In the darkness she made out long black hair, longer than hers when the nobleman had chosen her. It shimmered like the moon on dark water. Another form coalesced: a kimono. It was longer and grander than anything she had ever seen. There was little light in the room, but it shone brighter than the finest silk, with a plain brown color which nonetheless hinted at iridescent hues.
She released a sigh of jealousy. Perhaps she was dreaming. There could not be a kimono as fine as that, not even among the Cloud Dwellers. The nail was now a hand, gently scratching her back. The grime of the road was sloughed away. Even as the scraping raised welts on her skin, Shizuka gave in to the languorous pleasure. This too she would order her maids to do for her. The tiny bites of pain, the soothing motion of the hand -- it left a warmth more indulgent than any bath.
She became aware of a low humming, like a lullaby, drugging her limbs to sleep and stillness. She did not notice that every layer of clothing had been dragged off her shoulders and down her back. ***
"Where is she! Where is the old woman!" Her cousin trailed after her, still red-eyed. "Shizuka!"
The sentries exchanged looks, and straightened their spears. Shizuka stopped in front of them. "Where is that Old Mother of yours! She has put a hex on me!"
"Please step aside and show your travel passes," said one laconically.
Shizuka had forgotten them beside the parchment and ink. "Do you not remember me? How could you give me to that old witch!" She tore off her hat.
The queued travelers began muttering. Farmers on their way to the fields set down their tools to watch. Shizuka was dressed in the noble style, yet no noblewoman allowed her face to be viewed in public. The grizzled commander stepped out of the inspection hut. He carried the two swords of the samurai. "Is this woman in your charge, son?"
Her cousin fell to the ground at once. "Yes, kind sir."
"Keep control of her," said the old soldier. He tapped his brow, as though missing the crest of his war helmet. "Woman, you bring charges of witchcraft against this lady?"
Shizuka put her hat back on. She did not want her cousin to do anything foolish. The commander sniffed. "You should know that she is my wife's kin and a hard worker. If you wish to bring serious charges against her, consult the town elders. Attention!" he cried suddenly. The queue parted. Nearing the barrier was a small procession of retainers, followed by a palanquin borne by six sturdy bearers. The farmers fell to the ground in supplication. More reluctantly the travelers shuffled to the side of the road and did the same.
Shizuka found herself tugged down to the newly dampened road. "Now you've done it," hissed her cousin.
No one raised their eyes as the procession passed. Who was in the grand palanquin, she wondered bitterly, who was going to the Cloud Dwellers' city?
*** The ink stick was broken and the water bowl full, but Shizuka could not bring herself to mix the powder and dip the brush. How could she write in so large a room? And her hands would shake, and ruin her perfect penmanship. Not that she had much to say.
If only her cousin had not made a fool of himself at the barrier. Perhaps if she'd explained the problems to one of the messengers, she would be granted passage. She cursed her mother for cutting her hair short for the journey. Now she did not fit the part of a noblewoman. Her hair was only thigh-length, not nearly long enough...
Outside came a rattling hum, like plucked tines, or fluttering wings. *** That evening she managed to arrive at the bathhouse before the peasant women. Was it the same evening or the next? It did not seem to matter. The bag with her passes and papers she hung out of harm's way. To the floor fell her clothes: sashes, overcoat, the plain kimono. Her nose wrinkled. She had to find someone to wash them. Even then they could not rival the brown robes in her dream.
"Hey Shizuka!"
Wonderful. Her cousin was outside, drunk. And it seemed he had some friends. "Begone!"
"You see?" said her cousin to his companions. "I just wanted to wash your hair, hey Shizuka!"
How she wanted to strike him! Even naked she was more than a match for him. But something seemed to hold her down. "Leave me be, you useless scoundrel!" "Oh? We've bathed in the same stream since we were children. You don't even know how to wash it yourself." He seemed genuinely to want to help, but his friends' laughter rose behind him. Goaded on, he jeered, "What would your husband think of that, ah? What do you know of him? Perhaps he only wants another flower to pluck. How many other mistresses do you suppose he has?"
The pressure increased on her shoulders. "You disgrace yourself," called Shizuka coldly. Finally the proprietor appeared and they scattered. Through the window she offered many apologies, which Shizuka did not answer.
It was not until she regained control of her breath that the pressure eased off. She did not notice it with the weight of her anger. Down came her hair, and she crawled across the slick wood to the water basin. She wet her hair as best she could. He was right; her older sister had always washed it for her. Shizuka had complained bitterly about tangles, but Sister knew how to preserve its healthy luster.
Shizuka sat on the stool and stared into the water. Her skin was prickling, but she didn't care. Her cheeks were a livid rose, her lips full, her eyes wavering darkly on the surface.
The bruises on her shoulders were also dark.
She scrambled up, tottering backwards till she fell into the hot water. Despite the heat, she was shivering. "Who's there? Who's there! Cousin?" "No," came a low voice behind her. The rippling surface of the bath caught her eye. Over her own face was the reflection of silver-shining hair, with a hornlike crest over the high brow. She began to weep, losing the strength of her anger.
Gentle fingers began to comb through her hair. They stung where they touched her scalp. Shizuka closed her eyes on her tears. "I dirtied the water," she murmured. The stranger made no response. Shizuka was coaxed into leaning back over the edge. Her breath slowed with each scoop of cool water over her head. Against her cheek were the full breasts of a woman, so strangely smooth. Under her hand was fabric richer than silk. Its weave was so cunning that the water streamed off its surface and left it bone dry.
Surely, Shizuka thought, no one who owned so splendid a kimono could mean her harm. Why would it be a bandit? She had nothing to steal.
The local women found her asleep on the floor, alone. *** The season was changeless under the bamboo grove. The ink dried in its bowl. The letters of passage lay forgotten in the shadows. Her cousin came and went, leaving money which she did not spend and clothes which she did not wear. She came to know only two kinds of nights: when the whispers of the grove became whispers of comfort, and when the darkness left her cold and alone.
One night as the moon waned, her cousin returned with his friends. Shizuka listened to their banter as she lay on the mats.
"Thank you for helping us weave the sacred signs, Brother."
"We do the same ritual in our village," replied her cousin. "Not so early though, as our growing season is different." She leaned her brow on the yet-unused headrest. Her family would be home at such an hour, bundling the rushes to dry. "That old woman," she said to herself, "she was weaving a sign as well. Hexing me. And then she poisons her son-in-law against me. Hateful witch."
"Is this so hateful?" came the whisper. Shizuka froze. The voice was much clearer than on other nights. She strained to catch a glimpse of the kimono.
Nails bit into her wrists as her arms were drawn overhead. Shizuka was riveted by the sight of the fabric. Even in the weak lantern light from outside, its plain embroidery glittered with every color of the rainbow. The headrest was placed against her wrists and a thin piece of rope bound her to either side. Shizuka came back to herself, trying to struggle, but in those gentle hands was the strength of a village. The rope coiled around until her arms were braided together to the elbow. Layer after layer, her clothes were drawn open, and tied in place under her breasts.
The men broke into raucous laughter over some bawdy joke. How humiliated s
he would be if her cousin found her thus! She held her breath as the brown kimono brushed over her skin, cool and heavy. Slender fingers tickled and pricked her skin from navel to collarbone.
Shizuka trembled, her belly cold. She gazed pleadingly toward the shadow of hair and crown. Accordingly the brown kimono swept over her body as she was mounted. Her breasts were bitten with the same delicate skill. Long arms held down her hips, and less kindly; with each taste those nails cut into her waist. The headrest thumped dully on the straw mats as she struggled. The conversation paused. Too loud! Her toes curled in her effort to keep still against the pleasurable touch.
It seemed too long before the men resumed talking. In silence, in want, in terror -- Shizuka could not stand it. She wished a thousand curses on her cousin that he would not leave, that his lantern would cease flickering on the impossibly fine hair which loomed over her.
"You persist, even now," said her captor, making a sound like rattling teeth. Laughter? Shizuka shook her head, confused. Her hands strained against the headrest. Her hips snapped toward the other, rubbing on the kimono.
"Where is your face?" whispered Shizuka. In answer the clever, tingling touch moved over her legs. Her cheeks bloomed with fresh heat. Above the confining rope, her hands fell open, as though grasping for something just out of reach.
"She can write but not compose?" came a loud voice, just beyond the door. "She shall be obliged to the other ladies of the court, if they teach her."
Shizuka stared into the blank darkness, shaking. How could she not perceive it, this close to her?
Her cousin was defending her. "All her life she has been cloistered. She is a virtuous girl, at least. This journey has done her in." "And you say she is a virgin?" Shizuka stiffened at the sound of laughter. The brown kimono covered the lantern light. Her lover covered the soft skin of her entrance.
"She must be possessed by demons!" More chuckling.
"Aye, that is the saying in our village as well."
"I am not," whispered Shizuka into the cloud of hair. "Am I?"
Smooth, strong fingers slid inside her. "Not anymore." Beneath the brown kimono was the play of a hundred hands and skin more perfect than tumbled stones. At that moment Shizuka knew the strength of villages. She strained against her bonds, now eager to touch and scream, and whimpering that she could not.
"Please, lady, kiss me," said Shizuka.
"You address me as a noble?" Hard kisses traveled tantalizingly close to her lips.
Shizuka could no longer feel the creeping chill of true night. "I would rather have you than any prince of the clouds."
At her words, the brown kimono fell open. Shizuka blinked back the stars in her eyes to stare at the gauzy inner robe. Thin as it was, it caught its own faceted light, like myriad crystals of ice.
"I was born of your bitterness. Nothing more. If you kiss me, I will never again return."
Shizuka gave a strangled cry. The men did not seem to hear her. "I must come with you!"
"-hear that? In the grove? Reminds me-"
"Wherever I go?"
"-they're strong. We used to play-"
"Wherever you go. Kiss me." "Little Shizuka!" Her cousin knocked on the door. The first light of dawn peeked through the slats. "This man is an imperial messenger! He can tell your nobleman where we are! Shizuka? Open up, come on, it's time to get up!"
He stepped into the room and screamed. His cousin lay on her back, arms spread to the sky. Beetles crawled out of her wide-open mouth and buzzed out the door. Wrapped around her still body was a beautiful brown kimono.
Wildling
By Alex Freeman It had been a long day that was shaping up to be an early morning as the good doctor finally got the hell out of the laboratory and made his way toward his car. The fog stalked the rain-soaked streets, muting the orange glow of sodium streetlights; the light cast the shadows of old buildings and winter-stripped trees at odd angles across the cracked pavement.
"Dr. Grady?" The voice came from a place of darkness where the space between buildings was swallowed by shadows so deep their dimensions were impossible to discern. It was a man's voice, pleasant to hear, with a lilt of humor one might use to cover nervous anticipation.
Though a slight man armed with only a briefcase and car keys, Dr. Nelson Grady didn't seem the least bit unnerved. He unlocked the door of his shabby green Citroen, tossed the briefcase in the back seat, and leaned against the body of the car to light up a cigarette with steady, neatly manicured hands. The flare of the lighter briefly illuminated his narrow features, the thin lips and pale, pale blue eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that reflected the lighter's flame. It was a young face that belonged on an undergrad in the chess club, not a Ph.D. several times over who was well into his seventies.
"Cut the mystery," he suggested around his cigarette, then leaned back to take a puff, his eyelids closing as the rush of much-needed nicotine hit his system. "I've already got you narrowed down to one of three people, two of whom aren't going to walk away from this."
From the darkness came a palpable air of confusion. Then, "I think I might actually have you stumped, good doctor." Nelson's lips parted and a stream of smoke curled into the night air before being torn apart by a sharp breath, a huff of laughter. "Yeah? Neither friend nor foe, huh? Let me guess, you've come for answers to questions you seem to think you've got some kind of business asking."
The shadow dweller hesitated, then admitted, "Possibly the latter." The cigarette's cherry glowed briefly and brightly as Nelson took another drag. "Okay, then. Let's get a look at you," he replied dryly. "Might as well go through the formality of telling you to go fuck yourself. I hate to insult a man to his face when I can't even see it."
The shadows shifted and gave the distinct impression of parting as the man stepped out of them. He wasn't terribly tall, nor was his figure all that imposing. His brown hair was unkempt, his bargain bin suit disheveled, and glasses were somewhat crookedly perched upon his wholly unremarkable nose. He also had a pair of horns and his nails curved long and sharp like talons. His face was nice though, cute in a boy-nextdoor kind of way. "Allow me to introduce myself."
Nelson arched a brow as he studied the stranger, whose form blurred in the doctor's vision like two images attempting to overlap each other. "You're slipping," he pointed out discreetly. The fellow blinked a bit in surprise, then frowned in concentration. With a nigh audible snap, the image of a handsome fellow in Armani fell into place. His wavy brown hair was stylishly tousled and his green eyes dazzled behind a pair of spectacles whose frames must have cost well into the quadruple digits. "Sorry," he said smoothly, displaying pearly white teeth as he flashed Nelson a warm smile. "I get distracted easily."
Nelson tapped ash off his cigarette and rolled his shoulders. His long day wasn't getting any shorter and his muscles ached for a hot bath and warm bed. "You were saying?" he drawled.
The handsome devil cleared his throat and replied, "Ah, yes. Well. My name is Leucetios. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
Nelson shook his head. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell." The man's pristine features pouted, but then he smiled again. "Probably for the best. We're both the sort to hide behind masks, aren't we Dr. Grady? The only difference is, I have a choice about mine." Church bells rang out across the city: once, twice, thrice. Nelson winced, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "Look, Lou. Can I call you Lou? Here's the thing. I'm tired. You're being cryptic. It's three and I have samples to track in the morning. If you're anywhere near a point, get to it."
The thus-dubbed Lou took a deep breath and murmured, "Very well." Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his chin a touch and announced, "Dr. Grady, I know the secret of your immortality and I am deeply in love with you."
Silence. Ash fluttered to the ground. Sparks skittered as the cigarette was flicked away and bounced along the pavement. "Lose the game face," Nelson said quietly. As Lou's features faded from radiantly metrosexual to the somewhat vulpine features of a horned, taloned,
otherworldly... thing, the doctor nodded to himself with quiet satisfaction and indicated the passenger seat of his Citroen with a tilt of his head. "You get points for surprising me. I'll give you to wherever it is you're sleeping tonight to convince me I shouldn't give you a holy water enema and roast marshmallows off you while you burn."
***
"So you see," Lou explained, "the holy water wouldn't boil my flesh alive, but it would kind of itch and, if it's all the same, I prefer not to be lit on fire." Nelson pulled up outside the building that contained his modest one-room studio. It was exactly the kind of place a man who wanted to keep a low profile opted to live, which is exactly why Nelson lived there. The landlady minded her own business or, in this case, was fast asleep and wouldn't notice a strange visitor this late. He had been listening so intently to the stranger's story he had forgotten to ask him where he wanted to be dropped off. Killing the engine, Nelson sat in the driver's seat for a moment, looking puzzled. He wasn't used to being puzzled, he was more used to inflicting that on other people. "So you're not a demon," he clarified. "You're a creature of the wild. In a bad suit."
Lou scuffed his foot against the floor of the car awkwardly. "Clothes aren't easy to come by in what's left of the wild areas of the world. For the glamour to work, I need a template. It doesn't matter that the quality is poor. I can make it look however I want." With an air of pleading in his tone, Lou added quietly, "I can be whoever you want."
A flood of memories washed over Nelson. Faces of lovers long gone, aged and faded away, loomed out of the mist of time; eyes, wounded with heartache, who would never understand why he had to leave; beautiful faces now lined and haggard, with hair gone grey. Each one was a reminder of how he would never truly be a part of the world, how he might touch its fringes but never belong, never stay. Cold necessity pushed those faces from his mind and he reached around to the back seat to grab his briefcase as he said roughly, "I'm not looking for anyone. Sorry."
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