Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two

by Rypel, T. C.

  They undressed and laved, Paille grumblingly removing only his upper clothing, to Gonji’s amusement. To the samurai, Vedun’s bath house was a wondrous appointment; cleanliness was a matter of personal honor to a Japanese, while many Europeans still regarded bathing annoying or even damaging to the body.

  They slumped on benches in the steam chamber, knuckling at sleepy eyes, only the fierce heat of the stone walls preventing them from succumbing to slumber where they sat, there in the moist hot womb of the chamber. Gonji had left his clothing and swords just outside the doorway, near at hand and in plain sight, ever cautious.

  Redressing his wounds with clean linen strips obtained from the wide-eyed Polish youth, Gonji grew wistful, his thoughts meandering back to the Land of the Gods. The stinging pain in the shallow saber cuts reminded him of the soothing poltice made of roots and herbs grown in a sacred grove far, far away to the east.

  Gonji was almost drifting off to sleep when he saw the attendant boy glance out the chamber door and go goggle-eyed.

  He lurched to his feet and scrambled through the archway to his leaning swords. Before he had the Sagami half out of its scabbard, the piercing screams set the hair on his neck standing on end—

  Several women in the reception chamber shrilled and gaped to see him naked and on all fours. They pushed and shoved to get back outside, each trying to outdo the others in modesty. Gonji knelt with the drawn katana, dimly watching their hasty departure, hearing their muffled laughter, trying to piece together the meaning through a wine-spun haze.

  “Dammit!” he cried. “Dammit, Paille, it’s the women’s hours in the bath house now! Stupid barbarian rules—why didn’t you remind me?”

  “How was I to know? How often do I come to this wretched place? You—masohlava! Meathead! Why didn’t you tell us?” Paille scolded the attendant.

  The boy stammered something in reply.

  “He said he tried to,” Paille translated, slapping the boy on top of his head.

  “Well, why didn’t you listen to him?” Gonji addressed the boy, grinning: “It’s all right, kiku-san—little sir.” He fished out a coin and tossed it to the wide-eyed lad, who turned it over in his hand in disbelief. It was more than he’d see for a month of work in the baths.

  “Come, Paille, let’s get dressed and get out of here. I need sleep.”

  They dressed and strode out. The women waiting outside thickened in number as the shocking tale spread swiftly. The younger women tittered and whispered behind their hands. The newest arrivals were merely curious or bewildered, while some of the older ladies tsked and shushed them or cast looks of disgust or remonstrance at the offending pair.

  “Oh, shit!” Paille breathed. “We’ll hear about this. The old hens will lose me my commission at the chapel.”

  Instead of hurrying away in shame, Gonji walked smartly up to the surprised group of hopeful bathers, whose whispering and cackling was strangled off at once.

  “Ohayo, ladies—good morning.” He continued in German: “So sorry. We were mistaken about the bathing hours—”

  And then he saw Helena glide to the forefront, her huge liquid eyes glistening darkly. Confusion and fear shadowed her lovely face in equal measure. No one had yet signed what was happening to the deaf-mute girl who had covered Gonji’s escape on that night not long ago.

  Gonji bowed to the women as a group and then a second time, deeper, to Helena alone, smiling, allowing the gasping curious among them to make of it what they might. Helena tendered a shaky smile and nodded uncertainly.

  Then Gonji and Paille were off for the artist’s loft, leaving in their wake the day’s most oft-repeated incident.

  They reached Alain’s small musty room, which was little more than a gable projecting from the highest slope of the millinery’s mansard roof. Centuries of gloom seemed to have found a home in the loft; it lay thick with dust and the clutter of the artist’s craft; it reeked of paint and linseed oil, of mildew and dry rot from worn shingles fixed to the crowding rafters. Paintings leaned and lay everywhere. The walls were covered with the grim shapes that manifested Paille’s dark and gloomy visions, the children of his angst.

  Paille threw open the shutters to clear the stuffiness, the harsh streamers of blue light clouding with dust motes. Far below, the city stretched and yawned, the scents and clatter of commerce drifting up into the loft. A crier called out his banal news above the babble of men and animals. The bell tower clanged eight bells.

  Gonji and Paille maneuvered around each other in the tight quarters, laughing at their absurd ballet. Paille offered the samurai the single cot, but he declined and, undressing down to his linen undergarment, spread Genya’s washed scarf before the sill to dry and stretched out on a blanket. The floor was warped beneath him, evidence of the roof leaks that showed up as sharp pinpoints of light.

  “They sure love you here, Paille.”

  The artist cackled from the cot.

  “Hai, one day someone will discover this loft...perhaps make a shrine of it....”

  “A monument.”

  “Mmm.” As the alcoholic numbness wore off, Gonji counted his aches and pains, each one greeting him in its turn. He breathed deeply, feeling his body sink with the exhale, enjoying the weary satisfaction of another day lived to its fullest, the completeness of having given of one’s abilities completely. The slow spinning....

  Helena’s face. Lydia’s. The yearning for a woman. The Torok daughters. Reiko....

  “What part of France are you from, Paille?” His voice wafted up weakly from his reclining form, almost independently of thought.

  “Gascony,” came the reply, thick with sleep.

  “Gascony. I might have known.” Paille’s throaty growl, and Gonji’s amused smile to think of the legendary boastfulness of that area of France.

  Ohayo, Oguni-sama. Good morning—temperance, Gonji-san, temperance and self-denial are their own rewards. Who said that? Oguni. Iye—not Oguni; the priest, Brother Johannes....

  The comfort of the katana and the ko-dachi along his left side....

  “This town...must survive, Paille....”

  The gentle, sonorous buzzing from the cot.

  This town must survive, Paille....

  “Survival, Gonji-san.”

  “Hai, Master Oguni.”

  “Come forward, Tatsuya-san. Engage. Shiai—fight!”

  Tatsuya. Bastard. The bokken clacking, crossing. Can you see the hate in my eyes, devil-brother? Oh—! The pain! Iye! Show nothing of it. He needn’t have done that. My neck burns with pain. No! No tears....

  No, Mama-san, I didn’t cry. That’s good, my son. Come close, Gonji-Gunnar—remember that you are Viking. You are strong. The red-gold hair, her firm embrace, eyes of blue fire and northern ice. But I’m so alone when I’m with them....

  Helena and Lydia, laughing together, softly, covering their mouths. What’s—what’s funny? Helena whispering—iye, not possible—deceiver! (Why does Mord let you live?)

  Mama-san. Gonji-Gunnar, you are a bear—stern, pointing—showing all teeth and claws. I’m afraid, Mama-san....

  Show me your best, samurai. Don’t dispatch yourself until I’ve seen your best. Julian. Julian....

  Reiko. Crying...swinging...iye, my love...her katana arcing wide long slow....

  Tonight. All will be revealed tonight. Garth turning, looming, unfurling, becoming—show me your best, your—hee-hee! Everybody’s a big boss around here, we got nothin’ but chiefs! Rider comes from Klann, rider comes from Mord, from Klann from Mord from (pounding) Mord—Deathwind! What is the Deathwind? (pounding—shooting!) Pounding, beating, sweating—breathe easy! Show nothing! You have done well, my cousin, the garden is a tribute to your work, my wife wishes to tell you—ssss—ssss—Siii—Saaar—pounding—whispering sibilance through a honeycomb of dream—Simon—Simon—Simon Sardonis—you have done well—I’ll see you dead, barbarian scum—Luba’s lips—no sound but—

  The booming of timbers.

  * * * * />
  In days of happy childhood the Gundersen boys were occasioned to think of the musty, forbidding old trunk as a treasure chest whose contents were denied them. Wilfred and Strom would sneak into the storage cellar, wooden swords in their belts, hearts sprinting in fear of the dank moss-and-slime-walled pit. They would circle their prize, finger its iron bands and oak-ribbed lid; pull ineffectually for the thousandth time on the massive lock thrust through the latch. On the boldest sally Wilfred had brought along his father’s adz. This he used to pry at the lock while Strom puled and begged him to abandon it, flickering taper trembling in a small fist. The door to the larder above slammed open. Strom screamed. There stood not Papa but a somehow more sinister brother Lorenz, eyes sparkling in the candle glow. Lorenz stormed down the rough stairs, railing at them, something about primogeniture, about the trunk’s contents falling into his possession as the firstborn when he would come of age. Then he raised his hand to strike Strom, who cowered against a wall at his oldest brother’s uncommon rage. But Wilfred had stepped up, the adz held on high, as if to crash it against Lorenz’s skull, and the two locked eyes, their gazes fusing with that irrational sibling hatred that the perspective of adulthood can later recall only with uneasy laughter for fear of thinking on it too long or too deeply. And Lorenz had spat at him and run away up the cold stone steps, and later that evening he had smiled smugly with arms folded while Wilfred had taken his beating, and he had told all Wilfred’s friends that he had cried like a baby, but Wilf hadn’t cried....

  Wilf remembered all these things now that the oaken chest had creaked open to reveal its mysterious treasures, and for an instant he wondered why, for the amazing tale they told, the objects within had ultimately proven disappointing.

  Garth held up the mildewed banner of Klann’s Akryllon. Beneath it lay folded the dark surcoat emblazoned with the crest of Klann and the rest of Garth’s former clothing and armament from his days as Field Commander of the Royalist Force of Akryllon. At the bottom nestled a long teakwood box, fastened with a gold clasp. Garth withdrew this last.

  “Iorgens,” Wilf said hollowly, seeing his father’s neck muscles ripple.

  “Your grandfather’s surname.”

  “Der schatz. The treasure,” Strom muttered glumly, the expectation of the treasure chest’s wonders now having palled for him also. The mist of youthful memories cleared from his eyes. “Papa, will we have to change our name now?”

  Lorenz tsked. “Of course not, dunderhead.”

  “People know us by the Gundersen name, your grandmother’s good name. I can see no purpose in changing it now. You are all men, and may do as you will....” Garth’s words drifted off into unlit corners of the cellar. His face was still drawn with sleep, his hair matted from the tossing of an unaccustomed daylight slumber.

  Lorenz carved a peach into segments, pausing to sniff at each wedge with closed eyes before consuming it.

  “What matter a name, when there are those who don’t even know their fathers? You should feel fortunate,” he advanced.

  “This is all madness,” Wilf said, crouching sullenly, chin resting on a forearm. “Shouldn’t we remember something of this? You leading these...bandits?”

  “They’re not as they once were,” Garth replied sternly. “Nothing is as it once was.” He sighed raggedly. “You were barely a year old. Your brother was an infant when your mother died. Lorenz—you might recall being hefted by King Klann more than once. He used to turn you upside down—”

  “I recall a man with huge hands and a close-cropped black beard. I had nightmares about him.”

  “Ja, that was Klann.”

  “Did he ask you to rejoin his command?” Wilf asked.

  The question disarmed Garth. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. Why would I anyway—I—he understood my feelings when I abandoned the soldiering life.”

  “Did you hope your father would join with Klann again so that you might win an easy commission in this army, Wilfred?” Lorenz teased. “Would your desire to be a soldier even see you enlisting in the band that invaded your city?”

  “Shut up, Lorenz. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Or is it your passion to see the fragile flower Genya that so inflames you with—”

  “I said shut up!”

  “Enough,” Garth commanded. “Bitte.”

  “How come the two circles aren’t blacked out, Papa, on the shield,” Strom asked, pointing to the surcoat.

  “Ah,” the elder smith answered, thinking a moment. “For that you will have to wait until our guests arrive. This evening all will be known of Klann.” He ran a hand along the teakwood box, then appended cryptically: “For those who can believe....”

  The sons looked at each other quizzically but ventured not another word about the coming revelation. Wilf stood up and stretched.

  “You’re sure Genya’s all right,” he said, not a question but an effort at underscoring the assurance he had already been given.

  “Ja-ja,” Garth said indulgently. “As I said, Gonji can tell you better.”

  “Ever the exhibitionist—both of them!” Lorenz noted, his face brightening as the thought occurred. “They sound like a splendid match.”

  Wilf’s brow darkened, but he held his tongue and simply scowled at the floor.

  “I hear Gonji lost a fight at the castle—true, Lorenz?” Strom stroked his soft fringe of tawny beard, grinning vapidly.

  “So say the soldiers. Your slant-eyed friend’s image has tarnished somewhat, Wilfred. They say he was outdueled by the same captain who backed him down at the Provender on the day of the occupation.” Lorenz carefully wiped the knife he had been using, smiling catlike.

  But Wilf was unamused. He struggled to deal with the strange conflict inside him. Something troubled him about the business of Genya assisting Gonji at the demonstration. He felt betrayed, angered that he hadn’t been there. Yet he wished to be loyal to Gonji, and he was not altogether blind to Genya’s displays of brashness.

  “Gonji says...,” he began slowly, picking over his words, “that a wise warrior seldom reveals more than the leading edge of his strength. And he always holds a few tricks in reserve.”

  Lorenz snorted and shook his head.

  Garth was worried by Wilfred’s preoccupation with things of the military since the invasion and Gonji’s subsequent arrival, but there was, too, a small sense of pride in his middle son’s growing wisdom.

  “There were factors in the duel that weighed against Gonji, I think. But enough of that,” Garth said, waving a dismissing hand. “There are other things to think of. First, the evening meal. Then I must get ready for our guests. Wilfred, you may locate Gonji and bring him here. Lorenz—the Benedettos, if you please. And Strom....”

  Garth’s brow furrowed to see Strom shrink back in hope that he might evade the chore he felt coming.

  “When were you last at chapel, my young shepherd?”

  “Chapel? Uh—” Strom rubbed his neck. “What do you mean? When Father Dobret was here last month, maybe. Uh—why?”

  “Because the prophetess will be at vespers there now, I think. And Master Flavio is usually with her. You will bring them here, when they are done.”

  Strom winced. “Master Flavio? And Tralayn? Why can’t Lorenz—?”

  “Gehen Sie!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gonji sprang to his knees and slid the Sagami free of the scabbard. His eyes cleared in time to see Paille throw off the door bar to admit Wilf.

  “You hid yourself well,” Wilf said.

  Gonji groaned and lowered the sword, rubbing his tight, numb face. His head ached dully, and his body reminded him of the stress he’d placed on muscles he hadn’t challenged in some time. He bore it all stoically.

  “Konnichi wa. Good afternoon, Wilfred-san,” he said, replacing the Sagami.

  “Guten tag—good day. Wirfred again—your accent is getting worse instead of better.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. Paille, do you have a basin her
e anywhere?”

  The artist had flopped back onto the cot. Gonji roused him and repeated the question. Paille grumbled incoherently and shuffled downstairs to the millinery. Wilf sat as Gonji stretched lightly awhile and then leaned out the window to assess the day. Grayish light filled the room from a sky puffed with mounting clouds that had stacked themselves to the zenith.

  “Do you know this?” Gonji asked, holding out Genya’s scarf. Wilf took it silently. “She’s one helluva woman. Good luck, my friend.”

  The ice was broken, Wilf again feeling at ease with his Japanese friend and mentor. Being in Gonji’s presence, once again mindful of the samurai code of honor and loyalty, he experienced a creeping shame for the immaturity of his earlier suspicions and feelings of betrayal. He was soon listening intently as Gonji conveyed every detail of Genya’s circumstances and the events at the castle banquet, stopping just short of the blooding duel with Julian.

  Gonji continued with his stretching regimen in the tight quarters as he spoke. Paille returned with a sloshing ewer and empty basin, now wide awake, sputtering, and slamming about like a newly escaped bedlamite. Gonji washed, combed out his topknot and retied it. He scrubbed the bloodstains from the sleeveless tunic and hung it to dry. A crimson stain discolored the patch on his left side.

  “That looks bad,” Wilf observed.

  “Not so bad. But perhaps it’ll need some help to remain closed.” Gonji sighed, frowning. He donned his kimono and wrapped his obi tightly around his middle. This done, he placed his swords in the sash and found the shallow wound far more painful than it had been in the morning. It would never heal properly unaided.

  “So Genya says she’s being treated well?” Wilf persisted.

  “Hai.”