Black Wind

by F. Paul Wilson

  There it was: the Slater Stain. This was my boy. Mine! Mine and Meiko's. He was unmistakably Japanese, but I swore I could see my mother somewhere in his face. The emotions tumbling through me at that moment were indescribable. Christ, I wanted to lift him up and hug him till he couldn't breathe, but another child was coming down the wall and I had to catch him. How many were there? We were stretching our luck here but I didn't care. The important one was out and down and standing beside me.

  "Here comes Akio," he told me. "Be careful."

  We'd only just met and already this three-year-old was giving me orders. I loved it.

  One after the other came down. As the rope went up for the seventh time, I asked my son, "How many more?"

  "Just Masakazu is left. Then my father will come."

  My father.

  I could tell by the pride and love Naka put into those two words that Matsuo had indeed been a father to my son. What he had done to me in Hawaii no longer mattered. I owed him.

  I looked up at the window. Where was that last child?

  * * *

  Matsuo looked around the room. Had he miscounted? Where was the eighth? He thought he had sent only seven down, but the room was empty. He glanced out the window. Frank stood below, looking up expectantly. Matsuo counted seven little forms around him. He looked back at the door. It was open.

  Cursing silently, Matsuo stepped out into the hall. Finding it empty, he hurried down to the children's room. There was the eighth, the smallest of them all, curled up on his futon, sucking his thumb. He whimpered as Matsuo came in.

  "I don't want to go. I'm afraid!"

  "What's your name?" Matsuo said softly as he knelt beside him.

  "Masakazu."

  "Come with me, Masakazu," Matsuo said as he gently picked him up. The child was trembling. "I'll take you down myself."

  But as he carried the child through the door, he began to cry.

  * * *

  Shimazu leaped to his feet.

  A child? In the hall?

  He pulled open his door and stepped out just in time to see an adult figure carrying a child into the storeroom.

  "He's here!" he shouted. "Guards! He's up here!"

  Doors all up and down the hall and around the corner began to open. The confused babble of the monks filled the air.

  Shimazu called to them. "He's here! He's in the storeroom! He's taking the child! He's the one! The one who must be killed!"

  Where were the guards? They should be up here by now.

  He heard muffled pounding from the end of the hall from the direction of the stairs. He hurried to the stairwell doors. He saw them moving slightly, almost bulging toward him, heard the shouts and grunts of the guards behind them.

  And then he saw the problem: An iron bar had been passed through the door handles and twisted into a tight loop, locking the doors shut. Shimazu pulled on the bar, trying to straighten it, but with only one hand to work with, it was useless.

  If only I had both hands!

  The other Inner Circle monks were handicapped worse than he. They would have to find a way to kill the younger Okumo without the guards.

  * * *

  The last child was coming down, screaming bloody murder all the way. He was scared half to death, I knew, but that didn't make me want to shut him up any less. He was howling to wake the dead. I stood under him with my arms raised, ready to catch him as soon as I could. The sooner the better. Good thing, too, because suddenly I heard Matsuo cry out in pain above. The rope lost all its tension and the kid plummeted toward me. He screamed louder than ever but I caught him and muffled him against my shirt.

  I looked up. The rest of the rope was trailing out the empty window.

  "Matsuo?" I called as loudly as I dared. "Matsuo!"

  * * *

  The blaze of pain took Matsuo so completely by surprise that he released the rope and lurched around, clutching at his thigh.

  "Die!" said a voice from the floor. "You are the one! You bear the seeds! Die!"

  Matsuo looked down and saw a bald, legless monk inching closer and raising a bloody dagger for another stab. Matsuo backed away but the monk came after him.

  And he was not alone.

  Like a foul tide oozing into the room, they came. Their masks were off, the light from the hall gleamed on their naked scalps, mind-numbing hatred leered in the sickly white of their exposed faces. They came, some limbless, some eyeless or noseless or earless. They came, one with no limbs at all worming his way toward Matsuo on his belly with a knife clutched in his bared teeth.

  My childhood dream—only this is real.

  He slid along the wall, trying to escape the sight of their wizened, distorted forms, the scuffing shuffle along the floor as they neared. The one with the bloody knife slashed at him and missed. An eyeless monk inched forward with tiny steps, a knife in one hand, his free hand groping before him.

  Matsuo was in a corner now with nowhere left to go. The old fear had come back, reaching out of his past, paralyzing him with revulsion. He was a child again, alone in the dark, alone against these monsters.

  "He is the one!" they said, pushing each other on. "He is the one who bears the seeds! He is the one who dies!"

  And then Matsuo's hand brushed against the grip of his katana and he knew he wasn't alone. He was not a terrified child now. He was a man. A samurai.

  Ronin.

  The sword seemed to leap into his hand, its Masamune blade whispering out of its scabbard and striking straight down, splitting the nearest monk's head in two. He began hacking his way through the monks. This was not battle, this was methodical butchery. But then he thought of those mutilated children in the cubicle downstairs and put extra strength behind his strokes.

  * * *

  Shimazu was lifting the lid on the chest in his room when he heard the sound of splintering wood. It came from out in the hall. He hurried out to look.

  The relentless battering of the door by the guards had finally borne fruit: one of the handles had ripped out of the wood. They were now pouring into the hallway.

  "In there!" He pointed to the storeroom. "He's in there! Kill him!"

  * * *

  Matsuo had killed enough of the monks. As much as he loathed them, he took no satisfaction in butchering them. His own attacks on their already mutilated bodies only sickened him. When he had cleared enough room, he turned and leaped for the window. He could slide down to the ground before anyone was even sure he was gone.

  As he reached the rope, he heard the crash of the stairwell door and Shimazu's shouts. There was no time to escape. He called down to Frank in English:

  "We've got trouble. Take them to the boat. I'll hold them off."

  He couldn't see Frank's face in the dark, but he heard him.

  "You're not coming?"

  "I'll catch up later. Get going!"

  He turned toward the clatter behind him. When he saw the doorway full of armed men—well-armed men with all their limbs and senses—charging toward him, he knew he wasn't going to catch up with Frank and the children. He would have liked a chance to say good-bye to Naka, but as long as Frank got him back to Meiko, that was all that really mattered.

  Besides, this wasn't such a bad way to go. He could think of worse.

  He lifted his katana into the vertical ready position and leaped into the center of the room to meet the charge of the guards.

  * * *

  I brought the children to a halt about a block from the tin factory. I had been herding them along when it struck me like a blow that I'd lived through this before—or something just like it. Matsuo alone back there facing a ferocious gang while I headed the other way. Just like when we were kids.

  No. Not again. I'd suffered under the weight of that memory for almost twenty years now, wishing I could go back and change things. I'd be damned if I was going to add another such memory to my list of regrets. I couldn't go back to 1926, but tonight I could damn well make sure Matsuo didn't face all those goons alone
.

  The trouble was time. My watch said 4:10 and the stars were starting to fade into the sky. Our sub would be rising out of the bay in less than an hour.

  "Stay here," I said to the kids. "Right here." I took Naka by the shoulders. "You'll be in charge, Naka. Make sure nobody goes anywhere. Understand?"

  He nodded. "Is my father coming soon?"

  "I'm going to bring him back with me."

  He smiled—the first time I'd ever seen his smile. "We'll stay right here and wait."

  I ran full tilt back to the factory. Above, the sound of steel upon steel rang from the window, mixed with grunts and cries of pain. I grabbed the rope and began pulling myself up. It had looked easier when Matsuo did it. My feet kept slipping on the surface of the wall, the rope kept sliding through my hands, burning the palms, but I managed to reach the second floor.

  I'll never forget what I saw through that window: half a dozen fundoshi-clad swordsmen slicing, stabbing, and jabbing at a lone man in a bloodied Imperial Navy uniform. Three of their number lay dead or dying on the floor along with the deformed corpses of what looked like bald-headed monks. Blood was everywhere. And dancing about, his sword singing through the air as he wove a web of steel between himself and everybody else, was Matsuo.

  But he was wounded—a cut down his right cheek and bloody tears on both sleeves of his tunic—and I could tell they were closing in.

  I hesitated only a second, then pulled out my .45 and began firing through the window. Two guards fell with the first three shots. Matsuo took advantage of the surprise to cut down two more; the rest retreated to the doorway where they crouched. I couldn't read any expressions through their masks, but they looked ready to charge again.

  I swung my legs over the windowsill and slid into the room.

  "Hiroki!" Matsuo shouted. "Where are you, dear brother?"

  "He is not here," said a voice from out in the hall.

  The guards backed away and parted ranks to let a tall, thin monk through. He stood alone in the doorway. His bandaged, handless arm gave him away as the head monk Matsuo had told me about.

  "Where is he, then?"

  "That is none of your concern." He stepped into the room and stared at me, then turned to Matsuo. "I knew you wanted to surrender, but I never dreamed you were in direct league with the Americans."

  "That is none of your concern," Matsuo said, mimicking him.

  "But do you really believe you can get away with this? Even in this deserted district, word of gunfire will reach the police soon enough. And should you escape this building, all of Hiroshima will soon be looking for you and those children. You will be captured and they will be returned to us. You will have accomplished nothing."

  Matsuo waved his sword at the bodies cluttering the floor around him.

  "Nothing?"

  Matsuo moved without warning, darting forward to pull the monk further into the room and slam the door shut in a single motion.

  "Stay out there and Shimazu will live,” he said as they began pounding on the door. “Open the door even an inch and he will die."

  What was on his mind? I wanted to get out of here. The dead bodies all around us—two of them my doing—these monks, the smell of blood and slit intestines was turning my stomach.

  He placed the tip of his bloody katana against the monk's throat. "Sit."

  The monk glared at Matsuo. "I am not afraid to die."

  "I'm not going to kill you. Sit, or I'll send your left hand to keep the right company."

  The monk sat.

  Matsuo turned to me and pointed to the window. "Get the boys moving. I'll be right behind you. I want to have a few words with Shimazu-san before I leave."

  I nodded and went down the rope.

  * * *

  Shimazu could barely contain the frenzied rage exploding through him as he sat amid the bloodied bodies of his brothers of the Order and watched Matsuo stuff scrolls and record books into his sack.

  This traitor… this dog… he kills us, then he steals our secrets!

  The grief, the anger inside him… so intense… made him weak. He could barely speak.

  "Why are you taking those?"

  "Because without them no one will ever believe any of this ever happened."

  "It's futile to try to escape. Why not surrender and get it over with?"

  Matsuo looked at him. "Would you take me in trade for the lives of the children?"

  Shimazu was immediately suspicious. Was he truly offering himself to the Order?

  I will personally flay you alive, he thought, then calmed himself.

  He must consider this rationally. The Order still needed a few zasshu for its purposes, but it could afford to let these go. Others were easily available here in Hiroshima. But more than anything, the Order—and he, Shimazu—needed the younger Okumo eliminated. This night he had already done incalculable damage by laying waste to all the Inner Circles.

  The frenzy rose in Shimazu again as he realized that it would take a generation or more for the Order to recover from what this one man had done. No question now—Matsuo Okumo truly bore the seeds of the Order's destruction. He was infinitely dangerous. It was worth anything to remove him before he did more damage, worth anything for the opportunity to personally wring the life from him.

  "That is an interesting thought," Shimazu said in his calmest voice. "Very well." He held out his hand. "Give me your sword and there shall be no pursuit of the American and the children."

  "Oh, no," Matsuo said, shaking his head. "I don't trust you. I will only surrender to my brother."

  A trick? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  "Your brother alone?"

  He shrugged. "No. He can have Kempeitai or temple guards with him, I don't care. As long as Hiroki is there, I know I'll get a fair hearing."

  Yes, Shimazu thought, feeling the angry throb in his empty wrist and smelling the reek of death around him . . . fair and just. Justice will be done.

  "I shall send for him."

  "That won't be necessary. I will meet him later this morning. Eight o'clock. On the Aioi Bridge."

  "Why there?"

  "It is a public place." Matsuo smiled knowingly. "Less chance of treachery."

  The younger Okumo's caution allayed some of Shimazu's suspicions. This might work.

  "Very well. I shall tell him."

  "Tell him eight o'clock or not at all. I won't wait long."

  "He shall be there."

  "Good."

  And then he was out the window and gone.

  Shimazu sat unmoving amid the bodies of his fellow monks and felt his heart grow heavy within him.

  I weep for you, my brothers. You began the approach to the Hidden Face but were cut down before you were blessed with the sight of it. I shall avenge you, my brothers. Tomorrow the agonized cries of the one who did this shall comfort you in your sleep. This I promise you.

  He rose and stepped over the bodies to reach the door. He had to wake Hiroki at the inn where he was staying and prepare him for this meeting. Nothing would go wrong this time.

  * * *

  I stood in the bobbing rubber boat as Matsuo handed the children down to me one by one. They were happy and excited about going for a boat ride. When only Naka was left, he picked him up and cradled him in his arms and spoke softly to him.

  "Not much time, Matsuo," I said, looking at the ever-lightening sky. "Let's get moving."

  Still holding Naka, he turned and looked down at me. "We're not coming," he said in English.

  "What?" was all I could manage.

  "Naka is staying with me."

  I stood there, mute with shock. I hadn't expected anything like this. But the shock gave way to anger almost immediately. I ripped the .45 out of my holster.

  "Put my son down. You're both coming back to the sub."

  Matsuo smiled and handed Naka down to me. "That's what I wanted to hear, Frank. I told him you were taking him to his mother and I'd catch up later."

  All my insides sudden
ly twisted up into tight little knots.

  " ‘Later?’ There is no ‘later' for this city."

  He nodded. "I know."

  "You're staying? You're really staying?" I supposed I should have seen this coming. "You can't mean that."

  "Help Meiko take good care of him. Take good care of Meiko, too. You have a place in her heart. She loved you once. She can love you again."

  I wanted to scream at him, but I kept my voice low. "This is crazy. It proves nothing, accomplishes nothing. It's pointless."

  "Perhaps," he said softly. "But I must be here when that bomb is dropped." He jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder toward the houses and factories. "I must be with them."

  "They won't know the difference."

  "I will."

  I tried another tack—damn the time.

  "Look: you don't even know for sure that LeMay is going to keep his word. He could have the Enola Gay and the bomb on their way to Kyoto right now instead of here. I don't trust him and you shouldn't either."

  "I don't. That's why I gave him my solemn word that I would be standing on the Aioi Bridge at 8:00 A.M. this morning."

  "Ground zero."

  I felt a lead weight settle in my stomach. The proximity fuse would detonate the bomb eighteen hundred feet over the Aioi Bridge in the heart of Hiroshima.

  He smiled. "I don't think he'll be late."

  "Matsuo—"

  "Keep those books and scrolls we took from the Order. Someday you may want to tell about what happened here. They'll be your only proof." He squatted and reached down. "Good-bye, Frank."

  We shook hands. I wanted to say something, but my throat was locked. I wanted to cry.

  He said, "Thank you for coming back for me. It gave me a chance to say good-bye to Naka."

  "We're all square now?"

  "For my part, yes. And you?"

  "For my part, too." I wouldn't let go of his hand. "We're friends again?"

  He nodded. "Friends."

  The words poured out of me. I couldn't let go of him, couldn't let him stay here.

  "I haven't got any other friends, Matsuo. None at all. And now after all these years I've got back the best and only friend I ever had and I don't want to lose him."