by Jon F. Merz
Wirek stepped in, thankfully. "Tiny, have you heard of the Fixers?’
"Of course I’ve heard of them," said Tiny. "But again, we’re so far removed from the mainstream of our society up here, I always thought they were another legend."
"Well, then," Wirek smiled. "You’ve got yourself a legend riding next to you.".
Tiny looked at me again. "You’re a Fixer?"
"Yes. The boy’s father was supposedly committing crimes. I got the order to execute him. We found out later that it came from Arvella who wanted the father out of the picture."
"So she could get to the boy?"
"Yeah. Needless to say, I can’t let the boy down. I can’t fail in carrying out his father’s dying request. I have to find him and get him back. He’s too important to leave behind."
Tiny whistled. "That’s some karmic debt you’ve gathered for yourself there, Mr. Lawson. I guess we’d better get you both up to Lo Monthang on time to stop this Arvella woman."
"Thank you, Tiny," said Wirek.
"Answer me this, though," said Tiny. "What will you do with Arvella when you get up there."
"Hopefully, we’ll reason with her," I said. "Bring her back to the states and have her face the Council for her crimes."
"Think she’ll go along with that plan?"
"I don’t know."
"I doubt she will," said Tiny. "So, what if she refuses to go?"
I nodded at my back. "Then we’ll just have to resort to other measures."
Tiny’s jaw hardened. "Mr. Lawson, I think you and I are going to get along just fine."
Chapter Twenty-Six
We were climbing in altitude.
According to Tiny and Wirek, by the time we reached the Mustang region, we’d be traveling at heights of 3,488 meters. That’s pretty damned high. And seeing Everest in the far off distance scraping the sky at a level most commercial jets fly really made an impact on me.
The horses seemed unaffected by the altitude changes. As we trotted along, carving away the miles between us and our inevitable showdown, the horses just kept snorting and plodding along.
Tiny estimated one more night on the trail would put us within a day of Mustang. A few more hours the next day and we’d reach the outskirts of Lo Monthang.
Wirek and I strategized that we’d optimally need a day to set up an observation post. From there we could figure out our approach. Whether we’d have the luxury of that day or not remained to be seen.
The lush green fields that bordered every trail surprised me. According to Tiny, the Nepali people had long ago mastered irrigation techniques that brought the nurturing waters into every available acre of land. They grew an assortment of crops, harvested what they could, feeding some of it to the animals and their families, and then marketed the rest.
Between Wirek and Tiny, I had a running commentary of the land we passed. Tiny’s monologue seemed more recent. Wirek gave me a lot of history about the region that included tales of brave monks who sought to establish Buddhist monasteries in what had once been a predominantly Hindu land.
Around six o’clock we stopped for the day. The sun dipped lower in the sky, staining the white clouds pink and orange. I took a second to appreciate the beauty of the sunsets in this part of the world.
I hopped off my horse and rubbed my ass. After so much riding on hard leather saddles, the entire region felt numb.
"Got an itch?" asked Wirek with a smile.
"I can’t feel a thing back there. I think it’s totally numb."
Tiny came over and took the reins of our horses. "Just imagine how they feel, carting us around all day." He led the mounts to another grassy spot and got them set up with feed.
Wirek and I got the tent back up. Then Wirek went off looking for a concealed rock he could go to the bathroom behind.
By six-thirty, we’d built another roaring fire that spread
warmth in the shallow cul de sac we sat in. The cool winds felt stronger up here than the previous night. My breathing meanwhile seemed less labored. I guessed my lungs were acclimating to the altitude changes.
Tiny got out more packages for dinner.
"More yak meat?" I asked.
He nodded. "And the bread."
"Ah, the blood bread," said Wirek. "I could use some of that."
Tiny looked pained. "‘Blood bread?’"
"Well, does it have a name?"
"As a matter of fact, it’s called rotti."
"What’s that mean?" I asked.
"It means bread," said Wirek. He looked at Tiny. "Doesn’t it have a more descriptive name than that?"
Tiny shrugged. "Why should it? I know what I am referring to when I ask for it. So does my mother. Before you and Mr. Lawson here, no one else really ever knew about it. So it doesn’t need a special name."
I took a bite of the yak. "How about this?"
"That’s called chamri," said Tiny. "It means yak."
After dinner, Wirek pulled out his hip flask and passed it around. We each had a few pulls from it.
Tiny smiled. "This is good blood. Did you bring it from the states?"
Wirek looked a little uncomfortable. "Uh…not exactly."
I looked at him. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Well, we used up most of what I brought on the plane trip over, remember?"
"Yeahhhh…"
Wirek shrugged. "I had to go get more."
Tiny started chuckling.
I sighed. "You mean-"
Wirek nodded. "That night in Kathmandu when you went back to the hotel. I said I had some things to do…"
"Who’d you get to give up this much?"
"Parts of Kathmandu are kind of rough. Not really safe for tourists and stuff. I simply walked around until I found a stabbing victim."
"Stabbing victim?"
"Knives are a popular choice over here."
"Great."
Wirek sighed. "Listen to me, Lawson. I know that city like the back of my hand. I knew where to go to find what we needed. Aren’t you glad I did? After all, we might be in hard shape right now if I hadn’t."
I frowned. "Yeah, sure. I’m just not crazy about anyone possibly being able to deduce our presence from a stabbing victim missing more blood than his wound would have suggested."
"Come on, who the hell would even know what to look for? Tiny said himself the number of vampires in this region are scattered." He looked at Tiny. "How many you think live in the city?"
Tiny shrugged. "Only a few that I know of."
"Any chance you don’t know ‘em all?" I asked.
"Of course there is always that possibility," he said. "But I strongly doubt it. As I said, our network functions quite well around here."
I nodded. "Yeah, you did." I looked at Wirek. He looked upset. "Don’t sweat it, Wirek. I’m sure it’ll be okay. I just wish you would have told me is all. Let me know what you’re up to. Remember, I’m the one who deals with the subterfuge and conspiracies, okay?"
He grinned. "Yeah, okay. Sorry about that."
"It’s just that we don’t even know if this blood is safe or not."
Tiny laughed out loud. "Wow, you’re concerned about blood diseases? That’s funny."
"Aren’t you?"
He shook his head. "Not really. I think we can extract life force from anything. And the tests with AIDS on us haven’t proven much yet."
"It affects a small percentage of us," I said.
"Too small a percentage to worry about," said Tiny. "I’d be more concerned about tetanus from the knife blade. Not too many people in Nepal have AIDS anyway."
"Still a risk," I said.
Tiny nodded. "Well, risk sure seems something we can’t escape, eh?"
I smirked. "Good point."
Tiny dug out his pipe and passed it around. We each had a few drags and settled back into the grass, letting the stress of the day’s travel melt away.
Overhead, the stars came back out to play. Tiny watched the sky for minutes and frowned
most of the time. Wirek noticed him doing so and cleared his throat.
"See something troubling, Tiny?"
Tiny nodded. "You remember the story I told you about last night?"
"About the warrior chasing his enemies? Yes."
Tiny pointed skyward. "Look there. You see how much closer that constellation is to those stars to the left? It’s as if they’ve moved closer than they were last night."
I looked up, trying to see what he was looking at. From my perspective, they seemed about the same. But then again, I have never made much of a point of studying the night sky. I’m usually searching the gutters for slime balls.
Wirek seemed to notice though. "You’re right. I see what you mean."
I spoke up. "Listen guys, you sure the movements of the stars just don’t have anything to do with how the seasons come and go? I know as this planet spins through space our position changes in relation to the constellations and planets and stuff. You sure this isn’t just one of those instances?"
Tiny shook his head. "I’ve lived here my entire life when I wasn’t off serving in the army. I know how the sky changes throughout the year. I’m telling you this is different. It is not natural."
I glanced at Wirek who was still peering at the heavens. "Think it’s connected to the new millennium?"
His eyes never left the sky. "I’m not sure. I wish I’d brought some of my books along but there wasn’t time to do so. I also wish we knew exactly what Arvella had planned. It might explain some of this."
"No ideas?"
He shrugged. "Only what I said before. Remember, I’m not an Invoker and my experience with them is very limited. The only thing I think might be a possibility is that she’s trying to pool her powers with the boy’s. Together, they’d be able to summon some very powerful spirit forces." He nodded at the sky. "But I don’t know if it’s enough to alter the course of the heavens."
Tiny took another long drag on his pipe. In the darkness, the fire danced and spun around us, leaving fading dots before my eyes. The fatigue of traveling seemed to catch up with all of us at the same time. Wirek suddenly dropped off to sleep leaning against the log he’d claimed earlier as his dinner roost. Tiny’s eyes drooped and I felt like a lethargic blanket had covered my body.
Wirek and Tiny beat me to the tent so I volunteered to take first watch. Tiny and I rolled Wirek into his bag and then Tiny zipped up the tent flap leaving me alone with the fire and the night sky.
Far off in the distance, I thought I could see another fire burning somewhere. Possibly there were other trekkers out here. But Tiny had assured us they stuck to the more frequently traveled paths. Camping on those trails was rare due to what the Nepalese called "tea houses." They were small huts set up to shelter travelers as they trekked to and fro. Some were run by local villagers as an extra way to make some cash while others were freestanding units that were simply shelters with a fireplace.
The air around me still had the residual smell from Tiny’s tobacco. It made the night feel a little bit more homey. I took over Wirek’s log and leaned back into it.
I kept the bokken close by and pulled the tanto out of its sheath, looking at the light from the fire bounce off the finely honed steel blade.
As a rule I try not to interfere with humans and their lives. My role in vampire society has always been to preserve the Balance, that delicate conspiracy that keeps our existence as a people concealed from humans.
But there are times when I do allow myself to get drawn into human affairs. Japan in 1973 was one such instance.
I’d been over on an assignment to help support a Fixer operation that eventually got canceled. With a few extra days to myself, I wanted to grab some extra classes at the Kodokan Judo school in Tokyo. Riding the subway one night back to my hotel after some extra training, I’d witnessed what looked like three young thugs giving an elderly man a hard time.
I would have let the matter pass.
But for the knife that suddenly appeared.
The matter apparently escalated beyond a simple harassment.
Maybe it was the fact that I’d just come from a good vigorous workout at the Kodokan. Maybe it was because of the canceled operation. It could have been any number of things, but what it boiled down to was that I wanted some action.
I intervened.
The knife-wielding thug tried to stab me – coming at me with a straight stab. The knife was a long thin blade perfect for punching through vital organs.
I pivoted, used his momentum and sent him sprawling. The knife clattered away. They abandoned it, which told me they were either very stupid or very professional.
I didn’t have much chance to consider it. All three of them rushed me at once, intent on punching my brains out.
Multiple attackers are a lot easier to handle if you can use your environment to your advantage. In that case, I positioned myself by the door, forcing them to come at me from one direction.
It didn’t take much to tangle them up in each other. By the time we rolled into the next station, I sent them all out the door, sprawling to the platform floor.
It was only as I did so that I saw the intricate tattoo winding its way up one of the thug’s arms.
The old man leapt from his seat, discarding Japanese etiquette, and pumped my hand profusely, thanking me for helping him out. At the next station, he insisted on taking me out for dinner.
Outside in the Tokyo night air, he dragged me down alleyway after alleyway until I was completely lost. Tokyo, at best, is a difficult town to find your way around in. But once you start ducking down side streets and cul de sacs, any navigation skill goes out the window.
We stopped at what looked like a decrepit old wooden house with broken eaves and dangling gutters. The old man smiled when he saw my reaction but kept tugging me toward the shoji screen doors.
Inside was a different story.
A cleverly concealed restaurant awaited our patronage. Soft ambient lighting bounced off of small tables, tatami mats, and ornate scrolls.
I glanced around at the clientele and instantly knew I was probably the first gaijin ever to walk in there. The old man wasted no time explaining what had happened on the subway. We were soon seated at what must have been the best table, sipping warm sake and awaiting our food.
The culmination of the meal came in the form of a delicately prepared dish called fugu. The old man took great pains to explain how difficult it was to find such a fish prepared properly. The poison of the blowfish acts as a neuro toxin, shutting down the neurological system followed by respiratory and the cardiovascular. You’re basically paralyzed while you die.
Of course, the risk of being poisoned while you eat the fish is what makes the dish so attractive. The danger acts as its own adrenalizer. The old man chuckled when he told me that despite a number of deaths resulting from improperly prepared fugu each year, so far none of them had occurred at the restaurant we were in.
My first taste set my taste buds whirling.
As a rule, I’m not a big fan of seafood. I can’t stand shellfish, for example. But this fish tasted unlike anything I’d eaten before. It literally seemed to melt in my mouth, helped along with each sip of sake.
Before long my host and I were swapping war stories. He told me about his travels as a young man throughout Russia and Manchuria working for the Japanese government. I entertained him with some of my more daring exploits in Europe, edited for content, and exaggerated just enough to keep him enthralled.
The dishes soon dwindled. The crowds died down. But the sake continued to flow. The lighting seemed to darken as well. The old man leaned across the table and locked eyes with me.
"You are what we call a henna gaijin. Do you know what that means?"
"It translates as ’strange foreigner,’ doesn’t it?"
He smiled. "Perhaps that is its literal meaning, but we use it to denote a foreigner who seems to have an innate grasp of our culture." He leaned back and took some more sake. I refilled his cup
, per the demands of etiquette.
He nodded. "We see the ones everyday who come over here pretending to know everything about us. Some of them actually believe they will be accepted by our society one day. That we would actually think of them as Japanese. They’ve never learned that to a Japanese, an outsider is always an outsider – no matter how well they speak the language. No matter how many kanji they know, or how many Buddhist scriptures they study, they will never be Japanese." He shrugged. "Perhaps fate has dealt them a cruel hand denying them Japanese heritage. Perhaps they are just insecure, unable to feel comfortable in their own skin."
He leaned forward again. "But there are those rare foreigners who come over here and understand that. They never try to be Japanese, per se. They simply accept our culture and traditions for what they are while still remaining true to their inherent nature. They remain foreigners but have the respect for what we are about. Do you understand?"
"I think so."
He nodded. "You are one of these men."
"If you say so."
His eyes crinkled. "On top of this fact, you are also a warrior."
There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it. I’d foolishly spoken of my various jobs. I cursed the sake inwardly. Damned stuff was potent.
He went on. "For a warrior, there can be no doubt in his actions. Reaction and response become inseparable. Your sense of nagare – flow – intertwines with the harmony of the universe. You become one with everything around you. Tonight, you demonstrated that when you defended me from those Yakuza."
Shit. Now the tattoo on the thug made sense. I gulped. "They were Yakuza?"
He nodded. "Young guns. What we call teppo, bullets. They like to roust old guys like me."
"With knives?"
"Mostly for show, I think."
"Has that happened to you before?"
"No." He smiled. "Thanks to you, I’m sure it will be the last."
Getting involved with the Japanese Mafia was not one of the things on my must-do-while-in-Japan list. He must have sensed my apprehension because he chuckled.
"Do not worry about it. I’m sure they’d never say anything. If word got out they were beaten up by a gaijin, it would cause them too much loss of face. They’d be chastised by their oyabun in front of everyone in the gang."
