“Quicker!” she cried.
Between glaring brilliance and strident bronze notes, afternoon turned to dusk.
Anchin gave a hoarse yell and flung himself down, his hands scrabbling at violently torn paper strewn like fallen leaves across the floor.
“Quicker,” Kiyohime gasped. “Quicker, quicker!”
The crashing light could not blind nor the booming bell deafen her fast enough to blot out the raw anguish. It didn’t matter. When the serpent consumed Anchin’s spirit, this pain would end too.
In the storm-thrashed darkness, Anchin staggered, his arms aching with the effort of plunging the heavy striker against the temple bell. His breath came in ragged gulps, laboring in his too-tight chest. He was glad for it, glad he had insisted on ringing the bell. It was a token of penance, this final effort.
Bronze notes thundered to the skies, summoning the gods and spirits to come and bear witness. But it was something else that heard and came, not a god or spirit, a smoldering mote of rage. It coalesced, drawing shape and dimension from each stroke of wood on metal.
Kiyohime recognized it, this mote. It was herself reflected in a mirror shaped like a serpent. She called out a welcome and felt the rushing reply: Soon, soon. I am coming.
Anchin fell to his knees, panting. A nacre vial slipped unnoticed from his sleeve and rolled beneath the bell’s rim. He dragged himself up, clinging to the striker, and hauled it back once more.
But Kiyohime had seen the pearly glint out of the corner of Anchin’s eye. “What is that?”
A scroll of memories unfurled, mislaid before in a run of “quicker”s:
Descending a cramped stairway into Dojoji’s neglected cellar. Fashioning a brittle posy from dusty jars and pots, desiccated flowers that had once been the deep red-purple of twilight; a spray of shriveled berries, green as envy; a gray root bulb shaped like a baby’s hand curled into a fist. And steeping these into a milk-white elixir drained into an iridescent vial—the same vial that rolled, empty, beneath the temple bell.
“What did you do?” she cried. A princess’s knowledge of herb lore could not match a learned priest’s, but it was enough to recognize the nightshade and the moonseed, enough to know death when she saw it.
“I was already coming to you.” Silvery notes chimed in her head. “You only hastened me along.”
Her chest ignited to blazing agony. She writhed, burning but unburned, brimful of fire. The fire demanded release, like she knew it must, the same as before. It breached the cage of her body, another verse reprised. But when it crested and broke, there the script changed. It didn’t singe off her limbs and flay her skin, didn’t remake her into armored scales and sinuous coils. It streamed from her eyes in a scald of tears.
Kiyohime wept. For herself, for Anchin, for their squandered lives. And most of all, for every lost moment of their love.
The bell pealed, a sonorous crash of sound.
A fragment of memory stirred, echoes of a duplicate bell. Buried and somnolent, Alan awakened, resurfaced. The tolling in his head, the bell only he could hear, it rang out in a trio of unisons—the bell of the future, this one from their past, and the inescapable din in his head. He recognized it now. It was Anchin, his voice, his spirit, finding Kiyohime’s spirit, returning as he had promised to do.
A thought away, the serpent sundered apart the temple’s gate, rushing toward the shōro.
“Stop! Go back,” Kiyohime-Alan, both of them as one, implored it.
But it was mindless, heedless of all but its terrible purpose.
“Why can’t I stop it? Why is it still coming?”
A trill of chiming notes sounded as Anchin crumpled beneath the bell’s rim. “We are spectators of a tragedy already played through,” his spirit-voice replied. “The events are set; only the repercussions may be rewritten.”
The serpent arrived in an inferno gale, pouring over the shōro’s topmost stair.
“How can I bear to watch myself kill you?”
“What transpires here has been and must be, but you are not obliged to stay. Say ‘quicker’ and this moment will end.”
Alan felt their malice wind around the bell, saw through Anchin’s eyes the glow of its fury redden the bronze. One word and he could escape the coming horror. It was ready on his tongue.
But that was the reckless impulse of a bygone life. Must he squander another thousand years reprising the same lesson? He listened to the memory of sound still trembling in the air and found the conviction he had lacked before.
“These moments are the dregs of a precious cup wretchedly spilled,” he said. “Even if they are bitter, I won’t waste them again. I won’t leave you.”
Within the blistering cage of metal, Anchin lifted his head. “Kiyo?”
She stretched her hand to him, a reflected echo of a moment yet to be. “Forgive me. I should have trusted you.”
Without hesitation, Anchin took her hand. “There is nothing to forgive.” They came together as the bronze bell flashed white-hot around them.
Reunited at last, they did not notice when the end came in a molten cascade of metal, when Anchin’s body blackened and turned to ash. Their union was perfect, one heart, one spirit joined. But though it was perfect, it was not endless.
The wheel turned, inexorable, and its next pass sundered them apart. But even in parting they were joyous. Though it might take a thousand years, they knew they would touch again. And this time, it would be forever.
Ryoseki sat in the darkened shōro and pressed the illuminate button on his watch. He knew without having to consult the glowing display that it was almost midnight, but he found it soothing to watch the timepiece’s measured movements. The twelve hour cycle was etched into him, noon and midnight, in the rhythm of his pulse, his breath, each blink of his eyes. The bell had tolled for him, a steady, predictable cadence to mark the days of his life.
As a child it had troubled him, the incessant ringing that no one else could hear. But then he had come to Dojoji and the bell had spoken to him. It told him of the karmic debt he owed to remedy the course of three wayward fates: his, Anchin’s, and Kiyohime’s.
The second hand swept to the apex of its circuit. Midnight. It seemed to linger for an extra beat, a prolonged second, before starting its next circuit. And for the first time in his life, there was no ringing, no peal of bells to mark it.
Ryoseki closed his eyes and listened to the silence.
THE VERY NEXT DAY
Jody Lynn Nye
The first thing people noticed on the busy New York street was the broadsheet newspaper clutched in the small man’s hand. That was odd, because his costume would surely have set him apart anywhere outside of Lapland, or wherever winter ruled. It ought to have stood out on a fine day in September like a sore thumb. His coat, which reached over his round belly nearly to his knees, was made of fur, russet red like a deer’s hide, and lined with longer white fur. A hood with a long peak lay on his shoulders, revealing wavy white hair worn very long and a shining white moustache and beard that seemed as if they had been growing for centuries, if not decades. His boots of black leather shone like mirrors, as did the silver buckle of his black belt. Normally, they would not expect to see a man dressed as Santa Claus sooner than December, but today everyone in Manhattan felt a bit indulgent and nostalgic.
“Nice outfit,” the man in the newspaper kiosk said, glancing up. “Giving the suit an airing today?”
“Why, no,” “Santa Claus” said. “This is what I wear all of the time.”
The newspaper vendor shrugged. A harmless nut, but he looked like the real thing, and that made him feel good. He pushed the flat wool cap back on his head and scratched his scalp. Like a boy again.
“Just in town for the day?”
Santa slapped his chest with his hand and looked up at the tall buildings—the tallest in the world. He felt a thrill to see them. “Why, yes! It’s a fine city. I never do get to see them in daylight. Always by moonlight or starlight.” He g
lanced down at the paper in his hand.
The vendor nodded toward the newspaper. “Nice piece of writin’ there, ain’t it?”
Santa nodded. “Truly. I would be convinced, if I were a child.”
Something in the way the old man said the last word sounded disappointed. The newsman gave him an encouraging grin. “Everyone was, if you ask me. Wanna copy of today’s paper?”
“No, thank you,” the old man said. “I haven’t finished with this one yet.” He folded it up and put it in his pocket. Then he eyed the newsman, counted the gaps in his smile. “You should take better care of your teeth, you know.”
The newspaper vendor felt his face go red. “Don’t you make personal comments to me, geezer!”
“But you promised me,” “Santa” said. “In your letter. If I brought you that stuffed leather horse, you’d clean your teeth every day, just as your mother asked you.”
The newsman’s mouth dropped open. “But that was forty years ago!”
“A promise is a promise.”
“Yeah.” He ran his tongue over the remaining teeth in his mouth. “I will, Santa. I really will. Thanks. And thanks for the horse. I really loved it. I gave it to my first daughter when she was born.”
“You were a good boy, Louis,” Santa said, offering his free hand for a shake. Louis clutched the leather glove.
How absolutely marvelous that he knew everything there was about a child just by looking at him, Santa thought as he turned away from the wondering eyes. Then he paused, confused. How did I know all that?
What was going on inside his head was not nearly so amazing as what was outside it. New York was a place of wonders! Santa gazed around him in wonder, taking it all in. Men and women wore clothing made of the most exquisite fabrics, soft and evenly woven and dyed in colors that had heretofore existed only in rainbows and spring meadows. Gentlemen in brilliant white linen jackets tipped their flat straw hats to ladies whose long, shining hair was piled up in a pumpkin shape on their heads. The streets themselves were surprisingly clean. Men pushing barrels on wheels stopped to sweep and scoop up refuse deposited by horses.
He had expected to be overwhelmed by the odor of sewage and rotten vegetation on top of the smell of coal fires that filled the air. Instead, there was a new scent, a sharp burning scent. Horses drew carriages through the streets as well as on narrow metal rails, but over his head and in the windows of the many, many shops, tiny lights encased in glass shone. They were not candles, they were light bulbs. The smell was that of electricity. Such things did not exist in many places yet, that he knew, but this was a city that had to have everything new as soon as possible. He walked between tall, stone buildings with shining bronze doors. Fantastic, swooping designs were pressed into them. Art Nouveau, they called it. Beautiful. New World, new art. New music poured from the doors of clubs.
From a point at the very tip of the island, he saw in the harbor a magnificent statue, a woman facing away from him, with a torch in her hand raised in welcome. He did not have to see her face to know that she was Liberty herself. She had been a gift. Santa had not given her, but he knew when something had been tendered with love or respect. He felt as if he had been given a present, to see something that represented such an ideal.
Children who had been looking out into the harbor noticed the small man in their midst. They broke away from their parents and came tearing toward him.
“Santa!” “Santa Claus!” “Sinterklaas!”
They danced around him, laughing, and he shared their delight. Little girls in bows tied on top of their heads, boys in knee pants, urchins without shoes. They hugged him, tugged on his coat, tried to clamber into his arms, though he was scarcely taller than they were. They felt in his pockets and came up with handfuls of hard candies wrapped in bright cellophane. Their eyes were alight with happiness.
“What are you doing here?”
“Where are your reindeer? Can I say hello to Dancer?”
“Mama said you would bring me a train for Christmas if I am good. Will you?”
“Well, well, well, we will see!” Santa said, chucking a chin here and offering a hug there. “Are you helping your mother with the chores? She needs help now that your new brother has arrived.”
“Aw,” said Steven, the boy who wanted the train. “I guess.”
“Good for you! Then you will be on my good list for this Christmas!”
Steven glowed with pride.
With every child’s question, Santa felt himself growing stronger and more alive. How marvelous it was to interact with the little ones whom he usually glimpsed asleep in their beds, if at all. He knew of the dreams they had and wishes they made. They were a joy awake. He loved to be with them all.
They all knew everything about him, and because they did, he knew everything about them. Glynnis had a lisp that made her friends tease her. Fridur had recently come to the United States with his parents from the Netherlands. They were poor, but making their way. His mother took in washing, and his father worked on the docks. Evelyn was from a wealthy family, but her brother had just died of typhoid. All of them had been good except Mick. He was cruel to animals. Santa regarded him with stern pity. He did not have to say anything. The boy shrank away from his bright gaze. He knew too much about Santa to imagine that his sins were hidden from him.
What did Santa know about himself? More memories came to him as he spoke with the children. He lived far away, where it was cold. They were unclear as to where, as each of them had a different idea. He drove a sleigh with reindeer. He made toys. Not all by himself. Little men helped him. They loaded the sleigh on Christmas Eve, and he drove all over the world. He brought toys for good children, and punished bad ones—no, he brought rocks and coal for bad ones. His assistants did not beat children any more. He was glad of that.
“How do you go all the way around the world in just one night?” a boy with big brown eyes asked. His name was Julian. He was ten, and his grandfather had been a war hero.
“My reindeer are very swift,” Santa said. “I have worked out the very best route possible. I am always home by dawn.” He knew in his soul that it was absolutely true. The other children nodded eagerly.
“But it’s impossible to go to every house with children ! There are millions of them!
“It takes magic,” Santa explained. “You do believe in magic, don’t you?”
Julian crossed his arms. “My daddy said that magic doesn’t exist. Just science.”
“Isn’t there room for both in your heart?”
“But you think with your head, not your heart!”
Santa tapped his own temple. “A smart person knows that he should listen to all the parts of his body.”
“Who brings you presents, Santa?”
What a good child, that little girl with long yellow braids tied with blue ribbons. Her name was Caroline. She was just eight.
He stroked her hair, marveling at the silky strands. “Why, you do, children. Every smile, every laugh, every thank you is a gift to me.”
“That’s funny,” she said.
“Why do you believe in me?” he asked. “Is it because of this newspaper article?” He showed them the paper from his pocket. Caroline shook her head.
“Oh, no, I always believed in you. Daddy and Mama and Granddad and Gamma say you are real. But I know I heard you in my parlor last Christmas.”
Santa remembered; the memory as vivid in his mind as in hers. “When I left you the doll with golden braids, just like yours.”
“Yes!”
“So you was just pretendin’ to be asleep!” Mick said.
“No, she was really asleep,” Santa explained. “She was dreaming. You can hear me in your dreams. Sometimes you can see me, too.” He knew that Mick had. The boy had also dreamt of those helpers that punished bad children. Mick believed, even if he didn’t behave.
“Come away, sweetheart,” said a slender woman in a white shirtwaist, a tiny blue jacket trimmed with maroon braids and a gra
ceful, long blue skirt that swept the pavement. A tiny hat made of feathers was perched upon her hair. “We must get you to school.”
Caroline didn’t want to let go of his hand. “But, Mommy, it’s Santa Claus!”
Mary, that was her name, detached Caroline’s hand. “No, sweetheart, just someone dressed up as him.” She looked Santa up and down. Her expression was disapproving. “Good day, sir.”
“Good day,” Santa said. He watched them go, feeling his heart grow heavy.
Mary thought he wasn’t real. Her mind embraced something hard that was pushing her away from the belief that she had had as a child herself. Though she stopped short of telling Caroline Santa Claus wasn’t real, she . . . doubted. He felt his flesh thinning on his bones. Skepticism ate away at his very body. It hurt. He put a hand to his aching ribs. He had never felt pain before. It was unpleasant.
“Don’t worry,” Evelyn said, slipping her hand into his. She looked up trustingly into his eyes. “I believe in you.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Santa said, touched.
So did her father, who tipped his hat as he came to retrieve his daughter. Peter’s eyes were filled with wonder.
That abated the ache a bit more, but it didn’t rebuild his flesh completely. The children drifted away, some to school, others to hang around the waterfront. They were happy he was there. They felt comfort in his presence. They did him good as well.
He lit his pipe and took a deep breath of the fragrant tobacco smoke. Life felt good. He must see more of the city, and speak to more children.
As he was turning away, an urchin on the docks who had hung back from the group ran up and kicked him in the shin.
“I hate you!” he said, fury in his filthy face. “All I wanted was a pocketknife! You didn’ leave me nothin’ but a dirty piece of coal. Said I been a bad boy!”
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