Deadly Flowers

by Sarah L. Thomson

  Scrambling up a slope ahead of me, Ichiro kicked a rock loose. It rolled and bounced downhill to hit me squarely in the knee, leaving a tight ball of pain clustered around the joint. It didn’t matter. Keep going.

  Blisters on my feet; dust and grit in my eyes, in my hair, and on my tongue; skin scraped off my hands. None of it mattered. Keep going.

  When Saiko began to limp again, I bandaged her foot tightly with damp cotton strips. When Ichiro complained that he was hungry, I told him to fill his stomach with water at every creek we passed. I growled at them. I glared at them. I all but pushed Saiko up the steeper slopes.

  But I did not tell them what I could hear behind us.

  We were being tracked. The sound was like an echo. When we stopped, it stopped. But sometimes my ears could catch a footfall, soft but heavy, gentle as a cat’s, not too far away.

  Perhaps Willow had found us. Perhaps something worse had done so. I couldn’t tell. Keep going.

  When the light slanting through leaves and pine needles turned a rich amber, we paused on top of a ridge of old, crumbling stone. “There. See that?” I pointed.

  Saiko, looking almost not pretty, was slumped on a tree root. Ichiro obediently turned his gaze in the direction of my finger. “What?”

  “The road. See?”

  “That far?”

  I’d thought the sight of the narrow brown ribbon below, following the path of a silvery-gray river, would lift their spirits. I’d been mistaken.

  “It’s not so far,” I said, a little helplessly. At the school there had been punishments in plenty for a girl who thought she could give in to exhaustion. But it wasn’t as if I had a bamboo rod handy to beat these two into motion, so I had to try encouragement instead. I wasn’t very good at it. “Look. See the bridge? There’s a temple on the other side of the river. We’ll be safe there for the night.”

  “We can’t,” Ichiro said. “Kata, we can’t make it all that way before dark.”

  And he was right. They couldn’t.

  I took a second look at the temple below. I might be able to reach it before the sun was entirely gone. These two would not. I turned to scan our surroundings.

  “You don’t have to,” I told Ichiro.

  Where we stood, the path split. One branch led downhill, a narrow, steep, rocky nightmare of a track, best suited to goats. But the other followed the backbone of the ridge, an easier walk, before it took a hitch between two cedars and vanished into the gathering darkness.

  And in that gathering darkness, I’d seen light.

  Pale and steady—it wasn’t a campfire or a torch. Someone behind a paper screen had lit an oil lamp.

  The path took us through so many twists and turns I had trouble keeping track of our direction, and I never was quite sure how long we’d followed it. But I did not once lose sight of that light, and at last the trail decanted us into a small clearing. Ichiro tripped over a root and sat down. I paused to take in what I saw.

  It wasn’t a warlord’s mansion. But it wasn’t a peasant’s hut, either. A curving path of smooth white stones began at our feet and led to a tidy farmhouse, large enough for more than one room inside, with a flowering plum by the door, its pale and delicate blossoms like tiny moons against its small, dark leaves.

  A door slid back, and someone looked out.

  “What’s that—oh, my. Are you lost?” A woman, neither old nor young, was in the doorway. Her face was worried and kind.

  “All alone? And out at night? Come in. Come in.”

  Ichiro had struggled back to his feet. Saiko glanced questioningly at me.

  The woman looked harmless enough. Still, it was an odd place for a farmhouse. No fields or orchards surrounded it. No other dwellings were nearby.

  But we had no choice. The dark was swooping in, closing like wings around us. And the dark held whatever it was that had been following us for hours. “A night’s lodgings, mistress?” I asked. “We can pay.”

  “You poor things,” she said kindly. “Of course you can stay the night. I wouldn’t dream of taking payment from guests. Just come in.”

  A few minutes later we were seated by her hearth. The first thing our hostess did was to lock the window shutters. The next was to brew tea.

  She poured herself a cup from the same pot, and sipped it. So I put mine to my lips. It was good, hot and fresh, with no bitter aftertaste. It smelled like the tea Madame kept for her richest clients.

  I noticed a white vase with a spray of plum blossom in a niche on the wall. Fresh, clean mats on the floor, soft and thick under our knees. The sway and drape of the woman’s kimono as she knelt to pour the tea, deftly catching the swinging sleeve and tucking it out of her way—it was a deep plum color with simple embroidery, but it was still silk, and not cheap silk either. Her hair, glossy with camellia oil, was piled high on her head, leaving the back of her neck bare.

  This was no isolated farmhouse. She was no farmer’s wife.

  In fact, she was no one’s wife.

  “The tea, how is it? Warming you up a little?” she asked.

  “Are you all alone here, Mistress …?” I prodded gently.

  “Okui.” She smiled, perfectly. She’d practiced; I could tell. “And I’m not always on my own. Servants, of course. And I have visitors now and then. One in particular.”

  I felt myself relaxing, just a little.

  Courtesan and ninja—we are not that far apart. No warlord likes to admit that they employ either one of us, but they all do.

  If Okui’s employer preferred to keep her in an elegant little house on a mountainside, well, perhaps that was more convenient and less risky than visiting the pleasure quarters of a city, where there might be many dangers, and many witnesses.

  A door slid open to show a skinny young girl on her knees. With her face hidden behind her hair, she picked up the tray she had set down beside her and rose to her feet. Other servants followed her, and the smells made me dizzy. Steaming soup, hot rice, sliced fish, cakes that had been fried crisp and others stuffed with tender, savory meat. Dried melon. Pickled plums. Tiny oranges that looked ready to burst with juice.

  Okui’s employer was a wealthy man, clearly, and he must have liked his food.

  I caught Saiko’s eye. “Perhaps we could wash first?” I suggested.

  “Oh, don’t bother with such formality!” Okui laughed. “As hungry as this poor boy looks, it would be cruel to keep him from his dinner another moment.” And before I could say another word, Ichiro had a soft, pink hunk of salmon in his mouth.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Mistress Okui?” he asked, swallowing quickly to make room for more.

  “Oh, not much, just now. I get hungry in the night, and my cook knows it. She always leaves me a little snack. But, please, have some more of the rice.” She heaped it into his bowl. “Pickles, too. More tea?”

  Saiko looked up at me, and then down at the food. She reached out for her bowl, full to the brim with glistening white rice.

  Ichiro tore hungrily into another bite of salmon. Okui picked up a bowl of soup and sipped, and smiled.

  Never eat first. Let others eat while you watch. Food makes adults into children. They let their guard down. Keep yours up.

  Still, I could not help thinking that the soup, at least, must be all right. Okui was drinking it herself. And the servants had brought out a covered tureen and ladled us each a bowl; it was not as if they could have poisoned one drop and left the rest harmless.

  I drank salty soup and steaming tea, and watched Ichiro and Saiko for signs of imminent death or drugged drowsiness. They showed none. I reached out slowly for one of the sweet cakes. Years ago, when I was younger than Ichiro, I’d watched Madame eating one. I’d smelled the sweet rice flour. She’d dipped each bite in wine and licked her fingers afterward. She must have known I was staring, though she’d never looked my way.

  Cautiously I opened my mouth and took a bite. I’d never tasted anything so soft, or so sweet. It slipped down my throat and seemed to m
ake me hungrier than ever.

  I gave in. If we were to be poisoned, we’d all die together. Okui smiled with what looked like genuine delight as I piled my bowl high, a delicious sensation of well-being sliding along my arms and down my legs with each soft, succulent bite.

  When not even Ichiro could shovel in another mouthful, Okui led us into a nearby room. Servants filed in with steaming buckets and left with empty ones. A waist-high wooden tub was soon full of scalding water.

  “Your mistress,” I said to the girl who had brought in the tea. “Is she …”

  Going to poison us? Slit our throats while we sleep? Sell news of us to anyone following?

  “Do you have enough water, now? Is it nice and hot?” Okui’s voice came from behind me. The girl emptied her bucket into the tub and scuttled away without meeting my eyes. I’d have to try more questions later.

  Saiko was already stripping off her kimono, and admonishing Ichiro for attempting to climb into the steaming tub before he’d sluiced himself clean with water from the buckets on the floor. “Do you think we want to be soaking with your filthy feet?” she scolded, and Okui laughed.

  “No, please!” I said sharply to another serving girl, as she reached out to pull my jacket from my shoulders. She flinched.

  “Do let her take it. She can get it clean before morning,” Okui said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of putting anyone to the trouble,” I said firmly, keeping my hands on the jacket. I certainly didn’t need a servant to find the things I kept in my pockets.

  “Oh, it’s no bother—well. If you’d really rather. Here, do take Saiko’s—isn’t that your name, dear?—kimono. Make sure it’s clean. And yours, Ichiro, my dear, such a rip there. Here, girl, you can sew that up tonight.”

  No harm in letting her servants busy themselves with Ichiro and Saiko’s clothes, I supposed. But I made sure my own stayed safe, by the simple device of refusing to take them off until everyone but the three of us had left the room.

  “Adventures,” Ichiro sighed, neck-deep in hot water. “Not as difficult as I thought.”

  “Kata? Aren’t you coming in?” Saiko paused, stepping over the tub’s high rim.

  My skin felt pebbled with sweat and grime. I had road dust on my face and pine pitch in my hair and my sore knee had started throbbing more painfully than ever, as if urging me to climb into that hot water and soak some of the ache out. But if we were all three of us up to our chins, who’d be on guard?

  “After,” I said, a little grimly. “And you hurry!”

  “Hurry a bath? Why?”

  I rolled my eyes. “So you can watch the door while I take one.” I wasn’t about to be the only one of us who was stinking.

  The servants brought clean clothes, and Saiko slipped on a white kimono while I eased myself into the tub. “Oh … silk,” she said softly, to no one.

  There was a kimono for Ichiro too, this one soft blue, and another for me. I left it on the floor, and pulled my own gritty, dusty clothes on after I’d climbed out of the lukewarm water, feeling like a snake trying to wriggle back into its discarded skin.

  “Here,” Saiko said softly, coming up behind me. I turned quickly to face her, my eyes going to her hand, which held—a comb?

  “Don’t be silly. Turn back around. It’ll be easier if you sit down.” She found a bench and pushed me onto it. “Hold still.”

  “Ouch!”

  “I said, hold still.” Maybe she didn’t know what to do with a sword, but her fingers were deft with a comb. I still kept an eye on the door, but I felt the muscles in my neck and back slowly relaxing under her touch, as she teased and tugged the knots out of my hair. Ichiro watched as he slipped his own kimono on. I made a face at him. He flicked water from a bucket at me and laughed.

  When we came back into the main room, Okui was on her knees, rolling out four futons. No thin mats or mattresses padded with crackling straw for her—these were stuffed with cotton, inches thick.

  “Why are you doing that yourself, mistress?” Ichiro hurried to help her.

  “Oh, my servants have left. Back to their village. They don’t stay the night.”

  I felt a heavy little thud deep in my gut, as if I’d swallowed lead rather than sweet rice cakes. I’d wasted time soaking and letting Saiko fuss over my hair, and I’d missed my chance to question the servants.

  “Saiko, that kimono looks lovely on you. Your skin was made for silk. And … Kata. Didn’t they …?”

  “I like my own clothes best,” I said shortly.

  “Just as you please, of course. There, thank you, Ichiro. Put my mattress in the corner, will you? And here.” She was opening a cupboard, pulling out soft quilts. “Such a young gentleman. Handsome as well!” Ichiro blushed as he hurried to make the beds. “Did you have enough to eat? Are you still hungry at all?” Near her own futon was a low table, and on it were trays with bowls and plates and a small teapot with a deep brown glaze. “If you want a little snack in the nighttime … Of course, Ichiro, a cake before bed. Here, take this one; it looks delicious.”

  I came up behind Saiko as she was pulling her damp hair into a braid. “We can’t all sleep at once,” I said quietly in her ear.

  I expected her to argue, to tell me I was foolishly anxious, but her fingers paused in her hair for a moment before she nodded. She understood.

  Okui was generous. Hospitable. Kind.

  Much too kind.

  No one took in strangers like this, these days. No one had storerooms of expensive food to share. No one lived without a hint of fear.

  I’d dropped my guard, seduced by a bath and a feast, and missed an opportunity to gather intelligence. It had been a serious mistake. Worse than that. It had been weakness. And I could not repair it now. All I could do was keep on the alert. I’d have Saiko to help.

  She took the first watch while I stretched myself out on a mattress as soft as a cloud, cushioning every muscle, easing every ache. Saiko silently nudged me awake when the moon was high, sending light between the shutters to lie in pale lines across the floor.

  I glanced at Ichiro, flat on his back and snoring lightly. When I looked up, I found myself meeting Saiko’s gaze. Quick as thought, we shared an indulgent look—oh, let him rest.

  Then she lay down, pulling a quilt over herself, and I sat upright on my own futon, letting the time pass.

  The trick to staying alert on watch is not to think. Thinking slows time. You let your mind go blank, and sounds float into that blankness, like fish swimming one by one through a fathomless pool.

  Ichiro’s snores. Saiko’s breathing settling, slowing, deepening.

  A cricket rasping outside, like a file against metal. An owl calling like a lost and hungry ghost.

  The cloth of my jacket rubbing against my skin as I shifted my weight.

  A rustle from the futon in the corner.

  As quickly as I could, I lay down, curled on my side, tucking a hand under my right cheek. Whatever Okui was about to do, she must not find me watching.

  She sat up, silently. A simple kimono, this one plain, undyed cotton, was wrapped around her body. Her hair, loose, reached to the floor, and swayed with each movement.

  I could see her face clearly in a stripe of moonlight. Her eyes were closed. Was she sleepwalking?

  Without glancing at any of the quiet bodies on the floor, she slid gracefully off her futon to kneel by the table with the food, and turned her head so that the moonlight caught her profile again. Her eyes had not opened.

  I felt my heartbeat quicken a little. It was more than her own movements that were stirring her hair now.

  I’d heard of a creature called an octopus, a many-legged monster from under the sea. Now I felt I was watching one. Tendrils of Okui’s hair lifted and stretched, reaching out. They hesitated, then dove down. One delicately removed a lid from a red lacquered bowl. Another picked up a sweet rice cake.

  The strands of hair on the back of Okui’s head parted to reveal a second mouth there, the lips curling
back hungrily. Our kind and generous hostess was as much a demon as the centipede who had tried to rip open my throat in the school kitchen.

  Did her servants know? I wondered, fascinated, as the tentacles of hair lifted one bite after another into the waiting mouth. One strand even poured a cup of tea, and another lifted it toward those eager lips. Was that why those villagers fled the house at night? And what about the rich man who visited here? Did he know what slept beside him in bed?

  Okui’s eyelids never fluttered as the mouth on the back of her head chewed and swallowed and slurped. A new thought struck me, and it seemed more horrible than any of the others.

  Did she know? Okui herself? Could you be a demon and never know it?

  Okui lifted her head quickly, as if she’d heard something. But I knew I hadn’t made a sound.

  I didn’t forget to breathe slowly and deeply, as if I were sleeping. And I knew she could not see my face, even if her eyes had been open. I’d deliberately chosen to lay my futon in a pitch-black corner, away from windows.

  Her hair laid a bowl of rice neatly on the table, and she rose. As she made her way across the room, with her peaceful and sleeping face turned toward me, that hair coiled and writhed around her head, each tendril seeming to sniff at the air.

  If I woke Okui from her sleep now, what would happen? Would she be horrified, even driven mad, to discover what she was? Or would I simply be facing a conscious enemy, rather than one who was half asleep?

  What I needed here was an ally. How could I rouse Saiko or Ichiro without shaking Okui from her walking dream?

  Okui’s toes were inches from my futon. She turned her back toward me, and something slipped from her hair. A chopstick. It clattered lightly against the floor.

  Stealthily, I reached for the chopstick, grabbed it, and flicked it hard at Saiko. I heard it hit something soft—had it been her futon or her flesh?

  The curving ropes of Okui’s hair seemed to hesitate. They were blind; they could not see my movements. But could they somehow sense what I was doing? Had my arm made waves and ripples in the air that her hair could feel?

  Still facing away from me, Okui knelt gracefully beside my futon. Curious, searching, the long strands of hair reached for me.