Black Pearl Dreaming

by K. Bird Lincoln

“Let’s stop at the next rest area,” Ben suddenly called out in a loud voice. The front of the van, or actually a thin panel at the front of the van, slid open, letting in the rhythmic wash of oncoming headlights. Still on the highway, then, still heading toward Dad’s backwater hamlet of a birthplace in the wilds of Aomori Prefecture.

  Oh, the driver. We hadn’t been introduced last night. A long, lush fall of black hair straight out of a Tresemme shampoo commercial indicated a woman, most likely.

  “Are we far enough away?” said the driver, showing her profile for an instant. Definitely a woman, much older than Ben.

  Ben cleared her throat and checked her phone. “It’s almost five a.m. If he hasn’t caught up with us by now, he hasn’t figured out where we’re going yet.”

  He? Does he mean Rockabilly or Ken?

  “Council knows,” said Pon-suma. Great. Everyone but Dad was awake. I liked the sound of a rest stop; my eyeballs were floating.

  “Maybe,” said the driver. “But they’ll still send Kennosuke.”

  “Tojo’s a hammer, not a diplomat,” Pon-suma agreed.

  “And Kennosuke brought them the Baku in the first place.” Ben smiled at me earnestly, as if she wanted to be friends. “Two Baku, actually. That was a lovely surprise.”

  Weirdest kidnapping, ever.

  “Are you going to tell me why you went to all this trouble for a trip to Herai-mura?” I asked.

  Ben and Pon-suma exchanged one of the most obvious you deal with this looks I’d ever seen. “Somebody tell me something,” I said with a yawn. “I’m willing to listen,” I said. “But I’m also willing to become a problem if you don’t start explaining.”

  The driver turned her head to speak again. “We need her on our side,” she said.

  “What do you know of Herai-mura?” Ben asked.

  “It’s a hick town in the northern wilds of Kanto where my father and his weird surname originated from.”

  Ben breathed in. “You know Jesus’s grave is there, right?”

  I blinked. “Jesus?”

  “Your father never explained any of this?”

  “Dad kept me ignorant of a lot of things.” I crossed my legs. I really, really needed a bathroom soon.

  “Well, there are some very strange customs started long ago in the current town of Shingo, or Herai-mura. A strange chant that sounds like Hebrew. They traditionally carried babies around in reed baskets. And there’s a grave there where Jesus of Nazareth is buried.”

  “What about that whole crucifixion on Golgotha thing?”

  “His brother,” said Pon-suma, completely serious.

  “Are you trying to distract me from this kidnapping with craziness?”

  Ben made an impatient waving gesture in front of her petite nose. “The word Herai itself is believed to be a Japanese Katakana distortion of the word ‘Hebrew.’ The whole Jesus grave thing was started in 1935 by a professor and the mayor of the town. The professor ‘discovered’ an ancient scroll about how Eoshua came to Japan to study, and ended up staying.”

  I rolled my eyes, shrugging my shoulders up to my ears. My tired brain couldn’t process this level of weirdness. And what did this have, like, anything to do with why they’d kidnapped me? I was going to get answers, but first I needed a bathroom.

  “Morioka rest stop ahead,” called the driver.

  “Okay,” said Ben.

  “Dad,” I said, gently rolling his shoulder. No response. What should I do? I had to get to a bathroom but I couldn’t carry Dad with me.

  Pon-suma took Dad’s pulse again, gently wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. He gave me a slow nod, full of grave promise. “No harm will come to your father in the next ten minutes,” he said.

  “I will stay in the van with Herai Akihito,” Ben cut in. “Midori-san, can you take her in?” She leveled a stare at me as intense as Ken’s most feral Kitsune expression. “If you do anything to call attention to us, I will drive off with your father.”

  “Of course you will,” I said, furiously trying to figure out a way to get a message to Ken or leave some kind of sign here at the rest stop. No phone, no money, and the threat of being separated from Dad forced my mind into useless circles.

  “And do you mind getting me a Mugi-cha and Konbu onigiri?” she added, as if we were just friends out on a jaunt.

  We pulled into a large parking lot at the top of a grassy hill bordered on one side by yatai food trailers selling yakisoba, teriyaki rice balls on a stick, squid grilled over charcoal, and round sweetbuns with a cookie crust called Melon Pan.

  Katakana and Kanji characters emblazoned on flags rippled in the light breeze, advertising even more non-breakfasty delights. A low building huddled at the far end of the lot, where a young couple and an elderly man loitered near the stairs up to the building’s entrance eating soft serve cones.

  Not my idea of a tempting breakfast, but then, the seaweed rice balls Ben expected us to bring her didn’t appeal to me, either.

  As soon as Midori parked the van, Ben slid open the side door. I pushed past her out of the van and raced across the parking lot to the stairs. Quickly confirming the hunched over Kanji for woman on a tempered-glass door, I let myself into a stall in the obsessively clean bathroom. Thankfully, it was Western style. There was no way I’d wrestle myself into the correct squat for a Japanese benjo this early in the morning.

  As I was washing my hands, Midori came in and checked her face in the mirror. She pursed her lips and applied a thin, paper slip to her nose and forehead, soaking up a thin layer of oil.

  She caught me watching and offered me a paper.

  I snorted after a cursory look at my reflection—yep, face still sleep-creased, hair flat and listless from recycled dry airplane air. “It’ll take more than rice paper to fix me up. When am I getting access to a shower?”

  Midori turned back to the mirror. Not a good sign. “I apologize,” she said, finally. “But don’t worry, dear. You have nothing to fear from Ben-chan or Pon-suma. Your father’s life is very precious. We must hurry, though. The Bringer will track us down quickly.”

  “Then what’s the point of this kidnapping?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and then shoved her makeup pouch toward me on the sill above the sinks. “That requires quite a deep knowledge of our background, the Kind in Japan, and the Council. If you can be patient a bit longer, your questions will be answered. There is another who can better explain. Here. There are some moisture wipes and eau de parfume in there that will make you feel fresher.”

  But she wasn’t getting off that easy. “What do you plan to do with us once we reach Herai-mura?”

  A trio of girls in navy skirts, white blouses, and horrible plaid bows barged into the bathroom.

  Midori’s relief at this interruption was almost comical. She escaped me and the question by retreating into a stall. I looked into the pouch, biting my lip.

  Ben, Pon-suma and Midori hadn’t done anything threatening beyond drugging Dad when he was agitated and they’d given me a certain amount of freedom here at the rest stop, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think I wasn’t in some kind of danger. Dad was adamant about not going north. I just didn’t know if that was the dementia talking or if he had good reason to stay away from his hometown.

  There were three of them and one of me. I didn’t count Dad, not in this state. I needed to contact Ken. If only I had Kwaskwi’s ability to turn into a blue jay, or Ken’s illusion, but all I had was a touching-phobia and some rice papers to take oil off my nose.

  I dug out the little wallet of papers enclosed in a beautifully printed washi paper of white rabbits on pink. There was an eyebrow pencil and lipstick underneath. Midori’s stall latch rattled. Quickly, I grabbed the eyebrow pencil and stuffed it into a pocket.

  The school girls burst out laughing, trading slangy phrases so quickly I could barely understand.

  “Ready to go?” Midori said, washing her hands. “I can buy you something. Do you eat Japanese food?”


  “Ah, yes.” Think. Think. There had to be way to leave a message for Ken without Midori realizing. I mentally scrolled through every Mission Impossible and Bourne Identity movie I could recall. Nothing. “You go ahead,” I said as innocently as I could manage.

  “No, I’ll wait for you.”

  Not letting me out her sight. There went my daring ‘write on a paper towel with the eyebrow pencil and leave it in the parking lot’ plan. Not that it was even viable. Who knew if Ken would even track us to this rest stop. And the towel would have blown away out in the parking lot, or been picked up by the legion of white-gloved old men employed for just that purpose.

  Stupid idea. If I were Ken, where would I think to look for some possible clue I could leave him?

  Coffee.

  I led the way out of the bathroom. The rest stop was divided into two sections—a crowded cafeteria smelling of curry and shoes, furnished with tables in tidy rows and a few not-so-tidy travelers, and a larger section filled with island displays of boxed treats used as omiyage, or souvenir gifts. There were black sesame sable cookies, green tea roll cake, pancakes shaped like red snapper and stuffed with red sweet bean paste, and so many different kinds of rice cracker senbei I almost stopped to take a taste from the acrylic sample-boxes at the edge of each island.

  But mine eyes had seen the glory of the small convenience store foods by the omiyage checkout counter—not one, but two entire display cases of various hot and cold canned coffee. I beelined for the hot case, Midori hustling after me. Just as I reached the last island of boxed cookies before the checkout, I tripped, sending an entire tower of pink sandwich castle cookies flying with an outstretched arm.

  Gasps and exclamation filled the air. I stood up. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “No, no,” said the yellow-aproned counter girl rushing over. “It’s totally and completely fine.” We stood there for an awkward moment, sharing realization of how not-fine it was, and then Midori heaved a sigh and bent to pick up a box.

  This caused even more agitation. The other counter girl joined the first. “No, no.” She started grabbing boxes left and right.

  I glanced at the hot coffee case with the eyebrow pencil gripped lightly between my fingertips. There were six different brands of canned hot lattes. I zeroed in on the Emerald Mountain label affixed to the shelf of the left most row. It sported a familiar, bordering-on-trademark-infringement green, chunky font and a mountain that instantly made me think of Mount Hood. In the white snow topping the mountain, I quickly drew an outline of a fish and in English letters wrote “Herai.” Then I picked up two cans of latte.

  “Ouch!” Very hot. I dropped them back in their row. Midori came over, and I turned to the cold case. She regarded me with suspicion. “Can I buy one of these?” I said, holding up an apricot soy latte from a Japanese maker. I held my breath, willing her not to look at the hot case, but all she did was grab the latte from my hands and make for the check out where the aproned girls had regrouped.

  They exchanged sympathetic looks with each other while Midori paid for my latte. It took a heroic effort not to keep glancing back at the hot case. We emerged out into the warm morning sun, and I stopped at the top of the steps, caught by the gorgeous view of a white-topped mountain rising in the distance. I’d thought Mt. Fuji reminded me of Mt. Hood, but this was a different mountain, and it was almost a perfect twin.

  Pon-suma was suddenly standing next to me, although I hadn’t seen him exit the van. He barred me from the bottom of the stairs with an outstretched arm, as if expecting me to make a break for it. “You need to see the Black Pearl.” A trickle of unease wound its way down my spine. The Black Pearl. Pon-suma was joining the cryptic announcement club. “You need to come to Herai Village. Trust me.” He grabbed my left forearm with his bare fingers.

  Oh, fudge nuggets. What’d he have to go and do that for?

  The mountain, parking lot, and blue sky slid down like dripping paint on a canvas. Ice slid through my veins, freezing muscles and making blood sluggish while the taste of salt coated my lips and gray static like a snow flurry blinded my vision.

  White. So much white, a familiar ache behind sightless retinas. Slowly, shadows formed on the unbroken expanse, and in the distance, darker shapes of what must be trees. I trudged across the snow under a cloudy sky. Harsh breathing reached my ears, and I looked over a shoulder to make sure my sister followed in the path I’d broken through the drifted white. Cold. Another step. Wind stung my exposed cheeks. Another step.

  Now it was night, and the sky burned with the icy fire of a million trillion stars. The forest was silver, glimmering in the bright night. My sister trudged behind as we entered the forest, the silver branches and leaves reflecting so much starlight that even under the canopy I could see. A river joined us, winding deeper into the forest, and I followed. Soon the trees became gold. Ahead appeared a peaked-roof house on stilts. Geometric patterns adorned the roof beams. On one side there was a mural of a stormy sky and on the other side a sunny sky.

  Excitement filled my veins. Eagerness for this home-coming made my footsteps faster as I climbed the step ladder. Inside a large room, an old woman hunched over a dying fire. Cradles suspended from the ceiling by ropes swayed in an invisible, rhythmic breeze all around her.

  The world spun, realigning on an off-kilter axis. A tiny flame, born of something other than the gold trees, the house, the rocking cradles, flickered to life in my belly. I stopped. A name joined the taste of salt in my mouth: Koi.

  This was Pon-suma’s dream fragment, a heart fragment pulsing with his very life spirit. So honest, like Ken’s forest-running fragment. Clean as the driven snow. There was a sense of danger in the creaking of the cradles, but also a vast patience in the gold forest.

  Ken had called him a wolf in some strange language. This was something different than the werewolf legends I was familiar with. But I could consume this winter forest fragment; already my little flame hungered to burn more of the punishing cold. I could draw Pon-suma’s life-force into me through this fragment, gaining the temporary strength to physically overpower Ben and the driver.

  But what then? I jerked away from Pon-suma, gasping like I’d run a mile, bowing my head so travel-tangled hair covered my face as I rested elbows on the stair’s railing. My temples began to beat with a hard pulse, the start of a migraine vise.

  Could I drive myself back to Tokyo? Pon-suma had kidnapped me, true, but he’d just willingly shared a dream fragment from the true heart of himself. I felt no ill-will in that dream, just a cosmic patience and an implacable sense of belonging to that snow-covered land that made my chest ache. Now he stood waiting for me to make a decision, hands curled loosely at his sides as if to reinforce he wouldn’t touch me again, indicating he’d known exactly what he was doing by touching me in the first place.

  The Council’s Rockabilly and the monk had regarded me only with suspicion. They wouldn’t have touched me bare-skinned to save a life. The feeling was mutual. Just because I trusted Ken, didn’t mean I trusted his bosses.

  Suddenly the little plot I’d contrived, marking a fish on a can coffee shelf label, seemed utterly ridiculous and a shameful heat flooded my neck and back. Mission Impossible, I was not. I was out of my depth here in Japan, but I’d been out of my depth back in Portland facing a homicidal maniac and a sea dragon spirit. It wasn’t Ken who waltzed with the sea dragon. I was the one who set it free.

  Why am I getting so angry? My hands were clenching and unclenching into fists and Pon-suma was watching me like I was a marshmallow too long in a microwave.

  I had eaten a small portion of his dream fragment. The hair at his temples started to curl from sweat. Did he look pale?

  Midori came out of the store, bent over and picked up my apricot soy latte from where I must have dropped it. “Here,” she said.

  What cruel torture. As if anything containing apricot flavor could assuage my deep, deep need for roasted espresso beans. I took it anyway and nodded. “We’
ll go with you to Herai Village for that explanation, but I’m not promising anything. And if you try to drug Dad again I will suck living energy from your soul. I don’t like that you kidnapped us.”

  “Understandable,” said Pon-suma at the same time Midori said, “At Herai village you will understand why we needed to get Herai Akihito quickly away from the Council.”

  Pon-suma strode across the parking lot, now bathed in bright sun. I tipped my face to the sky, drinking in the warmth, trying to feel something other than alone and angry and scared.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For the next couple hours in the van, Midori and Ben kept up intermittent conversation that was jarringly banal. Apparently there was a Youtuber called “Susuru” who filmed himself eating ramen every day at a different Tokyo restaurant. You would think people who kidnapped other people would use their time more productively. Like for ninja training, or world domination. Yikes. Meanwhile, Dad dozed on and off and Pon-suma stayed in the back, keeping an eye on Dad’s condition.

  After the fifth time he picked up Dad’s wrist and used a phone to time his pulse, I decided my campaign of disdainful silence wasn’t causing any guilt. “So are you a nurse or something?”

  Pon-suma gave a little shrug. “Nursing assistant at a senior home.”

  I pictured a bunch of people like Ken, Rockabilly, and the Snow Lady sitting around in wheelchairs. “A Kind home?”

  Now he frowned a bit, eyebrows knitting together. Oh. Stupid question, I guess. Pon-suma shook his head. “He is not lucid.”

  “Dad dozes a lot.”

  “The sedative should have worn off by now. Yukiko-sama did this?”

  “Yukiko? The Snow Lady Council member back at Yasukuni shrine? No. He’s been this way for four years. The doctors diagnosed him with Alzheimer’s. That was before I found out he was a Baku refusing to eat dreams.”

  “Refusing?” Pon-suma was not happy. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Ben,” he called out. “Problem.”

  Ben turned around, saw Pon-suma’s expression and crawled into the back of the van. “We’ve just passed Ninohe-machi. Only forty minutes until we reach Herai-mura and lunch.”