Iwata loosened his grip. It was the same thing Kaji had said.
“I’m here now,” he said, and bent to kiss him again.
He helped Hiroshi wash, his fingers lingering on the new scars. When he finished, Hiroshi climbed into the wooden tub, propping his bandaged arm on the lip. Iwata stripped and rubbed the soap over his salt-crusted skin, wrinkling his nose at the scent of jasmine. He dropped his stiff robe in a heap with Hiroshi’s clothes and stepped into the tub with Hiroshi. The water was warm, soothing his aching muscles. Hiroshi held out his good arm, and Iwata leaned against him. Hiroshi wrapped his arm around Iwata’s chest and turned his head, pressing his face into Iwata’s neck.
They sat that way as the water cooled around them. Finally they clambered out of the tub, dried, and dressed. Daigo was sleeping when they returned. They treaded lightly past the door of his borrowed bedchamber to the storeroom, where Kyoko had laid out two sleeping mats.
IWATA’S SLEEP was dense and dreamless. When he woke, the light that filtered in beneath the door glowed faintly orange. The storeroom was narrow, and made narrower by the shelves set against either wall. They were piled with dusty bags of rice flour, dried fruit, and bundles of reeds to be woven into mats. It smelled richly of rice and grass, not quite strong enough to deaden the scent of jasmine that clung to them.
The night before, Hiroshi had pushed the sleeping mats together and slipped out of his sling, laying his broken arm flat beside him. Iwata stretched out beside him and reached out to stroke his newly smooth cheek. Hiroshi’s eyelids sank as he leaned into the touch. After only a few minutes, his breathing evened. Iwata watched him sleep until his own eyes refused to stay open.
Sometime in the previous hours, they had changed position. Hiroshi had rolled onto his side and thrown off his blanket. Iwata was on his back. Now he reached for Hiroshi’s limp figure and pulled him close. He buried his face in Hiroshi’s hair, trying to shut out the light for a few more minutes.
“Am I truly awake before you?” Hiroshi sounded drowsy.
“Of course not. You always sleep too late.”
“It’s my only failing as a soldier, Lord General Iwata.”
“I’m not Lord General Iwata.” Iwata pressed his lips to Hiroshi’s neck, feeling his lover shudder against him.
Hiroshi’s voice was hoarse. “Who are you, then?”
“I’m Iwata Sho, Sagawara Hiroshi’s lover.” He propped himself on his elbow, giving Hiroshi room to roll over, and pressed his teeth into the skin of Hiroshi’s shoulder.
A tiny smile quirked one corner of Hiroshi’s lips. Iwata bent to kiss him, and Hiroshi met him eagerly, forcing Iwata’s lips apart with his tongue. With one hand Hiroshi fumbled with Iwata’s sash until Iwata pushed him away and untied it himself. Immediately Hiroshi’s good hand was stroking his skin, exploring Iwata’s body as if it was wholly new to him. Iwata shrugged out of his kimono and kicked off the blanket. Gently he pushed Hiroshi down to the floor, his hands roving over Hiroshi’s body, the taut muscles beneath the skin, and the slightly raised patterns of his scars. Hiroshi tasted of salt and faintly of jasmine.
Hiroshi drew in a panting breath. Iwata brushed sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “How’s your wrist?”
“Hurts.” Hiroshi trailed his fingers across Iwata’s stomach. “But I don’t care.” His hand moved down to caress Iwata’s hip, then lower.
And for a while there was nothing but Hiroshi’s hands on Iwata’s body, Hiroshi’s breath on his skin, and Hiroshi’s name in his mouth.
THEY LAY tangled together until the light beneath the door disappeared. Hiroshi lifted his head from Iwata’s shoulder. “We should speak to our hosts.”
Iwata growled and pulled him closer. Their bare skin was slick with sweat where it touched. Hiroshi kissed him but resisted when Iwata tried to deepen it. “Sho….”
“All right.” Iwata sighed.
Hiroshi got to his feet and reached for their clothes, which they had unceremoniously dumped in a pile. Iwata tied his sash for him and adjusted his sling, then pulled back his own hair. He had no inclination to pull it up into his customary topknot.
Kyoko sat next to the fire, sipping tea. Across from her knelt an older woman. She had a wide leathery face that looked similar enough to Kyoko’s that Iwata saw at once they were mother and daughter. The old woman studied them over the rim of her teacup. Kyoko smiled hesitantly at them. If she didn’t know what they’d done in the storeroom, she suspected.
“Master Sagawara, Lord General, I apologize for offering you such poor accommodations.”
Hiroshi bowed. “It’s perfect, Mistress.”
“Are you hungry?” Kyoko twisted her fingers nervously. “You look very different, Master Sagawara.”
“Is my nephew awake?”
“I’m afraid he’s sleeping again. The healer said that was best. Let me cook you something.” Kyoko rose. The old woman coughed pointedly. “Oh, Mother, this is Master Sagawara, Master Daigo’s uncle. He and Lord General Iwata survived the funa-yurei attack too.”
“Survived the funa-yurei?” The old woman squinted at them. “That’s a feat. Did you have a ladle for them or not?”
“No.” Iwata had forgotten the creature’s strange question.
“So you can talk.” The woman smiled, and her wrinkled face gained even more creases. “I wouldn’t fret over it. If you’d had one, they would have used it to swamp the boat. There’s no defeating those demons.”
Hiroshi accepted the cup of tea Kyoko offered. “We’re immensely grateful for your kindness, Mistress.”
“Noriko. We don’t bother with fancy family names out here, young man. Everyone on this island knows everyone else. None of the other houses have room for three more men. Though you two don’t seem to mind sharing a bedchamber.” She grinned wickedly.
Iwata raised his eyebrows.
“No, we don’t mind.” Hiroshi gave her a conspiratorial half smile. Mistress Noriko chuckled.
“Master Daigo told us a little about why you’re here, but I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t dreaming. Tell me about this creature you seek and if it’s dangerous to my village.”
He did, while Kyoko bustled around them, putting pots on the fire, stirring, and apologizing when she had to lean over them. Iwata let Hiroshi speak. Mistress Noriko listened intently, her expression still as stone.
When he paused she said, “We’d heard of the third prince’s consort, even here. They say she was the most beautiful woman in the empire.”
“She was, Mistress. And she left two young sons when the fox killed her.”
“Master Daigo,” Kyoko murmured sadly.
“And it also killed the entire crew of the wrecked ship after taking the form of one of them. So it’s a matter of time before it murders one of my villagers.” Her eyes narrowed. “You say you’ve been tracking it for years. Did it come to this island to flee you?”
Hiroshi’s voice was dry with bitterness. “It’s never feared me. I only follow in its wake.”
“We fought it and wounded it. No other man can claim that.” The skeptical look on the old woman’s face irritated Iwata. “You can be as suspicious as you like, but we’re your best hope for ridding you of the thing.”
Mistress Noriko studied him, her gaze curious. He schooled his face into impassivity. She nodded. “Though with two of you wounded, saving us all might fall to you, Lord General.” She rose. “They’re cremating those poor sailors on the beach. The ship as well. We’re going down to watch the bier. Come, daughter.”
Kyoko set bowls in front of them, bobbing her head shyly. “I hope this tastes all right. If Master Daigo awakes….” Was that a blush creeping up her neck, or the firelight? “Please tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Kyoko!” Mistress Noriko barked from the entranceway. Kyoko jumped up and scurried out of the room.
They waited until the rustling of coats and sandals subsided. As soon as the outer door slid shut, they both snatched up the bowls. H
iroshi balanced his on his knees and levered his chopsticks with his good hand.
Iwata watched him over the rim of his own bowl. Even half-crippled, he moved with the grace that had caught Iwata’s interest the first day they’d met. The noodles were steeped in slightly bitter green tea, steaming hot. He burned his mouth on the first bite but was too hungry to care. For a time there was no sound but their slurping.
Finally Hiroshi paused for breath. “Mistress Noriko seems to like you.”
Iwata scowled at him. Hiroshi chuckled. “Kyoko seems to like my nephew. It’s a shame she’s so much older than him. She’s at least thirty, and he’s only eighteen.”
“You have a problem with one lover being older than the other?” Iwata had lived twenty years before Hiroshi was even born.
“It’s different with men and women. They have to think about bearing children.”
When their bowls were empty, Iwata refilled them from Kyoko’s pot. They devoured them just as quickly as before. As Iwata washed the dishes, Hiroshi wandered to the door and went outside. Iwata dried the bowls and put them on the shelf. Then he joined his lover.
The air was chill. Hiroshi stood on the path, a black silhouette against the darker night. The forest surrounding the village reached bony, leafless branches into the star-speckled sky. Iwata slipped an arm around his waist.
“Look.” Hiroshi leaned against him. “We can see the cremation from here.”
He was right. Iwata made out a faint orange glow above the skeletal trees and a twisting column of black smoke blotting out the stars in a thick line. It must be the ship burning. “Finally they show some respect for the dead.”
“You shamed them,” Hiroshi said. “I should see if Daigo’s awake.” But he didn’t move.
Iwata rested his chin on Hiroshi’s shoulder. He didn’t want to go back inside to Daigo. He wanted only to stand there beneath the stars, Hiroshi’s warmth pressed close to his side, listening to the faint cries of owls in the trees. For a few minutes, they were silent. Iwata closed his eyes, pushing the fox to some lost corner of his mind.
Hiroshi turned his head. His lips brushed Iwata’s face as he spoke. “Can we kill it before it hurts anyone here?”
His heart beat steady and strong beneath Iwata’s hand. “We can’t do anything about it tonight,” Iwata murmured. When Hiroshi opened his mouth to speak again, Iwata caught his lips in a kiss, stifling whatever he’d been going to say. Hiroshi’s heartbeat pulsed faster.
When they finally went inside, they were both glad to find that Daigo was still asleep.
“IT’S SO much shorter than a katana, it ruins my balance,” Hiroshi complained, pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead. He held out his splinted wrist and frowned. “At school we were taught the katana. The wakizashi is only used for parrying.”
“It can be done,” Iwata snapped. “The edge is every bit as sharp as a katana’s blade. But because the reach is less, you’ll have to maneuver close to the beast before it can really be effective. You’re quick enough to do it.”
Hiroshi curved the fingers of his left hand, stretching them cautiously. It had been a month since the healer had bound up his swollen wrist, and to Iwata’s eye, it looked much better. The visible skin was no longer purple, and Hiroshi seemed to gain more movement in his fingers every day.
Iwata took a stance. Hiroshi, still studying his hand, didn’t notice until Iwata growled, “Defend!”
But his years hunting the fox had only honed his skill. By the time Iwata had closed the distance between them, he’d dug his heels into the sand and raised the wakizashi. The two blades met with a clang. At the edge of his vision, Iwata saw the white dog’s ears twitch where it lay in the shade beneath a tree. Even with one hand unusable, Hiroshi was strong. Iwata pressed as far as he dared. Hiroshi’s sword wavered but held steady. Iwata fixed his gaze on Hiroshi’s face—his lips pressed tight in concentration, his nose slightly wrinkled. He saw the faint flash in Hiroshi’s eyes that signaled his intention. When he twitched his good wrist to slide his blade down Iwata’s and free his weapon, Iwata stepped away and swung his katana low. Hiroshi blocked the blow, but he winced as the impact shuddered up his arms. Iwata backed away, lowering his katana to show he was finished. Hiroshi straightened up, flexing his fingers. He regarded the wakizashi with dislike before offering the hilt to Iwata, who tucked it into his sash.
Hiroshi would simply have to get used to the short sword. No one on the island owned a real weapon. Iwata could fight reasonably well with a wakizashi, but he’d never switch. Hiroshi knew better than to ask for another man’s katana.
“How’s your wrist feel?” Iwata nodded at the white bandage.
Hiroshi smiled ruefully. “It hurts now, since you jarred it. But I still have eight days before the healer will take off the splint.”
They turned their steps back toward the path that connected this rocky stretch of beach to the village. Hiroshi glanced at a wide flat rock that jutted out into the water. “We impressed our audience today.”
Iwata snorted. He didn’t look, but he could feel the collective gaze of the three little boys and one girl who were too young to work on the boats with their parents. At least one always kept watch, so when Iwata and Hiroshi headed for the empty beach, they followed. They sat on the rock, quiet as sleeping cats, watching the men with wide eyes. Iwata ignored the children, but Hiroshi sometimes spoke with them.
It wasn’t their scrutiny that annoyed Iwata—he’d spent years teaching and sparring under similar watchful gazes—but that the children deprived him of an hour alone with Hiroshi. Even now, a month after they’d arrived on Kakuo, Iwata had yet to shake his wonder that Hiroshi was his again. He craved whatever time he could spend alone with him, whether on a sleeping mat or exercising Hiroshi’s healing arm.
The dog trotted between them, tongue lolling foolishly. Hiroshi grinned at her. “You really should name her, Sho.”
Iwata shrugged. The white dog continued to haunt his footsteps, and he’d found his hand wandering to her angular head more and more often. “She responds to ‘Dog.’”
“She needs a real name.”
Iwata looked at the dog. She blinked up at him, her tail quivering. Her brown eyes glistened wetly in the white cloud of her face. “Snow.”
“Snow?”
“She’s white.”
A smile touched Hiroshi’s face. It was a mere ghost of the grin he’d given so freely before Lady Kumomo died, but it settled Iwata’s heart. He wanted to catch Hiroshi’s hand, pull him close, but he was sharply aware of the children tagging behind, whispering to themselves, fascinated by the militant strangers who’d washed up on their shore.
They emerged from the cool tunnel of trees into a warm spring sun. The children scattered to their chores and games. Hiroshi and Iwata crossed the village to the head’s home, where Daigo washed rice on the front steps.
“Good morning, Uncle, my lord.”
“Nephew.” Hiroshi crouched in the dusty square before the door, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I asked again, but this village has nothing resembling a proper weapon. Axes, knives, those short spears they use for the big fish….”
Hiroshi frowned. Iwata knew he’d been hoping some villager had inherited a katana from some ancestor who’d soldiered on the mainland.
Daigo swirled the rice around again and lifted the mesh basket out of the bucket. Cloudy water trickled from its bottom. His expression darkened. “A woman looking for herbs found another of those spotted deer. Its throat was torn open, but it hadn’t been eaten.”
Iwata turned to glare at the solid green wall that encircled the village. Three deer in the past month, none devoured. The thing had grown weary of waiting for them to attack, he supposed. It had decided to taunt them. He stared at the trees until his eyes ached, but the fox remained hidden. It hadn’t yet come near enough to the village to trigger his reaction, but Iwata doubted it would abide much longer.
“Where are you?” he
hissed. The others looked at him, and he realized he’d spoken aloud.
The house door slid aside, and Kyoko stepped out. A scarf bound back her hair. She held a basket of clothing on one hip. As the month progressed, she’d begun to seem younger. “Master Daigo, thank you. Would you be kind enough to gather some eggs from the chickens?”
“Of course, Mistress.” Daigo rose stiffly. He smiled ruefully at Iwata and Hiroshi. “When I begged the Lord General to allow me to accompany him, I didn’t think I’d be doing chores.”
“Do you have anything for us to do?” Hiroshi turned his charming smile on her.
She brushed a stray lock of hair from her temple. “I suppose…we could use more wood for the fire. If you and the Lord General wouldn’t mind, of course.”
“Certainly.”
Iwata had been out to gather wood with Hiroshi before. They would be alone. Even the threat of the fox lurking among the trees couldn’t disturb his contentment.
As they turned to go to the shed where the ax was kept, Iwata saw Kyoko lay her hand on Daigo’s shoulder. He said something to her that made her laugh, her face flushing pink. Hiroshi saw too. He frowned as they ducked into the shed.
They retrieved the ax and the bag Hiroshi would sling around his shoulder to carry the wood Iwata chopped. They crossed to an opening where a narrow path cut through the forest to a meadow. Hiroshi walked next to Iwata, jostling him with his shoulder. The foliage overhead absorbed the spring warmth, and a shiver raced over Iwata’s skin. As if he sensed his lover’s sudden chill, Hiroshi slipped his hand into Iwata’s. Iwata blinked at him, startled, but Hiroshi was staring straight ahead. Holding hands was for children and women—a weakness to seek comfort like that. But here, alone with Hiroshi among the trees, it didn’t feel like weakness.
“Daigo shouldn’t form an attachment right now,” Hiroshi said. “Not when we’re so close to the fox.”
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t have formed an attachment either.” None of them might live through the coming confrontation.
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 14
