Late Summer, Early Spring

by Patricia Correll

  “Has anything about her rooms changed?”

  “I don’t think so, my lord. But the servants almost never go in there. Lady Kumomo prefers to do her own cleaning; she says it occupies her now her two boys are at school in Phoenix City.”

  “Thank you,” Hiroshi murmured. The servant bowed and withdrew. Hiroshi glanced at Iwata. “Let’s hurry.”

  There were three rooms in the suite: the sitting room, the dressing room, and the bedchamber. The first was the sitting room, a pleasant chamber with a table and cushions, a few books, flowers carefully arranged in vases, Kumomo’s koto. Iwata peered behind the wall scrolls and flipped through the books. Hiroshi examined every inch of the floor and walls, his nose almost touching the surfaces. They found nothing strange, and so moved on to the dressing room. They pawed through drawers of elegant kimonos and sashes, glanced under sandals and through boxes of baffling hair ornaments. Iwata scowled at his sunburned face in the mirror. “If she does her own cleaning, then she hasn’t bothered in a while. There’s dust everywhere. Those lazy servants should have noticed.”

  “Momo’s a meticulous housekeeper. At least she was; she did it all after our mother died.” Hiroshi’s face was stiff with tension. It made him look older than his twenty-four years. “We never could afford servants.”

  They folded the clothes back into place, Hiroshi with the swift precision he employed in everything. Iwata tried, but his fingers were clumsy and coarse.

  “Will you start on the bedchamber while I finish this?” Hiroshi rescued him. “We haven’t much time.”

  Iwata hesitated on the threshold. It was painfully strange, entering the bedchamber of Prince Narita’s favorite consort. He tried to imagine the prince in this delicate room, kneeling at the desk, looking at the portrait of his sons that hung on the wall, nodding respect to the ancestors’ altar against the wall, lying with Lady Kumomo on the sleeping mat. No, he decided. She must always have gone to him when they were together. The thought pulled his mouth into a frown.

  There was nothing on the desk, under the mat, behind the portrait. Hiroshi came in as Iwata was straightening the picture. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “That’s a good likeness of them.” He bowed his head to the picture. His smile faded. “Shiro, Daigo, I will find her. Don’t worry.”

  Iwata moved to the last piece of furniture, the altar. It held two mortuary tablets bearing the names of Hiroshi and Kumomo’s parents. Bundles of burning incense sent smoke coiling into the air and filled the area with clouds of cloying jasmine scent. A fine film of dust covered the altar, and the bunch of flowers that had been left as an offering was brittle. Iwata stared. If the false Lady Kumomo wouldn’t bother to clean or leave fresh offerings, why did she light the incense? Iwata bowed quickly to the tablets and knelt to peer under the altar. There was nothing beneath. Iwata nearly straightened up, but a smell, hovering near the floorboards beneath the jasmine smoke, caught his attention. He recognized the scent instantly; it made him grit his teeth. Behind him, Hiroshi moved toward the altar. Iwata turned on him before he came too close. “Hiro, go outside.”

  “Why?” Suspicion stamped Hiroshi’s expression. “What is it?”

  “Just go.”

  “No.” His eyes narrowed.

  Iwata sighed. Pain coursed up his leg; he bit it back. “Then help me pull up the floorboards.”

  Hiroshi’s lips parted slightly. For the briefest moment, a sick fear flooded his eyes. Then he swallowed hard. He crouched next to Iwata and forced his fingertips between two boards. Iwata took the other side. The floorboards were sanded and lacquered and hard to grasp. As they tried to lever the board free, Iwata saw Hiroshi’s mouth twitch. He’d smelled it too, and knew it for what it was. Yet his hands were steady as they wrenched up the first board.

  Beneath it was a fold of cloth; a woman’s kimono, printed with yellow butterflies. Hiroshi didn’t hesitate again. They yanked up a second board, then a third. Hiroshi reached for a fourth, but Iwata caught his hand. His fingertips were raw and smeared blood on Iwata’s palm. “Stop, Hiro. We have to leave her.”

  Hiroshi didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the space beneath the floorboards, where his sister lay.

  She’d been dead fully two weeks, and the summer heat had done its work on her body; it must have been some magic that kept her from smelling even worse than she did. Iwata recognized nothing of her but her hair, thick and shining even now. The melted, blackened flesh inside her collar was torn, as if by sharp teeth. A blood-soaked kimono was wadded next to her head. Iwata wrenched his gaze from the corpse and fastened it on Hiroshi. If he wept or cried out, Iwata would have to silence him. No one must suspect what they’d found.

  But Hiroshi’s face had settled into stone. Slowly, methodically, he began to fit the boards back into place. Iwata watched in silence. Hiroshi left his sister’s ruined face uncovered until the last.

  “I’m sorry, Elder Sister.” He bowed to the corpse. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He fitted the last board into place and looked at Iwata with new eyes, eyes that glittered like ice.

  “Help me kill it.” His voice was toneless, emptied of emotion. A cold lump formed in Iwata’s throat. He rose, holding out his hand to help Hiroshi up. Hiroshi didn’t take it, and Iwata let his hand fall.

  THEY WAITED in Lady Mari’s audience room for nearly an hour.

  “Go back to the inn,” Iwata had told Hiroshi in Lady Kumomo’s bedchamber, the stink of decay still lingering around them. “I’ll speak to Lady Mari. Go back.”

  But Hiroshi hadn’t answered. He’d stared rigidly at his hands. In the moment since he’d covered his sister, his eyes had glazed, his limbs gone stiff as stone. He’d risen as if he was made of wood, not looking at Iwata, and went to the door.

  Iwata knew fear; had known it many times. But Hiroshi’s flat gaze struck him with something not quite fear and not quite anger. He felt like a child who’d been pushed away. Hiroshi’s grief must have been drowning him, but he didn’t reach for Iwata, didn’t even seem to remember he was there.

  After an eternity, Lady Mari finally glided through the door. She didn’t kneel but stood before them, her hands folded at her waist. “Did you find what you sought in Lady Kumomo’s chambers?”

  Hiroshi made a noise, something between a snort and a bitter chuckle. Lady Mari’s head angled slightly toward him, but her gaze remained on Iwata.

  “We found all we needed, my lady,” Iwata replied.

  “Which you will confide to me when this matter is at an end.” She smiled wryly, but her words were an order. “I will tell you my news, then. The shrine master I consulted believes this creature is a fox. No other would have the power to shape-change into a human and do it so convincingly. I never noticed any difference. But then, I know very little about my husband’s consorts. I’m secretly a jealous woman, you see, and I try to avoid them.”

  Iwata swallowed his surprise; he’d never seen even a hint of jealousy from her. But then, women were even more carefully schooled in hiding their feelings than men. “No one noticed a difference, my lady. Only Captain Sagawara.”

  “Captain Sagawara.” She turned her gaze on Hiroshi, who didn’t seem to notice her scrutiny.

  “Lady Mari, does the priest know how we can drive this fox spirit away?” Iwata said, to draw her attention from Hiroshi’s silence.

  She frowned. “Foxes are powerful creatures, Lord General. But for a fox to do what this one has, it must be very old; at least six or seven hundred years. Unlike humans, they grow stronger with age. Every century gives them another tail, and greater magic. They’re malicious spirits who cause trouble for people simply because they can.”

  “I didn’t know all that.”

  “I’m not surprised, Lord General. Your interests are very narrow.” Her mouth tightened. “I have never heard of a human killing a fox. There are no legends or stories about it. The shrine master suggests that the best we can hope for is that it will grow bored w
ith the prince and leave of its own will.”

  Iwata’s mind worked furiously. There had to be something they could do. He couldn’t stand idly by waiting for the beast to tire of the prince. And the raw pain in Hiroshi’s eyes… that would settle for nothing less than blood.

  “We have to kill it.” Hiroshi spoke for the first time since Lady Mari entered. His voice was dry and brittle as old wood.

  They looked at him. His face was gray and looked gaunter than it had that morning. Eyes fixed to the floor, he repeated, “We have to kill it.”

  Lady Mari watched him a moment, but he said nothing else. She turned to Iwata, speaking in a low voice. “I don’t know what you found in Lady Kumomo’s chambers, but I can guess. No, it’s all right; I can see he doesn’t hear me. I don’t like what your discovery has done to your young captain. I daresay you hate it even more than I do.”

  “My lady.” Iwata sneaked a sideways glance at Hiroshi. He was staring blankly at the wall. “May we meet with the shrine master?”

  “I’ve already arranged for him to be here tonight when you come, under the pretense that he will pray with me.” She smiled. “We think alike, Lord General. I’ll be going now.”

  Hiroshi didn’t raise his head. Iwata said, “Captain, Lady Mari is leaving.”

  “Don’t stir him, Lord General. He has enough to bear just now.” Lady Mari hesitated. “Don’t allow him to do anything foolish, please.”

  When she was gone, Iwata rose and crouched in front of Hiroshi. “We can go now, Hiro.”

  Hiroshi blinked dazedly at him. “Sho?”

  “We can go.” He held out his hand. Hiroshi slowly took it. He allowed Iwata to pull him to his feet. Iwata gently steered him toward the door. Hiroshi leaned on him like an old man.

  They made their way back to the inn. As they passed through the front room, the landlady called out to Hiroshi, who usually paused to speak with her. But he hobbled past as if she didn’t exist. Iwata saw her pouting as he followed his lover to the stairs.

  In the room, Hiroshi kicked off his sandals and stood by the door, hands half-raised as if he didn’t know what to do or even where he was. Iwata was equally lost. Tentatively he stroked Hiroshi’s cheek. Look at me, he thought, suddenly sick with longing. Hiro, look at me.

  “We should sleep if we can,” he said. “We have to go back tonight to meet the priest.”

  “Yes,” Hiroshi murmured. “You’re right.” But he didn’t move.

  Iwata swallowed a flash of impatience. He reached out and slid Hiroshi’s katana from his sash. He laid it next to his own on the table, alongside his dagger. Hiroshi didn’t protest as Iwata unknotted his obi and slipped his black military kimono from his shoulders. His thin white under-robe was damp with summer sweat.

  Iwata crossed to the window and folded the shutters closed. Dimness enveloped the room. Hiroshi blinked at him.

  “Lie down,” Iwata snapped, annoyed by the dullness in Hiroshi’s eyes. As Iwata removed and folded his own kimono, Hiroshi sank down to the mat. He stretched out on his back and laid his hands on his chest, like a corpse on a bier. Iwata lay down beside him. Hiroshi’s eyes were open, but he saw nothing. If Iwata touched him, he might not even notice. Iwata closed his eyes and reached for sleep. It came to him eagerly.

  When he woke, the afternoon light still pressed at the cracks around the shutters. He hadn’t slept long; maybe two or three hours. His sleep was always deep and dreamless. What could have woken him? Hiro. He turned to where Hiroshi usually slept, his chest suddenly tight.

  Hiroshi was there, lying on his side with his back to Iwata. His shoulders trembled. And then Iwata heard it, soft as summer rain: the unfamiliar sound that had disturbed his sleep.

  Hiroshi was crying.

  Iwata didn’t move, didn’t know what he should do. He was used to things that broke cleanly: sword blades that snapped in two, bones that fractured and could be bound back together. But Hiroshi had broken into jagged splinters of raw grief. Iwata couldn’t bind him.

  He rolled over and touched Hiroshi’s shoulder. Hiroshi went stiff, his spine arching away from Iwata’s fingers. He took a shuddering breath. “Have you ever wept in your life?”

  Iwata thought of the long, poverty-stricken years of his childhood, his schooling under the prince, his life as a soldier. “Not that I can recall.” He gave Hiroshi’s braid a gentle tug, hoping his lover would face him, but Hiroshi drew farther away. Desperately Iwata caught his arm and pulled Hiroshi to him. Hiroshi tried to push him away, but his arms were shaking. Abruptly he surrendered, burying his face in Iwata’s neck, and began to sob. Iwata clutched him tightly. Hiroshi’s tears ran down Iwata’s skin into his collar. Hiroshi’s entire body shook when he laughed. It did the same when he cried.

  It was a long time before he ran out of tears. He rested his head on Iwata’s chest, limp with exhaustion. Iwata thought he’d fallen asleep until Hiroshi said, “Would you cry if Prince Narita died?”

  “I don’t know,” Iwata said truthfully. “I wouldn’t know until it happened.”

  “What if I died?”

  “I don’t know, Hiro.”

  Hiroshi’s fingers curled around the collar of Iwata’s robe. They lay tangled together in silence. Neither of them slept again.

  “MY LORD, I must counsel you against this course of action.” The shrine master was younger than Iwata had expected, perhaps his own age. His broad face was pale, as if he didn’t leave his shrine often. His shaved head gleamed in the lamplight. There was a novice with him, a boy of twelve or thirteen who was a smaller version of the master. “There are legends of humans who outwit foxes by trickery, but not a single story of a person killing one. I fear if you attempt it, you won’t survive.”

  “Captain Sagawara will be with me,” Iwata said curtly.

  The priest glanced at Hiroshi. Whatever he saw in that still, gray face didn’t seem to give him confidence. He sighed. “Lady Mari?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly. The priest turned back to Iwata. “We’ll do what we can to protect you, Lord General. But I won’t risk myself or my assistant in this.”

  “I understand, Brother. Your loyalty belongs to your god, as mine does to the prince.”

  “When does the creature come to Prince Narita?”

  “The Hour of the Lotus.”

  “The first hour of the new day. That’s when the spirit world is most powerful.” The priest rose. His orange robe fell only to his knees, revealing sinewy legs and bare feet. “But it gives us time to prepare. Come, Ishikawa. Lord General, Captain, you as well. You must see what we do.”

  They followed the shrine master and his assistant to Prince Narita’s chamber. Everything was as it had been the night before but for a small writing desk set by the sleeping mat. It held a roll of paper, an ink stick, an ink stone, a cup of water, and a brush. The paper was blank.

  “He woke earlier this afternoon,” Lady Mari explained. “He was very weak, but he asked for writing things so he could compose his death poem. But by the time the servant brought the paper, he was asleep again. I had him leave it, in case the prince woke again.”

  His death poem. The prince must be sure he was going to die very soon. Prince Narita’s face was wasted, shriveled; his lidded eyes protruded grotesquely from their sockets. The gray had crept from his temples to behind his ears. His breath rattled in his gaping mouth, but so shallowly that his mound of blankets didn’t even move.

  Hiroshi was right. The prince couldn’t survive another encounter with the fox. The beast had to die, for the prince, and for Lady Kumomo. Iwata looked to Hiroshi, wanting him to see the realization in his face. But he was watching the priest and the boy, grimly attentive.

  The boy went to each corner of the room, pressing a long yellow slip of paper to the wall. It was covered in the elaborate, beautiful characters known only to priests. The shrine master followed him, bowing his head before each ward, folding his hands and murmuring long strings of words: prayers or spells, or maybe the
re was no difference. When they were finished with the walls, they moved to the prince. The priest drew a tiny clay jar from some pocket in his robe and poured its contents—a white powder—into his hand. He let it sift through his fingers to the floor, walking around the mat so it formed a white circle surrounding the prince.

  “Sea salt.” Lady Mari had come silently up behind him. The men bowed slightly as she stepped between them. “Foxes are spirits of the earth. The sea salt may confuse it, perhaps long enough to give you a small advantage. And now they are placing wards around my husband, as they did the walls. I don’t know what he says. Shrine maidens were never taught magic. Our duty was to keep the shrine neat for visitors.” There was an edge of resentment in her tone. Iwata was surprised. In all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen her express a glimmer of discontent or anger or even irritation.

  The priest returned, the boy at his heels. “I will place a spell on your weapons as well. Human steel can harm spirit creatures, but it won’t do much damage. This spell may help. We’ll also place a ward on the door and others on the windows to prevent it from escaping. Then we will go.”

  “Thank you, Brother.” Iwata bowed.

  Hiroshi roused himself. “Thank you.”

  They placed the wards; then the priest asked Iwata and Hiroshi to draw their swords. He traced complex characters on the blades with his fingertips, leaving behind figures that shimmered like flame before fading into invisibility. A tremor shivered up the katana, into Iwata’s wrist. The room smelled faintly like the air after a lightning strike. Remembering his dagger—carefully cleaned since its last use—he offered it to the priest as well. The shrine master wrote his spell on it too.

  Lady Mari saw the priest and his assistant to the door. When she returned, they all stood staring at Prince Narita as he fought to breathe.

  “I wonder what he was going to write,” Lady Mari said finally.