The Mammoth Book of Angels & Demons (Mammoth Books)

by Paula Guran

  Sanji’s demon resembled others I had seen before, but there were some differences. Rather than tusks in both top and bottom jaws there were tusks in its upper jaw only, and they appeared more like a tiger’s fangs than tusks. I took a closer look, and the lamplight reflected on something like a design on its skin, now visible in a tear in its old robes.

  A tattoo?

  I leaned closer. Not a tattoo. Stitches. Very skillfully done. I examined the corpse and found others. I examined the teeth again, closer this time. I hadn’t gotten far when I heard Kenji’s shout.

  “Lord Yamada, if you would be so kind . . .?”

  I dropped the lantern. I raised my sword and rushed to the doorway.

  Two of the larger demons were approaching Kenji. “Take the left, Kenji-san,” I said, and took up position on his right side.

  The rightmost demon roared, but in pain, not rage. It dropped its sword and reached around as if trying to swat a bee. Then it fell to its knees, an arrow protruding from its back, before toppling face first into the dirt. While its companion was distracted, Kenji crushed its skull with one sharp blow from his priest’s staff.

  “With all the talismans and whatnot worked into that staff, you hardly needed—” I didn’t finish. The blow from above caught me completely by surprise, and I slammed to the ground as something large and reeking of demon-aura fell on me. Only then did I curse myself for not checking the roof of the storehouse.

  I had dropped my sword. I tried to grasp my dagger but a taloned foot pinned my arm. I recognized the demon chieftain from the compound.

  “You,” he growled. “You ruined everything!”

  He stabbed down at me with a long dagger, and it was only Kenji’s staff, thrust between me and the demon, that blocked him. In its rage the creature swatted the priest’s staff aside as if it were a twig. I struggled, but I was trapped, and the demon’s second blow had already begun.

  Then there was a loud swoosh, as if someone had thrown a tree trunk at us, and then a very loud and wet thud. The demon flew off me as if it had sprouted wings. I heard it slam into the storehouse door and then silence.

  Sago no Daiki leaned on his club, panting. Young and strong though he was, he was clearly near his limit. Both his arrow wounds were bleeding now, and his clothes were torn and mired in blood, both demons’ blood and his own.

  “That’s twice I’ve been overpowered,” I said, as Kenji helped me to stand. “I think I’m getting too old for such things.”

  Kenji just shook his head. “And yet you live still. Luck favors you, Lord Yamada,” he said.

  “If this is favor, then the Gods of Fortune have a twisted sense of humor,” I muttered.

  Daiki tried to catch his breath and didn’t completely succeed. “Is . . . is it here? Did you find it?”

  “It’s here, Master Daiki.” I looked behind me. The flames were already emerging from the eaves of the storeroom. “In there.”

  He cursed and stumbled to the door, which the demon’s body was still blocking. He yanked its arm, and the demon’s corpse fell several feet away from the building in a crumpled, bloody heap. Daiki grabbed the iron ring bolted to the door, but the impact of the demon chieftain’s body had wedged the door against the frame and it would not budge. He tried to raise his club again to smash his way through, but he was so weakened that the club fell out of his hands.

  “Lord Yamada, Kenji-san . . . help me!”

  We did try, all of us together, but in the end we could do nothing but watch the storehouse burn.

  Later as we took stock, it was clear that most of the demons had been killed; a few had escaped but not very many. Our losses were heavy enough as well: five dead and as many again hurt, including Daiki. Kenji got busy binding up wounds and offering prayers to the dead. I cleaned my sword but otherwise tried not to move any more than I could help. There was little that I claimed as mine that was not battered, bruised or aching.

  Daiki sat down on an empty cask by the demon chieftain’s body. He was still a little shaky, but thanks to Kenji’s expert care the arrows had been removed and the wounds were no longer bleeding. We would likely both live, though we might not be proud of that fact for a few days.

  “I feel I’ve let my ancestor down,” he said. “It was our family’s greatest treasure. It’s gone.”

  “Your family’s greatest treasure is your reputation and honor. Both of which you have defended here today. The loss of Sanji’s demon is unfortunate, but that is all.”

  He sighed. “Yet there is this empty place in our shrine now. I will always be reminded of my failure.”

  “Then perhaps it is time for a new heirloom.” I nodded at the stiffening body of the demon chieftain. “You can start with that troublesome fellow. I think it would be in your descendants’ best interests to remember him and what he almost accomplished. In case they ever feel the urge to underestimate their enemies.”

  Daiki smiled then, faintly. “Perhaps you are right . . . who’s that there?”

  A rather odd procession was making its way up the trail and through the shattered gates of the demon fortress. Abbot Hideo, in a palanquin borne by two young monks and flanked by two others, was being escorted in by the bushi we’d assigned to guard the path.

  I didn’t let Daiki see me smile. At last, the final lines of this poem are written.

  The abbot surveyed the carnage in obvious bewilderment. Daiki bowed. “My lord abbot. You’re a bit off the pilgrim trail, are you not?”

  “Well, I . . . what’s happened here?”

  “This was a demon stronghold,” I said. “With the aid of the governor, Master Daiki has dealt with it in appropriate fashion. May we ask what brings you to this place?”

  The abbot then told at least part of the truth. I’m not sure if he meant to or if it was just impossible to think of a plausible lie with such little warning. “Well . . . I received a messenger who said that he had information embarrassing to the Sago Clan. Naturally, I played along to discover who the miscreant was.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “Then it was doubly fortunate for you that Master Daiki got here first, else you would have walked right into this demons’ nest. In addition to saving my own life today, he saved yours as well.”

  “Well then,” the abbot said, looking uncomfortable. “Umm . . . thank you?”

  “You’re welcome,” Daiki said, then he turned to me. “You think the demon messenger meant the fact that my heirloom was stolen out from under my very nose? Did the chieftain need someone to gloat to, and chose Abbot Hideo?”

  I smiled. “Yes, my lord. I’m sure that’s what the demon meant.”

  * * *

  Kenji managed to hold his tongue for the several days it took us to recover and begin our journey back to the Capital along the Hokuriku Road.

  “Such a pity,” he said, “that the demons burned the storehouse before we could recover Master Daiki’s property.”

  “Such a pity,” I agreed.

  He went on. “Though I am curious as to how it was managed. You were in there for several moments. The others didn’t see, but I did. The fire,” he said pointedly, “began on the inside.”

  I nodded. “The demons didn’t set the fire, Kenji-san. I did.”

  Kenji’s mouth opened, then slowly closed again. For a moment or two he just stared at me as we walked. “You know,” he said finally, “I didn’t really expect you to admit it.”

  “I am not responsible for your expectations, Kenji-san,” I said.

  “But why? Why did you destroy Sanji’s demon?”

  “There was no demon. It was a fake.”

  Kenji just blinked. “You are joking.”

  “I am quite serious. A first-class fake, I grant you. Very skillfully done by a master artisan. Only a close examination would reveal the deception, but Sanji’s demon was no more than a clever arrangement of boar’s tusks, leather and dyed horsehair.”

  “No wonder he wanted it back so badly,” Kenji said thoughtfully.

&
nbsp; “To the contrary – Master Daiki wanted it back because it was his family’s sacred treasure,” I said.

  Kenji frowned. “You mean he doesn’t know?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know. It’s only when the heirloom’s clothing is removed that the stitching becomes visible, and no one had touched those robes for centuries. I doubt the demon chieftain himself knew until after the theft. Before that, it was just a clever ruse to embarrass the Sago family. After he discovered the deception, well, Sanji’s demon potentially became so much more. That’s why the demon chieftain didn’t abandon his deception once the theft was accomplished. He had to wait for the Sago family’s utter destruction, and witness his triumph firsthand. As demons go, this one had pride.”

  Kenji understood then. “If this information had become known—”

  “It would have been the end of the Sago clan as demonquellers. That’s why Abbot Hideo had been summoned to the mountain fortress. I have no doubt the oni chieftain intended to turn the fake over to the abbot and let the monks of Hino Temple do his dirty work for him.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you destroy the fake demon?”

  I shrugged. “To protect my patron, of course. What other reason could there be?”

  “Anyone else might believe that, Yamada-san,” Kenji said. “I know you too well.”

  “You met Master Daiki,” I said. “You saw what he was and what his family has accomplished. Perhaps his ancestor was not the demon-slayer that he was reputed to be. Perhaps the real demon fell to a god of disease or simply left for a new place to terrorize. Perhaps Sanji, like his demon, was a fake and a fraud. But the clan he founded most definitely is not. That is what I chose to protect.”

  “A lie,” Kenji said.

  “No, the truth,” I demurred.

  “That’s a contradiction, Lord Yamada.”

  I shook my head. “Facts are whatever facts may be,” I said. “But truth? That is something we humans create, Kenji-san, and it belongs to us.”

  Kenji just sighed. “Buddha be merciful.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Someone needs to be.”

  Oh Glorious Sight

  Tanya Huff

  Angels are often associated with light. The prophet Muhammad is said to have stated: “The angels were created from light . . .” According to Jewish and Christian traditions, Lucifer, whose name means “light bearer”, radiated glorious light before he rebelled against God. In Tanya Huff’s touching story, the Fir Chlis are referred to as the souls of fallen angels God caught before they reached earthly realms. Na Fir-Chlis is a term still used in the Orkney Islands for the northern lights or aurora borealis. In Gaelic na is the definite article. Fir is the plural of fair – meaning a person or one. Chlis means nimble or lively. So Na Fir-Chlis would literally translate as “the nimble ones” or “the lively ones” – appropriate for light that seems to dance in the sky. “The Merry Dancers”, another name for the aurora mentioned by Huff, is also common in the Orkneys. “Merry” is a mispronunciation of mirrie which means “shimmering”. “Shimmering Dancers” is a most suitable description of the northern lights – and probably for angels.

  Will Hennet, first mate on The Matthew stood at the rail and watched her master cross the dock, talking with great animation to the man by his side.

  “So the Frenchman goes with you?”

  “Aye.”

  “He a sailor, then?”

  “He tells me he’s sailed.”

  “And that man, the Italian?”

  “Master Cabot’s barber.”

  The river-pilot spat into the harbor scoring a direct hit on the floating corpse of a rat, his opinion of traveling with barbers clear. “Good to have clean cheeks when the sirens call you over the edge of the world.”

  “So they say.” Only a sailor who’d never left the confines of the Bristol Channel could still believe the world was flat, but Hennet had no intention of arguing with a man whose expert guidance they needed if they were to reach the anchorage at King’s Road on this tide.

  “Seems like Master Cabot’s taking his time to board.”

  That, Hennet could agree with wholeheartedly.

  “By God’s grace, this time tomorrow we’ll be on the open sea.”

  Gaylor Roubaix laughed at the excitement in his friend’s voice. “And this time a month hence, we’ll be in Cathay sleeping in the arms of sloe-eyed maidens.”

  “What kind of maidens?”

  “You aren’t the only one to have read the stories of Marco Polo; it isn’t my fault if you only remember silk and spice. Slow down,” he added with a laugh. “It’s unseemly for the master of the ship to run across the docks.”

  “Slow down?” Zoane Cabatto – now John Cabot by grace of the letters patent granted by the English king – threw open his arms. “How? When the wind brings me the scent of far off lands and I hear . . .” His voice trailed off and he stopped so suddenly, Roubaix had gone another six steps before he realized he was alone.

  “Zoane!”

  “Ascoltare. Listen.” Head down, he charged around a stack of baled wool.

  Before Roubaix – who’d heard nothing at all – could follow, angry shouting in both Italian and English rose over the ambient noise of the docks. The shouting stopped, suddenly punctuated by a splash, and the mariner reappeared.

  “A dockside tough was beating a child,” he said by way of explanation. “I put a stop to it.”

  Roubaix sighed and closed the distance between them. “Why? It was none of your concern.”

  “Perhaps, but I leave three sons in God’s grace until we return and it seemed a bad omen to let it continue.” He stepped forward and paused again at Roubaix’s expression. “What is it?”

  In answer, the other man pointed.

  Cabot turned.

  The boy was small, a little older than a child but undernourished by poverty. Dark hair, matted into filthy clumps, had recently been dusted with ash, purple and green bruises gave the grime on the thin arms some color, and the recent winter, colder than any in living memory, had frozen a toe off one bare foot. An old cut, reopened on his cheek, bled sluggishly.

  His eyes were a brilliant blue, a startling color in the thin face, and quickly shuttered as he dropped his gaze to the toes of Cabot’s boots.

  “Go on, boy, you’re safe now!”

  Roubaix snorted. “Safe until the man who was beating him is out of the water, then he’ll take his anger at you out on the boy.”

  Beginning to regret his impulsive action, Cabot spread his hands. “What can I do?”

  “Take him with us.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “There is a saying, the further from shore, the further from God. We go a long way from shore, a little charity might convince God to stay longer.” Roubaix’s shrug held layers of meaning. “Or you can leave him to die. Your choice.”

  Cabot looked across the docks to the alleys and tenements of dockside, dark in spite of early morning sunlight that danced across the harbor swells and murmured, “Your father was right, Gaylor, you should have been a priest.” After a long moment, he turned his attention back to the boy. “What is your name?” he asked, switching to accented English.

  “Tam.” His voice sounded rusty, unused.

  “I am John Cabot, master of The Matthew.”

  The brilliant blue gaze flicked to the harbor and back with a question.

  “Sí. That ship. We sail today for the new world. If you wish, you sail with us.”

  He hadn’t expected to be noticed. He’d followed only because the man had been kind to him and he’d wanted to hold the feeling a little longer. When the man turned, he nearly bolted. When he was actually spoken to, his heart began beating so hard he could hardly hear his own answer.

  And now this.

  He knew, for he’d been told it time and time again, that ships were not crewed by such as he, that sailors had legitimate sons to find a place for, that there’d never be a place for so
me sailor’s get off a tuppenny whore.

  “Well, boy? Do you come?”

  He swallowed hard, and nodded.

  “Is Master Cabot actually bringing that boy on board?”

  “Seems to be,” Hennet answered grimly.

  “A Frenchman, a barber and a piece of dockside trash.” The river-pilot spat again. “He’ll sail you off the edge of the world, you mark my words.”

  “Mister Hennet, are we ready to sail?”

  “Aye sir.” Hennet stepped forward to meet Cabot at the top of the gangplank, the river-pilot by his side. “This is Jack Pyatt. He’ll be seeing us safe to King’s Road.”

  “Mister Pyatt.” Cabot clapped the man’s outstretched hand in both of his in the English style. “I thank you for lending us your skill this day.”

  “Lending?” The pilot’s prominent brows went up. “I’m paid well for this, Master Cabot.”

  “Yes, of course.” Dropping the man’s hand, Cabot started toward the fo’c’sle. “If you are ready, the tide does not wait. Mister Hennet, cast off.”

  “Zoane . . .”

  Brows up, Cabot turned. “Oh yes, the boy. Mister Hennet, this is Tam. Make him a sailor. Happy now?” he asked Roubaix pointedly in French.

  “Totally,” Roubaix replied. “And when you have done making him a sailor,” he murmured in English to Hennet as he passed, “you may make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”

  “Aye sir.”

  He wanted to follow Master Cabot but the sudden realization that a dozen pairs of eyes had him locked in their sight, froze him in place. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t safe to be the center of attention.

  Hennet saw the worship in the strange blue eyes replaced by fear, saw the bony shoulders hunch in on themselves to make a smaller target and looked around to find the source. It took him a moment to realize that nothing more than the curiosity of the crew had evoked such terror.

  “Right then!” Fists on his hips, he turned in place. “You heard the master!”