Kusanagi

by Clem Chambers

  Now the mystery had evolved once more, as the smoke from the parchment thickened on its passage to the heavens.

  He opened his eyes and lifted his head, the tassels on his black hat flicking from side to side. He straightened his arms and his golden sleeves fell down like curtains. He pulled out his mobile and SMSed the high priest of Ise Shrine. I know of this, what are we to do? He prayed that the answer would not come by scroll.

  The phone was ringing. It was Davas’s ring tone. Jim looked at the clock: it was the middle of the night. He grabbed the phone off the bedside table.

  ‘What have you done?’ the old man practically shouted.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Jim wearily.

  ‘Have you seen the yen?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim, slipping out of the sheets naked. ‘You know I don’t do that any more. I try not to even look.’

  ‘Well, the yen is all over the map.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jim, pulling on his dressing-gown.

  ‘My models tell me something big is going on. Who knows about the regalia?’

  Jane was awake now.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Jim, opening his bedroom door. ‘The professor. The guy that sold it me.’ He went down the hallway in the pitch black. ‘Whoever they’ve told.’

  ‘They’ve told many. The whole causal nexus is lit up like the aurora borealis.’

  ‘Hold on, let me get to my screens.’ He plonked himself down and opened up his trading battle screens. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. The yen was down nine per cent in a straight line. ‘I did ask for a hundred billion dollars at one point,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it, though.’

  ‘That’s rather excessive,’ remarked Davas.

  Jim groaned. ‘This fucker’s going to roll all over the place,’ he said, watching the currency shudder from one price level to another. ‘You sure a bit of Japan hasn’t fallen into the sea or something?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘They’re coming tomorrow to take a look,’ said Jim.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Well, the Japanese government, I think.’

  ‘You need to be very careful, Jim,’ said Davas. ‘You’re up to your ears in trouble here. This is a game you shouldn’t play. Just give the regalia up and be done with it.’

  ‘Max, they’re coming tomorrow. They can take a look, make me an offer and it’s all done and dusted. No need to panic.’

  ‘Panic!’ shrieked Davas. ‘There is every reason to panic. The markets are never wrong.’

  ‘Max, it’s going to be OK. It’s under control.’

  ‘Jim, you’re dabbling with forces you don’t understand. Please be very careful.’

  ‘I will, Max,’ he said, watching the yen spike up a whole per cent in a gigantic move that might have taken half a day in a normal market. ‘Now I’m going back to bed.’ He hung up.

  Jane was standing in the doorway. ‘Care to fill me in?’

  ‘Always,’ he said, ‘but later. First I’ve got a scar that needs some kissing.’

  Jane wouldn’t let him fall asleep after his exertions. ‘No, you’re going to tell me now.’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘No, sir, now. You’ve had your fun, and now you have to tell me everything, as promised.’

  He moaned. The blood was definitely draining from his brain.

  ‘Sit up and talk.’ She pulled a hair from his chest.

  ‘Ouch.’

  She plucked him again.

  ‘Get off,’ he said, and sat up. ‘All right.’

  ‘Waiting to receive.’

  ‘Well, what I didn’t tell you was that the night before the professor showed up we had a night visitor, who, unfortunately, Stafford shot dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jane. ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘And now the yen is going mental. As we both know, information spreads like honey and all of a sudden the yen is going nuts. So, we can assume a lot of people are getting to know about this.’

  ‘Nuts and honey,’ observed Jane. ‘That sounds tasty. Are we talking muesli here?’

  ‘Maybe we are – things are definitely getting flaky.’ He grinned. ‘But the reason the yen is going nutty might be because they think I want a hundred billion dollars in yen for their Crown Jewels. That’s quite a lot of money to print in a hurry. Or it might be something else altogether.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Jim looked out of the bedroom windows. The moonlight flooded in through the open curtains. He grimaced. ‘Well, I’ve read up on their Crown Jewels. They’re basically the things the Emperor needs to be crowned with to be the Emperor. Clearly he wasn’t, was he? So is he actually the Emperor or not? For that matter, have any of the Emperors been properly crowned since the jewels disappeared? You could imagine that the whole royal line way back into the past has never been legitimate. It’s been rumoured that the regalia were lost in the middle ages but, you know, it’s not really an issue unless they suddenly show up somewhere else. Then the whole family tree and royal line would be technically up the creek.

  ‘It’s like a bomb under the structure of Japanese society. It’s like us waking up one day and finding the Bible was written centuries after Jesus.’

  ‘The Bible was written centuries after Jesus,’ said Jane.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jim. ‘Was it?’

  Jane nodded.

  Jim shrugged. ‘Well, you get what I mean. Anyway, something’s throwing a spanner in the works with the yen and Max seems to think it’s me – he’s probably right.’

  ‘Would a hundred billion dollars do that?’

  ‘Who knows? And who knows what rumours are going around? Maybe they think it’s a trillion dollars.’ He snorted with amusement. ‘That would be daft, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘And pretty dangerous too,’ added Jane.

  ‘Well, we’ll see tomorrow when these people show up. The professor said he was bringing experts who are national treasures, but I think he meant experts to see the national treasures.’

  36

  To any child of the seventies, the cult temple looked like a tank out of the Atari arcade game Battlezone. This seemed to be missed by the followers who worshipped there. The shrine looked incongruous among the low-rise buildings of Azubudai, but it took a little effort to see it at all in its bizarre entirety among its higgledy-piggledy surroundings. The entrance had a distinctly fifties sci-fi feel to it. Above the jutting alien spacecraft lines, a long steep staircase loomed into a bay, like a portal, at the front of the building. For anyone with more imagination than it took to join a Japanese cult, Gort the robot from the The Day the Earth Stood Still seemed quite likely to step out onto the top step and welcome visitors.

  Perhaps the massive tax breaks afforded to cults partly explained why a giant UFO-shaped building had been raised in central Tokyo. But it wasn’t for financial reasons that a follower was sprinting up the loading ramp into the heart of the mighty earthbound spacecraft. He burst through the temple portal and ran down into the belly of the craft. He had to get to the master at any cost. He was panting and exhausted. Finally he reached the inner chamber. He could hear the chanting. He threw the doors open.

  Around the giant pool stood the students, dressed in their white jumpsuits, their backs to the water. They were humming, their arms outstretched. The master watched the desperate man, red-faced and sweating, who was racing towards him. He clapped his hands and the students fell backwards into the pool. Then, with a shower of laughter, they surfaced and began hugging each other.

  The man fell to his knees in front of the master. ‘Forgive me,’ he puffed, ‘but I have momentous news you must know immediately.’

  It was the same news that across town, an hour before, had brought together the grim brothers of the far right. They and others believed in the old way, the way of the samurai, an era when a nobleman could summarily execute a peasant for nothing more than a funny look. In their cause to rebuild the old Japan, they sent lorries with giant speakers around Tokyo to shout their slogans a
nd preach their creed of ultra-nationalism. When they got too close to sensitive embassies, the Tokyo police would pull barriers across the road and make them move on.

  There was a gentleman’s agreement between the extremists and the authorities that the protests could continue so long as the protestors played by the rules. You could be rude as long as you were polite about it and the ultra-nationalists were proper in their outrage and protest. Their extremism was moderate, in as much as the state’s moderation was extreme.

  Japanese life was a tight web of unwritten and unspoken rules. But now all the rules were dead: the very spine from which these silent understandings hung had been broken. The Imperial Regalia, long lost but in spirit still present, had been discovered. The myth of its reality was a lie and the reality of the myth was true. The sacred objects of Japan were tangible. Now history had been reset six hundred years back and could be started again from there. If only they could get their hands on the regalia, they could crown their own Emperor and wipe the slate clean.

  Nobody said anything. They simply sat and smoked and drank their whisky.

  Hori-san was young, but resolute. Barely thirty, he would have been junior but for his ability to raise funds and provide muscle. His connections were not particularly honourable or his methods obvious. He won respect through his activity and zeal. With maturity he would be an important man. He stood up. ‘I will act,’ he said raising his glass.

  The others looked around to gauge the reaction of the group.

  Hori-san held out his glass.

  Mimura-san hoisted himself up, coughed and picked up his glass from the table. Another stood, then another.

  Hori-san raised his glass higher. ‘Campai.’

  37

  Jim looked into the glass front of the bank and safe-deposit centre where Stafford had stashed the regalia. It had on display a large orange fibreglass cow covered with diamonds. There appeared to be a jungle and a waterfall inside. It wasn’t like the antiseptic bank he had worked in. It looked more like a greenhouse gone wrong than a powerhouse of wealth management.

  The crazy movement of the yen was playing on his mind. For starters the situation just screamed out to be traded. Sitting on his hands was like asking a little kid with a plate of chocolate biscuits shoved under his nose not to eat them.

  If that wasn’t off-putting enough, the thought that it was connected directly to him and the regalia was weighing on his mind. Davas was right: he was dabbling with things he didn’t understand. It was like being in possession of Excalibur or the Holy Grail. Something was bound to go horribly wrong.

  He tried to put that thought out of his mind as he headed for the revolving door with his un-fiancée and his un-butler.

  They were shown down to the vault.

  There were three ancient men with Akira Nakabashi as they entered the meeting room of the safe deposit section. The professor stood, and two tiny old men struggled to their feet. The third, in a wheelchair, simply nodded.

  Jim suddenly felt a little too informally dressed, in his tennis shirt, slacks and jumper. It was wet and cold outside and he held his raincoat over his arm. ‘Please sit down,’ he said, dropping the coat over the back of a chair. The two old men must have been at least ninety and looked as though a draught from the door might blow them over.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Akira. Nobody sat. ‘I am most honoured to introduce to you three living national treasures. Saito-san,’ he said, pointing to the ancient man in the wheelchair, ‘is our living national treasure in touretics.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Jim.

  Stafford and Jane were bowing. The old man nodded, his small knobbly hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair.

  ‘What’s touretics?’ asked Jim.

  Akira paused. He seemed to be searching hard for a good word.

  ‘Metal carving,’ said Stafford, quietly.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Akira.

  ‘This is Stafford and Jane,’ said Jim, rather put off by the prospect of complicated introductions.

  ‘This is Fujita-san, living treasure of sword making,’ said Akira.

  Fujita-san bowed stiffly. The stiffness expressed a degree of anger rather than advanced age.

  They bowed back.

  ‘This is Suzuki-san, living treasure of bachiru and also most respected expert of magatama.’

  ‘Ivory carving and jade gems, like the necklace,’ whispered Stafford.

  Suzuki-san smiled and bowed, bobbing up sharply with a wide grin of broad yellow twisted teeth.

  They all bowed again.

  They sat down.

  ‘They’re bringing the things in a second,’ said Jim, to the frail assembly of Japanese men. ‘Did you all just fly in?’ he asked. A long flight might have been enough to kill people that decrepit.

  ‘Yes,’ said Akira.

  Suzuki-san spoke.

  Akira translated. ‘Suzuki-san says it will be a fine end to his life if he sees the Three Sacred Treasures.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Jim. He glanced around the room. It was like a bunker. There were no windows. The tired panelling was punctuated with bland abstracts that might have been fashionable in the seventies but were now the height of kitsch and rather grimy to boot.

  To his relief the meeting room door opened. The three old men sat up in their seats and watched intently as the safe deposit manager brought in a long, thin, silver-coloured box. Stafford took a key from his pocket and the manager produced another. They unlocked the box together.

  The manager left the room.

  Stafford opened the box and removed what looked like a felt bag that might have held an expensive pair of shoes. He took out the mirror and placed it on the table on top of the flattened bag.

  Akira passed it to Saito-san, who held it as if it was as fragile as a butterfly. He blinked at it as if dust had blown into his eyes. He turned the mirror in his hands, barely touching it, as though even the slightest contact was some kind of violation.

  Stafford took the necklace from another bag and laid it on the table.

  Suzuki-san let out a cry of what might have been pleasure or the result of an excruciating blow to the funny bone, such as Jim had experienced as a child. He plucked up the necklace with the middle finger of his right hand and held it to the light. He uttered a long series of oohs.

  Jim took out the sword and suddenly the room was still. He offered it to Fujita-san.

  Fujita-san stood up, as if sitting down would be disrespectful. He took the sword in both hands and looked down at it without moving. He breathed in, scowling, then exhaled and pulled the blade half out of its scabbard. He looked at it, then at Akira.

  He spoke and Akira nodded.

  ‘What did he say?’ said Jim.

  ‘I said,’ replied Fujita-san, ‘this must surely be Kusanagi.’ He laid the sword, back in its scabbard, on the table and sat down.

  Suzuki-san and Saito-san had swapped items and were engrossed in their reveries.

  ‘Don’t you want to look at the sword some more?’ Jim asked Fujita-san.

  ‘No,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Why?’ wondered Jim.

  ‘It is not for me to handle the sword Kusanagi.’

  ‘It is difficult,’ interjected Akira. ‘These are sacred items.’

  Jim wanted to point out that the other two living treasures weren’t having similar difficulties but instead he picked up the sword himself and took it from its scabbard. It seemed to bathe in a kind of cold white light. He turned it. They were staring at him and at the flashing blade. ‘I’ll be sorry to part with this,’ he said finally, sheathing it with a satisfactory flourish.

  Akira turned to his living treasures and spoke to them in turn. They each replied, ‘Hi.’

  ‘I think they agree,’ said Jane, softly.

  ‘I think you are right,’ said Stafford.

  ‘Thank you, Evans-san, Stafford-san,’ Akira seemed to ignore Jane. ‘Thank you so much for letting us see the regalia. I look forward
to quickly resolving this matter with you.’

  Suzuki-san stood up and touched the hilt of the sword, drawing his hand back slowly. He smiled and bowed.

  Fujita-san led the living treasures out of the room, Akira pushing Saito-san in his wheelchair. Suzuki-san was the last to leave, and as he went to close the door behind him he paused and gave Jim a long, mysterious smile.

  The door closed.

  Jim sat down and slipped the necklace on. ‘I like this,’ he said, sliding it under his tennis shirt. ‘I might keep it.’ He picked up the sword and mirror and posed regally. ‘Maybe I can be Emperor of East London.’

  ‘You’d look good,’ said Jane.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Stafford, taking the mirror. ‘In a few minutes our car will pull up outside and we will go on to the new vault.’

  ‘Who’s the driver?’ asked Jane, suddenly.

  ‘An old friend of yours. Superintendent Smith.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Jim. Trust Stafford to rustle up the best.

  The door opened and the vault manager brought in a briefcase with a handcuff attached to the handle.

  Stafford put the mirror into its soft bag and passed it to Jim, who pushed it into the pocket of the raincoat he held over his arm. Stafford cuffed the briefcase to his hand. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been a decoy,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope this instance turns out happier than the last.’ A flicker of reminiscence flashed across his face. He blanched and snapped back to the present. ‘Would you like to wear the Magatama or do you think it might be better in your other pocket?’ he asked Jim.