago translated. "He greets us, inquiring our business."

  Makato was already answering, and I knew he was explaining that we were warriors from many lands, looking for the castle of Fu Antos. It occurred to me that Pedro and I would be in trouble without Diago's linguistic services, for we did not speak Japanese and Makato did not speak English. So it wasn't just Pedro's money and my mission that made this group functional.

  The Ainu representative frowned. "Evil men," Diago translated. "We know of no Fu Antos, but there are fierce warriors, brutal killers, in the mountain yonder. Do you come as friends of these?"

  Makato looked at us. "Those must be the ninjas!" Pedro said. "Fascinating!"

  The ninjas: those fabulous warriors of old whose exploits enhanced Japanese folklore for centuries. "And deadly," I reminded him. "It's one thing to admire their exploits from the viewpoint and safety of distance and time. But in the flesh it may be quite another."

  "Yes, indeed," he agreed, looking eager. Jim wasn't the only impetuous fool on this mission.

  "Tell him we may have to fight the ninjas," I said to Diago. Actually, I doubted the presence of legitimate ninjas here. Their fortunes, like those of the Ainu, had faded as Japan modernized, perhaps in part because they eschewed the use of modern weapons like guns. Theirs had been a rigorous existence, and few of today's luxury-softened citizens had the gumption for the lifetime devotion to privation and combat that was required for the true ninja.

  So while I had no doubt there was danger out here, I was more alert to conventional forms. Storm, avalanche, wild animals, or modern bandits whose presence might terrorize the backward Ainu. But Hiroshi had told us that this was where the man he called O-Sensei dwelt: Fu Antos, ancient mystic. The man who could help meif he would. And if we could reach him despite possible ninja resistance.

  The Ainu, understanding that we were not of the ninju number, smiled and invited us to stay the night. Gratefully, we accepted. Our party of five was too large for a single family to entertain, so we agreed to split up. Makato, who seemed to know something about the Ainu, assured us that they could be trusted, and I was glad to accept his judgment. Thus I soon found myself in the chisei, the traditional Ainu house, with a family of four with whom I could not speak. These people had learned Japanese—quite different from their own language—but knew nothing of English.

  The single family room had a packed-dirt floor and open fire pit, but was surprisingly comfortable.

  The Ainu wife was a shock at first. She was a portly, kindly woman, but her lips were grotesquely tattooed. Purple stain extended all about her mouth like a reverse whiteface clown's makeup. This was the Ainu female's sign of marriageability, probably quite painful to apply, outlawed by the more civilized Japanese but obviously still practiced in remote colonies such as this.

  Supper consisted of conventional rice in bowls, eaten with pointed Japanese chopsticks—a real hazard for me—hot soup, tea, and pickled white radish. I was so relieved that it wasn't chocolate covered ants that I ate with all the gusto my inept sticks permitted. My bearded host apologized for being out of bearmeat, the Ainu staple—a huge bear hide stretched on the wallbut I assured him by gesture and example that what he had was fine with me.

  After the meal, the husband settled crosslegged on the floor to rock the baby to sleep, while the wife played her mukkuria musical instrument like a jew's-harp, with a thread to make it vibrate properly. The infant was tied by cords onto a wooden hammock suspended from the ceiling, so that the whole thing swung gently. The older child was like any American little girl, alert and eager to play. She possessed a pair of homemade wooden stilts that she used in summertime.

  It was a pleasant night. I wished I had the education to appreciate the significance of the intricate decorations on their clothing, and the curved sticks that were thrust into the ground near the fire pit, and all the other oddities of their unique way of life. I knew these were all symbols of a vanishing culture, for only a few thousand Ainu remained on Hokkaido, and most of these were not pure blooded. Soon this primitive village would be absorbed by the reaching Japanese culture, and the Ainu, the "hairy ones" of Asia, would be gone. They had no written language, and had to transmit their history and teachings through story and song. But they were cheery people, and hospitable. This, despite the fact that for centuries they had been harried out of their homeland by the Japanese, just as the American Indians had been ousted by the European immigrants.

  In the morning Makato amazed our host-villagers with his demonstrations of board-breaking and icebreaking. He placed several blocks of ice one over the other, first shattering them with his hand, then his elbow, and finally with his forehead. The Ainu reciprocated by doing an intriguing bear-hunt dance. That may seem minor, but after sharing the hospitality of these friendly people, I found their parting gesture meaningful.

  When we separated, the men raised and lowered their hands and bowed. The women uttered mournful whining sounds of sorrow at the parting. It was all exaggerated, yet expressive and touching. It was strange to think that all my life until yesterday I had known virtually nothing of these people—and had been content in my ignorance.

  We plodded all the remainder of the morning through the deepening snow, seeming to make little progress. It would have been better to have a native guide, but no professional had been willing to enter this region, and the Ainu stayed well clear. The ninja, or whatever menace inhabited the mountain, had inspired fear throughout the area.

  Diago stopped abruptly, cocking his head. His hearing was acute, for he could extend his ki into that sense. "Animals!" he said.

  "Here in the snow?" I asked. But predators were hardly confined to the jungle. Bear abounded in this region, the totem beast of the Ainu.

  Before he could answer the pack was upon us. Five huge dogs, larger than German Shepherds and with more fur, silent and swift. No barking, no snarling, no baying; just wolflike muscle and teeth and single-minded mayhem. We were on the steep slope of the mountain, unable to maneuver freely or form a defensive circle; we had to fight where we stood.

  I stepped to the side, where there was a brief level spot—and my footing gave way. It was a concealed pit, bridged over by sticks and straw and hidden by subsequent snow. A ninja trap! My arms windmilled, but I was falling.

  Jim grabbed my arm and hauled me back. But in the process he yanked himself into the deadfall, his boots skidding on a sheet of ice, hidden beneath the snow. I was falling away from him toward safety now, but could not get hold of him. And the great dogs were charging.

  The first canine leaped at Pedro, striking his chest and bowling him over, for the man's legs remained uncertain. The
two rumbled down the slope, the animal going for his throat, but Pedro got one hand up and rammed it far into the beast's mouth. He got bitten on the arm, but his thick jacket protected him and the penetration of the teeth was slight. He crossed his legs over the dog's lower abdomen where the ribs did not extend, and squeezed. Pedro felt weak, and his legs were tired, but with a desperate effort he crushed the dog until it expired.

  The next two attackers were already in the air as the first struck Pedro. These hurtled at Makato and me. Both of us used our fists. I barely regained my feet and shot a fast blow to my dog's nose, an especially sensitive target. The shock was hard, for about eighty pounds of dog was behind that nose, but my knuckles were tougher than that tender flesh, and the beast fell, dead. Makato flashed the karate stiff-hand chop and crushed the dog's skull in like the shell of an egg. A fighting dog is an object of terror to most people, but a trained man can readily kill a dog if he knows how.

  But the fourth dog also launched at Makato. The man turned rapidly—I remembered from painful experience just how fast he could move—and delivered a tremendous kick with the front of his boot. It connected to the chest of the dog, caving in its ribs. At the same time the last animal attacked Diago, who stepped nimbly aside to avoid its rush. He hit it a downward blow on the shoulder, breaking it. Then he pulled a hidden knife from his sleeve and finished the canine off with a thrust to the heart. The complete action had run its course in under five seconds, except for Pedro's action. Five dead dogs lay in the snow. Pedro was the only one injured: some scratches around the arm, not deep. But already they were an angry red.

  Jim had by this time climbed out of the pit. He had managed to avoid the sharpened stakes beneath, by sliding down the side. He had saved me, and himself.

  I regretted the ugliness that stood between us but still I could not make it right. Doing good isn't enough; a man has to avoid doing harm, also, and Jim's impetuosity still had to be controlled. "Look at those teeth," Diago said. "Filed sharp!"