The Betrayal of the Living

by Nick Lake

  Miyajima,The Inland Sea

  TARO COULD SEE from some way off that there was something strange about the island. The colour of the hillside, as it drew near, was not green but a sort of dull brown, and it seemed smoother than it should be.

  He had an idea what it was.

  He had an idea what it was, but he pushed it down, buried it. Buried it as—

  No. He would not allow it to be true.

  When they drew into the shallow bay, though, he could no longer deny the evidence of his eyes.

  They tied the boat to a spar and got out, feet splashing in the cold, clear water. Taro hugged himself, looking up at the hillside. The temple complex was untouched, it seemed, but the nearby villages had not been so lucky.

  There was a fisherman nearby, mending creels on the beach. ‘What happened?’ asked Taro.

  The fisherman looked up. ‘The rain, that’s what happened.’ He gestured behind him to the hillside. Smooth brown mud ran from high up all the way down to the sea. At places, from out of the choking morass, the ribs of roofs protruded, the odd treetop, startling green.

  ‘Were many people...’ Taro trailed off, tongue stilled by horror.

  ‘Some,’ said the fisherman. ‘One thing for it, there’s no need for burial.’ He spat. Then he sighed. ‘But most were at the temple for prayers. We were fortunate.’

  Taro wasn’t sure he would put it like that. He knew this was his fault. That the rain he had created had fallen here, too, more of it than the place was used to, for the season, and that had made the mud give way.

  He felt heartsick.

  ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Did any of your...’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the fisherman. ‘I ain’t got family. I had a hut, but now the hut is gone, I sleep in my fishing boat.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Shusaku. ‘What happened to the hut? I don’t understand.’

  Taro sometimes forgot that his mentor was blind, such was his skill at sensing the presence of people, hearing the beating of their blood. But the mud slide was cold, Taro realized, and there was no blood beating in it. Those who had been caught in it were dead.

  ‘It’s a mud slide,’ said Hana. ‘The village has been destroyed.’

  ‘Oh, Taro,’ said Shusaku, voice filled with pity. ‘This is not your fault.’

  The fisherman looked up sharply. ‘Why would it be his fault?’

  Shusaku straightened. ‘He... ah... prayed for rain, when we were on the mainland. There was a terrible drought. Now he feels guilty because the rainfall has caused so much damage. He thinks... he thinks he made it happen.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the fisherman. ‘Well, I don’t think the gods listen to those kinds of prayers.’

  You’d be surprised, thought Taro.

  ‘Was there drought here, too?’ asked Hiro. ‘Before the mud slide, I mean.’

  The fisherman nodded. ‘Terrible, it was. I saw one man pour seawater on his rice fields. The plants will die, o’ course. Desperate times.’

  ‘And now?’

  Taro understood what Hiro was doing, understood too that it was useless, it was not enough, it would never absolve him.

  ‘Now we have water,’ said the fisherman, nodding. ‘But that’s no consolation to those as are under the mud, is it?’

  No. No, it isn’t.

  Hiro bowed, his expression pained. ‘You’re right, of course.’

  Now the fisherman examined his creel, appeared to judge it satisfactory, and put it down on the sand. ‘But you didn’t come for this, did you? I imagine you want the temple.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hana.

  The fisherman pointed up the hillside. ‘Well, you can’t miss it. It’s the only thing that ain’t covered in mud.’

  CHAPTER 23

  IT SEEMED THAT the monks of Miyajima were less familiar than those of Mount Hiei with creatures of darkness, because none of them questioned Shusaku’s story that he was sick, and needed to rest in the shade of the inner courtyards. The shallow waters of the bay were known for their healing properties – it wasn’t unusual, Shusaku had told them on their way over, for pilgrims to come seeking a cure.

  What was unusual was the number of guards on the outskirts of the complex. Lord Tokugawa had been right – there were far too many armed men here, most of them samurai. They wore a mon Taro didn’t recognize, and they all had katanas at their waists. The cost of the swords alone, let alone the men wielding them, would be astronomical.

  It must be here, Taro thought. It has to be.

  When they entered the temple proper, though, the atmosphere shifted. Samurai gave way to plainly dressed monks, most of them absorbed in meditation, or moving off in purposeful ways, holding spades and other implements. Going to try to dig out the homes buried by the mud. Some of the people were obviously refugees from the village, staying here until their houses could be recovered from the mud or rebuilt. There were sleeping mats, cooking utensils. Whole families sitting against the low walls, children playing in the courtyards.

  Despite this, there was a general air of sobriety and calm. An older monk greeted them warmly and listened sympathetically as Taro explained Shusaku’s illness, adding that he and Hana sought an audience with the abbot, to talk to him about the possibility of their granting some money to the temple. The old monk showed them where Shusaku could sit in the shadows, and explained to Taro and Hana where they could find the abbot.

  While Shusaku sheltered from the sun with Hiro, Taro went with Hana deeper into the temple complex, following the directions they had been given.

  The buildings stood on the sloping hillside above the famous torii gate, practically a small town, with dormitories, shrines, courtyards, and a library. Nature, though, had been allowed to continue between the walls, so that there were gnarled trees and bushes everywhere. As they passed the library, they caught a glimpse of the many scrolls inside.

  ‘At Miyajima,’ said Hana, ‘they hold the originals of some of the oldest works of literature in Japanese.’

  Taro glanced momentarily at the scrolls. ‘Oh, right,’ he said. He could still feel the ball against his side, and overlaid on the corridors and gardens of the temple complex were images that his imagination created for him, of floating bodies, drowned, bloated.

  I did that, he thought. It was an idea he couldn’t get used to.

  ‘Philistine,’ said Hana, and he grunted. Then she stopped, taking his hands. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know your mind is occupied with other things. But, Taro – it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘It was my fault,’ he said. They were standing underneath a pine tree that was growing in the centre of a courtyard. ‘I made it rain, and the rain caused the flood. I made the mud slides. I killed all those people.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known. You were trying to help. To do the right thing.’

  ‘So?’ said Taro. ‘That’s how I got Heiko killed. My mother. Even your father. If I wasn’t trying to do the right thing, they would all be alive.’

  Hana closed her eyes. ‘My father deserved to die,’ she said. ‘And the others... the fault lies with him, and Kenji Kira. Not with you.’

  Taro sighed. He didn’t believe her, not entirely, but of course he wanted to. He was a little worried about Kenji Kira, in truth. The cruel general’s body had disappeared from Mount Hiei before the final battle with Lord Oda. One of the monks claimed to have seen it get up and walk away, but that was just overactive imagination, or hysteria about the threat from Lord Oda’s forces, Taro was sure of it. The dead didn’t walk.

  At least, they hadn’t until recently.

  Taro frowned. He had the feeling that some profound realization was just eluding him. Then he pushed away thoughts of the past, and of his guilt.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s try to find the sword. The monks believe that Shusaku is sick, but it will get harder to explain the longer he doesn’t go out in the light.’

  They passed through a hall in which they had to skirt round an enormous sand mandala, showing
the five realms of existence, and then through another in which stood a tall gold Buddha, the roof open to allow its head through. They were no longer sure they were going the right way, so when they came across a young acolyte sweeping the floor, they asked him. He pointed to a door just behind him, then turned back to his sweeping.

  Taro opened the door, letting Hana through first. They found themselves in a small room, lit by candles. An old man sat on the bare floor. Taro cast his eyes about but could see no sword – in fact, he could see very little at all. The walls were unadorned wood, and there was no furniture. As Taro’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the man on the floor was not just old – he was ancient. As wrinkled as a tortoise, he had fine, pure white hair that flowed over his shoulders, and a beard that reached almost to the ground. He had his eyes closed, and Taro wondered for a moment if he was dead.

  ‘You wish to make a donation, I hear,’ said the old man suddenly, without opening his eyes. His voice was like the breeze in dry leaves. ‘And yet, as you can see, we lead a simple existence.’

  ‘Your gold Buddha could buy rice for the entire country,’ said Hana.

  The abbot opened his eyes, smiling. ‘That is true,’ he said. ‘But I tend to find that the hungrier people are, the more superstitious they become. Do you think the people would accept food, if they knew the Buddha had been melted down to pay for it?’

  Hana let out a breath. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘So,’ said the abbot, unclasping his hands, which had been held together in the mudra of meditation. ‘Why are you really here? From what I have been told, your older companion’s skin is marked with the Heart Sutra – which suggests to me that he fears evil spirits, and more than that, knows them to be real. The other boy has the muscle and stance of a wrestler. You’ – he turned to Taro – ‘carry a hidden sword under your cloak, and you, girl, speak like a noblewoman. I don’t think I have ever heard of stranger travel companions. Have you come to kill me?’

  ‘No,’ said Taro. ‘We really have come to talk about a donation. Or... an exchange.’

  The abbot stood – or rather, he was standing. There was no transition between the sitting and the standing up, no motion that Taro could see. He was just cross-legged, and then he was on his feet. ‘And what is it you think I can offer you?’ he said. ‘Forgiveness?’

  Taro flinched. Could the abbot see into his soul, see his pain over the drowned village?

  ‘Kusanagi,’ said Hana, bold as always. ‘We want Kusanagi.’

  The abbot’s eyes flickered; the closest, Taro assumed, he came to showing surprise. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘How do you know we have it?’

  Taro shrugged. ‘We were told that the sea dragon took it, after the last Heike emperor drowned with his fleet. This is the shrine to the sea dragon. And you have so many samurai on guard. More than a temple needs.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the abbot, nodding. ‘A clever deduction. So. You have come seeking the most famous sword in Japan. The sword that belonged to Susanoo, and that Amaterasu his sister granted to the emperors of her line. Perhaps the most priceless treasure in this entire land, the possession of which could swing the balance of power at the very highest level. What on earth do you propose to exchange for it?’

  Taro stepped forward. ‘What if I told you I had something that belonged to the Buddha himself?’ he asked. ‘Something magical?’

  ‘I would say that you were mistaken,’ said the abbot. ‘None of the original treasures – the Book of the Dead, the Eye of the Tiger jewel – ended up in Japan. They all went to Tibet, and to China.’

  ‘And one was sent from China to Japan,’ said Taro.

  The abbot blinked. ‘The ball?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But... it’s a legend. It doesn’t— it cannot—’

  Taro reached into his cloak and drew out the ball. It sat thrumming in his hand, alive with power. The abbot came closer, to look at it. When he saw the clouds floating under the glass, the sphere of the earth beneath them, he took a long, deep breath. ‘What does it do?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Taro. ‘But it can control the weather. It won’t control people. I think it won’t allow you to do bad things. It belonged to the Buddha, after all.’ He didn’t say that it would allow its bearer to control a vampire, as long as that vampire had been turned by the person holding the ball, and thus had the other’s blood in their veins.

  It would have led to too many awkward questions.

  ‘And you would offer me this – one of the world’s greatest treasures – in return for Kusanagi?’

  Taro nodded.

  ‘Why? What does the sword mean to you?’

  ‘There’s a dragon, near Edo.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘It’s killing people, burning villages... The shogun wants it killed, and I said I would try. Kusanagi is the only sword that has ever killed a dragon.’

  ‘Taro is very brave,’ said Hana, and was that a tiny note of bitterness in her voice? ‘I believe he can do it. With the right weapon.’

  The abbot nodded. ‘I see.’ He peered at Taro. ‘Yet you do not want to kill the dragon because of the burned villages, or because you are brave. You are not so selfless.’ Taro opened his mouth to protest, but the abbot raised his hand to cut him off. ‘I am sure that is part of your motivation,’ he said. ‘But it’s not all of it. There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  ‘Taro?’ said Hana. She was looking at him thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Taro. He rubbed his eyes. ‘I want the reward, so that I can marry Hana.’ He turned to her. ‘I love her, but she deserves a husband with land. And money.’

  ‘But I don’t need those—’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ said Taro. ‘But you’ve never been hungry, not really. You’ve never been poor.’

  The abbot was nodding; Hana was staring at Taro with a strange mixture of tenderness and anger. ‘I understand,’ said the abbot. ‘You feel you must deserve her.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Taro. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  Hana shook her head. ‘But, Taro, you already deserve me, you—’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  The abbot raised his hand again. ‘Let us leave that question aside for the moment.’ He reached out and touched the ball, just once, very softly. ‘I thank you for showing me this,’ he said. ‘It is difficult to surprise a man of my age, but I certainly didn’t think I would ever see an object that belonged to the Buddha himself. Unfortunately, however, I cannot help you.’

  ‘You won’t exchange the sword for it?’ said Taro.

  ‘No,’ said the abbot. ‘You don’t understand. The problem is that we don’t have the sword. We never have.’

  ‘So then where is it?’ asked Shusaku.

  They were sitting on the headland, looking out to sea. The sun had set a while ago, dragging the light from the world, like an outgoing tide. Now the torii gate in the bay below them rose from grey mist, and the hillside spilled into the sea on either side like black lava, cooling to solidity as it hit the water.

  ‘The abbot doesn’t know,’ said Taro. ‘He understood why we came here – he had also heard the story that the sea dragon took Kusanagi when the Heike and their emperor drowned.’

  ‘Then why all the samurai?’ asked Shusaku.

  ‘Apparently, as the fisherman said who brought us here, there is a terrible pirate crew operating from near here. The abbot said there were stories of a ship of dead men.’

  ‘The dead again,’ said Shusaku. ‘Something is happening, and I don’t like it.’ He paused. ‘Did the abbot say if the sword had ever been here?’

  ‘He says no. As far as he knew it was with the shogun at Edo, no matter what the rumours may say.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Shusaku, ‘that it may all be a malicious rumour, spread by those who wish to see the shogun dethroned.’

  ‘You believe that?’ said Hiro, surprised.

  ‘No,’ said Shusaku. �
��But anything is possible.’

  Hiro was looking at Taro. ‘If it’s not here, and assuming that is a fake in Edo, then where is it?’

  ‘The abbot thinks it must still be where it fell into the sea. Where the Heike were defeated.’

  ‘Shirahama?’ said Hiro.

  Shusaku might have been shocked – it was difficult to tell, given that he had no eyes. But he leaned back on his hands. ‘You’re telling me that the key to claiming the throne of Japan has been in Shirahama bay all this time – the very place we escaped from two years ago, to save your life?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ admitted Taro.

  ‘My gods,’ said Shusaku. ‘It all connects. The prophecy, the sword... Didn’t you say, too, that there’s a wreck in the bay where no one will dive?’

  Taro stared at him. ‘Of course. You think it’s one of the Heike ships?’

  ‘I think it may be,’ said Shusaku. ‘It would explain a lot, no? What if it was the boy emperor’s ship? Such a wreck might well be cursed – and certainly it’s feasible that people would believe it to be. Even if the reasons were lost in time.’

  ‘Gods,’ said Hana. ‘So we have to go to Shirahama?’

  ‘Again,’ said Taro. He’d been back the previous year, looking for the Buddha ball, finding only his mother’s ghost. He felt dizzy at the idea of how close he might have been to the legendary sword Kusanagi, how much time he could have saved if he had looked for it. He had even dived the cursed wreck!

  ‘Good,’ said Hana. ‘I would like to see where Taro was born.’ She smiled at him – he thought it might be the first time she had really smiled since they left the monastery at Mount Hiei.

  ‘I feel,’ said Hiro, ‘that I should mention one small problem.’

  They all turned to look at him – even Shusaku, who could hear where Hiro was sitting.

  ‘What?’ said Taro.

  ‘Lord Tokugawa said that the dragon of the sea took Kusanagi, after the boy emperor was killed. Maybe that was at Shirahama or it wasn’t, but if it was, then there could be a dragon guarding the sword.’

  Taro nodded slowly. ‘So... I need Kusanagi to kill the dragon of the mountain, because no other weapon can prevail. But to get to Kusanagi I have to get past another dragon.’