Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  He decided to do away with uncertainty. With a flourish, he drew himself up. “I am Ishikawa-no-Yoshi, hatamoto to Lord Satake, son of sensei Takeda of the Ishikawa dojo! I am a veteran of nineteen duels and eleven battles. I challenge whoever hides among the bushes to step forward and test my blade!”

  Yoshi’s guttural voice rang out against the dark forest and he heard a hint of an echo before his challenge fell silent. He waited, his gaze flitting along the tree-line, his ears straining for the slightest sound.

  Nothing.

  “Cowardly dog!” Yoshi growled.

  “Not cowardly, Yoshi-san. Just silent.”

  Yoshi whirled to face the velvet voice, whipping his katana from the sheath. His gaze fixed on the figure ten feet from him and his blade naturally found a ready position.

  “Who are you?” Yoshi demanded.

  “I am Kasagi,” the man answered simply.

  “Whom do you serve?”

  “I serve no one.”

  Yoshi studied the man as best he could in the moonlit darkness. He did not appear threatened by Yoshi or his sword and stood easily, with an air of self-confidence that confused Yoshi. He was slender and wore the kimono and hakama of a samurai, but no swords.

  “Why do you follow me? Are you ronin?”

  “I was once samurai, as you are, Yoshi-san. Though, I was never as great a warrior as you.”

  Yoshi ignored the compliment. Was that sarcasm he heard underneath that veneer of sincerity? But only a fool would mock an armed samurai while himself unarmed.

  “Please, Yoshi-san, return your mighty katana to its sheathe. You may yet have need of it, but I believe we may resolve this peacefully.” Kasagi smiled and Yoshi saw a glint of white in the moonlight.

  “I keep my own counsel on whether to draw my blade or not,” Yoshi said firmly. “Now state your business or I will take your head.”

  Kasagi sighed. “Always bushido, no? The way of the warrior? I understand, of course. Very well, then, Yoshi-san.” He drew himself up in much the same manner Yoshi had when he issued his earlier challenge. “I must formally demand that you never see the Lady Misaka again.”

  Yoshi started at her name. How could he know?

  “She is mine, Yoshi-san. Mine in life and mine…now.”

  “Who are you?” Yoshi whispered.

  “I know she has been to see you. I know she has made you her lover and how you must long to join her forever. But she is mine. And if you refuse her just once, she will not come again.”

  Refuse her? Yoshi could not imagine doing so.

  “Refuse her, Yoshi-san, and you will live on. If you refuse me, you will die.” Kasagi’s voice took on a hard edge, the edge of a samurai.

  Yoshi stepped back slightly and drew his katana hilt to his shoulder. “I am samurai, Kasagi-san. I do not obey any save my lord.”

  “Fool!” Kasagi snapped. “You are but a passing moment in her dark eternity. Do not challenge me. She is mine!”

  Yoshi prepared himself. Though Kasagi wore no swords, Yoshi knew better than to underestimate any opponent. And he had begun to recognize what Kasagi was.

  “Jealousy is a fool’s only claim to love,” he told the creature through clenched teeth. “I will not refuse her.”

  Kasagi attacked.

  The movement was so swift that Yoshi could barely react. He side-stepped Kasagi’s charge, slashing downward with his blade. The familiar warmth of battle enveloped him and he welcomed it.

  His blade grazed Kasagi’s outstretched arm as the creature shot by. Yoshi wheeled to follow the motion of the charge, his mind still and calm. The darkness was on Kasagi’s side, he knew. But he was armed and his opponent was not.

  Kasagi circled him deftly, remaining just outside striking range. A low growl emanated from the creature’s throat. Yoshi tried to ignore the sound, but the pure ferocity of it disturbed his concentration.

  Sweat beaded on Yoshi’s forehead and trickled down his sides. For the first time he could remember, a stab of fear lanced through his stomach.

  Show no fear!

  Kasagi let out a hellish cry and lunged at Yoshi. Razor-like claws lashed out at him. Yoshi parried, brushing aside the blow with the flat of his blade. Seamlessly, he transitioned to the attack, slashing downward diagonally in a naname giri stroke. The tip of his blade bit into flesh. His opponent screeched in pain and anger.

  Yoshi controlled his breathing, pushing his fear downward. He took advantage of the hit, whipping his blade in circular motion meant to take his enemy’s head, but the fiend danced backward away too quickly.

  The two combatants circled in the dirt of the roadway.

  “I would have left you alive,” Kasagi snarled at him. “Alive, but defeated.”

  Yoshi kept his grip on the katana sure and the tip of his blade pointed at the devil in front of him. “Defeat means death,” he said in a low tone. “If not by an enemy’s hand, then by my own.”

  “You know nothing, mortal.”

  “I know you are cut.”

  Kasagi roared in fury and feinted right.

  Yoshi reacted, committing to a counter stroke. For a deadly moment, their eyes locked. Yoshi tried to bring his blade back defensively but Kasagi shot into the opening, driving his open hand into Yoshi’s chest.

  The force of the blow stunned the samurai. He stumbled backward. Kasagi pursued him, a low growl rising in his throat.

  Yoshi swung his katana in defense. Without sure footing, the movement was awkward and weak. Kasagi swatted the blade aside. The vampire struck Yoshi again with a sweeping palm, this time on the side of the head.

  Darkness rushed in on Yoshi and he willed it away. With a desperate effort, he slashed at Kasagi’s legs.

  Kasagi reached out and caught Yoshi’s hand in an iron grip. He leaned in close to Yoshi’s face. The samurai saw the same gleam there as in Misaka’s eyes, but none of the seductive mystery.

  “I will save you from seppuku,” Kasagi said. “I will give you a warrior’s death.”

  Yoshi let go of the katana with his left hand and reached for his wakazashi short sword. Before he was able to grasp it, Kasagi snapped Yoshi’s sword wrist in one sharp motion.

  Yoshi grunted, but did not cry out, even as Kasagi tore open his kimono and feasted.

  Tomoe set the water jug down as she approached the small group of gawking villagers. She peered over the top of the two older ladies in front of her. A samurai lay beside the road, his kimono torn and his face covered in dried blood. She looked away.

  “See that design on his kimono?” whispered one. “It is Ishikawa-no-Yoshi, Lord Satake’s hatamoto.”

  “Has a runner been sent to inform Lord Satake?” asked a village elder, concerned about reprisals. The murder of a hatamoto was no small thing.

  “Ten minutes ago, yes.”

  Tomoe picked up her water jug and started to move away.

  “Who was it, do you think?” someone asked.

  A silence followed, then one of the older women answered in a hushed voice, “Ninja. They have dark powers.”

  Tomoe hurried on, not daring to listen any further.

  A Ride Home

  by

  Frank Scalise

  Even the confessional tap of these keys cannot jar the pain from my soul, or purge the guilt. I suppose it doesn’t matter—it’s almost over now, anyway. That’s why I’m writing this. But I’m angry, too, and I can never be free.

  It was a party, just like any other. People showed up, they laughed, they drank, they listened to music, danced, drank some more. I did all of that, and then I drank some more.

  When people started leaving, I gifured out that the party must be over. I struggled to my feet and fished my keys from out of my pocket. “Anyone need a ride home?” I called to those remaining.

  “Yeah!” It was Jill, a girl I knew somewhat well.

  “Then let’s make some tracks,” I said, half-staggering out the door and to my car. She came behind me, returning drunken goodbyes
.

  The party noises dimmed against the silent night air as we walked across the lawn. “Are you alright to driver?” Jill asked from behind me.

  “No problem.” I’ve driven before when I was drunk, so I figured I would be fine. After all, I reasoned, nothing bad had happened to me yet. That’s the kind of short-sighted attitude that has gotten man and nations into one catastrophe after another, isn’t it?

  After three tries, I got the key into the ignition. I started it up, raced the engine and listened to its wonderful roar; deep and full. I flashed Jill a smile, dropped it into first gear and squealed off for home. There was something about the wildness of driving fast at night that gave me an incredible charge. I sped along the twisting backroads at high speed, my blood racing and the wind and Jill’s laughter in my ears.

  “Flying!” I yelled out, and laughed.

  Then I saw it. It was a deer and it was standing in the middle of the road, paralyzed by fear and blinded by my headlights. At the last instant, I veered, but it was too late.

  I don’t remember anything else, except a scream, darkness and snatches of turmoil at the hospital.

  But when I woke up, I had to deal with the fact that Jill was dead and I had killed her. I sat alone in that hospital room at two A.M., staring at the wall and listening to the silence of the hospital. All I could think was, I’m sorry. God, I am so sorry.

  They held me for observation for a full day after I woke up. They were satisfied that I was fine except for a few cuts and bruises. “You’re a very lucky young man,” the doctor tried to tell me.

  Lucky. Hardly.

  Most of the kids at school avoided me, or treated me like a criminal. They walked around with a self-righteous anger, acting as if I had done something they were not capable of. All I could think as I passed some of them in the hall was, You were there, too. You were at that party. It could have been you.

  I was charged with drunk driving and the causing of a death through gross negligence. The judge took my license away for five years and fined me three thousand dollars for the drunk driving. I got a suspended sentence for the negligence charge. The judge said he hoped that I had learned my lesson, and others through my example. I wished he’d thrown me in jail to rot.

  I went to her funeral. I didn’t want to, but I felt like she would have wanted me to. It was her siren-like call that brought me out that sunny day. Everything beautiful reminded me of the fact that Jill could never see any of it again.

  I stood on the fringes at first, watching all the people gather together. I heard the priest speak, but what was the use? He couldn’t bring her back. As I stood there, I could feel all the hostile, blaming eyes burning into me. Didn’t they know I hurt, too?

  When the ceremony was over, I weaved my way through the crowd toward her parents. I wanted to tell them how sorry I was. I was about ten yards away when someone grabbed me, dragging me behind a tree. It was David, a guy I knew from school.

  “Don’t go near that man,” he told me. “He will kill you if he ever sees you. Just stay away.”

  “I…just wanted to say that I was sorry.”

  He looked at me, disgusted. “No one wants your apologies.”

  I shrugged his hands off my shoulder and began walking again. I was only fifteen feet away when her father noticed me and I stopped. The fury that raged in his eyes seared me to the spot, riddled my frame. Didn’t he know how I wished for him to brush aside the frail restraint of his wife’s arm and leap across the open grave that separated us? How I yearned for him to bound across the short strip of grass and pummel me with the clenched fists? It would have been so much better than that burning stare.

  I left the funeral.

  Even my own parents didn’t try to console me. They could only act as if they were ashamed of me, like they couldn’t believe their son could have done such a thing. No one said much of anything in my house anymore. We ate our meals separately, kept plenty of space between us. I was a failure to them.

  So I stood alone against the terrible deed I had done. And believe me, if I could have deserted myself, I would have.

  But all of this is immaterial, really. For me, the whole thing is over. It was actually very easy, and a relief.

  I took the pills an hour ago, and I think I fell asleep at my desk. But I’m awake now and I’m leaving. I’m going downstairs and out the front door and out to the street.

  She’s there and my car is there, too, all sleek and unscathed. I slide behind the wheel and race the engine. I hear its wonderful roar. I drop it into gear and take off. Then I look over.

  Jill is there, a bloody, torn corpse, but there is a smile on her lips.

  “Flying!” she cries out.

  Forever Love

  They want you for your riches

  Or for the fame of discovery.

  I hear them talk at night

  In the tents

  Regaling each other with dreams

  Of fortune,

  Of academic fame.

  I do not speak to them of you,

  Not even when we are all deep in our cups

  And their wine-coaxed admissions spill forth.

  I do not whisper of your beauty

  The ancient lines of your face

  How in every picture and carving

  Your sad, noble eyes stare out,

  Locking onto mine.

  I do not tell them that you can see my soul.

  We are getting close.

  The broken pottery tells us,

  The bits of historic refuse we happen upon.

  We’ll come upon the door to your world

  To the place of your eternal sleep.

  I will slip through that door.

  Admire the exquisite carving atop your bed

  (A faithful representation of your face)

  And I will heave and pry the heavy stone aside

  Hear it creak and grate

  Smell the rush of ancient air

  Wash over me

  Like a lover’s breath.

  Centuries will fall away to mere moments

  When I reach down

  Trembling,

  And touch your wrapped hand.

  A Soldier’s Valentine

  Dear Sarah:

  Missing you isn't getting any easier.

  We went out on patrol today across the rocky foothills outside Fallujah. It's amazing how some areas of this country bustle with activity, full of men and women going about the business of living, while other areas are desolate. It's like we're the only people on the planet during those patrols. We cruise along, looking for signs of the enemy, hoping we don't find him. I watch, but I think of you.

  Do you remember the weekend we spent down on the Oregon coast, right before I shipped out? The air was full of ocean mist and fog the whole time. You even gave up on doing anything with your hair. And it was cold, too! It gets cold over here, but it's a dry cold, nothing like the wet that soaked through our clothes when we walked on the beach, determined to have that romantic stroll in spite of chattering teeth. I can still see your jacket hood drawn tight around your face, nothing but a lock of hair and the tip of your nose exposed. Thank God for the hot tub at the hotel.

  Randy, one of my squad-mates, read one of my letters to you about three weeks ago. I left out on my pillow when I went to the latrine and he helped himself. It was the letter that had the short poem I wrote to you. Maybe it was a little corny, but it's how I feel. The guys started teasing me about it, calling me a poet. Randy labeled me 'Loverboy' (probably because the rock doesn't know any poets) and the name stuck. Great, huh?

  I don't care, though. I do love you, and I think about you all the time. I try not to when we're on a mission, but it's difficult. At night, lying on my cot, thinking of you is all I do.

  I don't know when I'll be back, my sweet wife. But the time will come. I want it to be yesterday, but that's not how the world works sometimes. I miss you. Thoughts of you drive me to poetry.

  I want to k
iss your soft lips.

  I want to drink your soul in measured sips.

  There. Let Randy and the guys make fun of that.

  You are with me, Sarah, everywhere I go. In the heat and the dust, the slow boredom of the nights, the uncertainty of patrol and the sheer terror of a firefight—you are with me. Everything I do is so that I can get back home to you.

  I love you.

  Patrick

  Bill’s Son

  by

  Frank Scalise

  It’s kind of funny, writing about a person I’ve never even met. But then, Bill’s son has given me more than anyone I’ve ever met.

  I met Bill when I got an after-school job at the grocery store. He was the produce manager there, a real friendly guy. He was always nice to me, but I wasn’t the outgoing type and usually replied to his jokes with just a smile. That was just the way I was. Quiet kid, kept to myself. I only took the job at the store because I needed something to do after school. We’d just moved to the neighborhood and I didn’t really have any friends. Not that I minded much. Things were easier that way.

  I’d been working at the store about four months when Bill came in with a huge grin on his face.

  “Ralphie, boy, I’ve got great news.” He smiled bigger than I’d ever seen before.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  He started to answer when Paul, the assistant manager, came through the door. “Morning, Paul.”

  “Morning,” Paul replied in his crsip, business-like manner. I simply moved off into the periphery. I was used to this sort of thing happening.

  “Guess what?” Bill asked him, rocking on his heels, a silly grin pasted on his face.

  “Hmmm?” Paul sipped his coffee and looked down at the order sheets on his clipboard.

  “Jeni’s pregnant.” At that, Paul looked up. “I’m gonna be a father.”

  Paul stuck out his hand and Bill shook it heartily. “Congratulations, Bill. That’s splendid. That’s really…just fantastic.”