Late Summer, Early Spring
Page 18
“Hiro!” Iwata crawled over the lashing tails. He tasted metal but didn’t know whose blood it was.
He landed in knee-deep water. Rocks slid under his feet. He made his way to the fox’s head. Its mouth was still closed around Hiroshi’s forearm, but he’d still managed to drape his body over the beast’s neck. With his free hand, he struggled to hold the thing’s massive head underwater. The fox’s eyes rolled back. Hiroshi’s blood, black in the moonlight, stained its muzzle.
Hiroshi was soaked, his hair hanging lank around his face. His features were drawn in pain, but his eyes blazed with fury. “Cut its throat.”
Iwata angled himself beside Hiroshi, their shoulders pressing together. Hiroshi’s muscles strained against Iwata’s arm as he fought to push the fox’s head back, exposing its throat. But Iwata hesitated. If the beast felt death approaching, its jaws might spring open or snap shut, severing Hiroshi’s hand.
“Do it!” Hiroshi snarled.
The hilt of his katana pressed into his palms. Iwata adjusted his grip, turning the curve of the blade to the fox’s throat. Wet fur stuck out in spikes. Hiroshi grunted as he forced the pointed head back. Iwata placed the edge of his sword against the fox’s neck, pressing to separate the fur. When he felt the resistance of flesh, he slashed the katana across the fox’s throat, swinging his arm high to bring the blade free.
The skin parted smoothly. Silver blood spurted from the wound, spraying Iwata and Hiroshi. The fox’s jaw opened wider than Iwata would have thought possible, as if it was trying to howl, but the only sound it made was a wet, tortured gurgling. Hiroshi, his arm freed, stumbled back. The fox jerked and thrashed. The blood continued to flow, pumped out by the creature’s own treacherous heart.
It was a long time dying. The creature fought to regain its feet, then to lift its head. Finally it lay still.
Iwata turned to Hiroshi. He was on his feet but swaying slightly, his gaze locked on the dead fox. His kimono sleeve was shredded, his arm bloodied to the elbow. It hung ominously limp at his side. His expression was blank. Iwata jammed his naked sword into his sash and put his arms around Hiroshi. For a long moment, Hiroshi stood still and rigid, though Iwata could feel his heart fluttering like a frantic bird. Then he blinked, his eyes focusing on Iwata’s face. Without a word he buried his face in Iwata’s neck, his body sagging with exhaustion. His shoulders heaved with sobs. Iwata stroked his hair. It was soaked and tangled with the fox’s blood. They were both covered in gore. Iwata’s robe clung to his skin, and his eyes burned with the seawater that trickled out of his hair.
“Daigo,” Hiroshi gasped suddenly.
Iwata released him. Hiroshi splashed around the creature’s carcass, calling hoarsely. “Daigo!”
“I’m here.” The voice was faint.
Daigo leaned against the carcass, still hanging on to the spear with one hand. His face was white in the moonlight. “Is it dead?”
“Yes.”
The young man blinked dazedly. “Uncle, you’re hurt.”
Hiroshi pointed to Daigo’s arm. “So are you.”
Daigo raised his hand, frowning. He stared at it as if it belonged to someone else. Three of his fingers were gone.
IWATA TIED a strip of cloth around Daigo’s hand to stop the bleeding. He built a fire and boiled water while Hiroshi helped Daigo back to the tree line. The young man slumped against a tree, his eyes fluttering closed. Iwata cleaned the wounds as best he could. Hiroshi shook Daigo awake to drink a cup of tea while Iwata bandaged his hand with strips torn from his own blanket.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Daigo muttered.
“It will,” Iwata said grimly.
Hiroshi wiped the sweat and blood from his nephew’s face and hands. Daigo’s clothes were spattered with blood both silver and red. But they didn’t know where he’d stowed his possessions, and now that the worst was over, his eyelids were sinking. Iwata laid out Hiroshi’s blanket next to the remains of his own and helped Daigo lie down. Hiroshi sat next to him, holding Daigo’s injured hand in his lap to help stop the bleeding.
Iwata examined his lover’s arm. Four deep puncture wounds bled sluggishly. But Hiroshi’s forearm didn’t feel broken, at least.
“My sword arm.” Hiroshi frowned, but he sounded too weary to be bitter. “Not that I have a sword.”
Iwata turned to their small pile of belongings, searching for something else to use as a bandage. Hiroshi sucked in a sharp breath. “Sho, your back.”
He reached, twisting his arm awkwardly. The back of his robe was torn, and his fingers touched the ragged ends of torn skin. The fox’s claws must have gouged him when it batted him to the ground. The sting had been absorbed into the general ache that still pulsed throughout his body.
Hiroshi held out his free hand. “Let me clean it.”
His touch was gentle, but the scrape of cloth on his torn skin made Iwata growl deep in his throat. Hiroshi paused, then continued slowly. “Last time the fox wounded you, you were cold. Your skin was like ice under my hands for days.”
Iwata closed his eyes. Hiroshi’s touch was showing him just how tired he was. The marrow-chilling cold of his old injuries flitted through his body like a ghost. “You’re not cold, nor is Daigo. It’s dead now. It doesn’t have power over us anymore.”
“Daigo—”
“I’ll leave at first light. I’m mostly uninjured, so I can reach the village quickly and bring back help.”
Daigo twitched. A low moan rose in his throat. Hiroshi watched him intently until he settled. Only Daigo slept that night, a pained and restless sleep.
BEFORE HE left them, Iwata went to see the fox again.
It lay where it had fallen, lapped by the endless waves. It had almost completely rotted overnight. Even the smell, musty and sour, was that of something long dead and not a fresh kill. Yellowed bones protruded like tent poles, draped with blackened skin and soggy fur. The red tips of its tails had bleached as white as the rest of it. He looked for the skull. Only the tip of its muzzle was visible beneath the fur. The creature’s blood on his kimono had turned black.
It looked no different from any other dead animal. Iwata turned away and hiked back to the fire, where Daigo hunched over his injured hand, face shiny with sweat. “I’ll be back soon.”
Hiroshi kissed him. “I know.”
THEY WERE ambling slowly down the beach, breathing in the scent of approaching summer. It had been half a month since the fox’s death. But Mistress Noriko still refused to let them do any work, so they’d taken to walking along the beaches, avoiding the forest by tacit agreement.
“How’s your arm?” Iwata lifted Hiroshi’s arm in both his, examining it. The bite marks had faded, leaving faint whitish patches on his skin. From experience, Iwata knew these would disappear soon, leaving no trace of the fox’s wounds.
“Stiff.” Hiroshi flexed his fingers.
Iwata planted a kiss on the inside of his wrist before releasing him. The warm sand shifted beneath his bare feet. The sea was a vivid, almost painful blue. Above, benevolent white clouds piled upon each other.
Hiroshi gazed past him at the sea. Beneath his tan, his skin was pale, and the scar on his face stood out starkly. Dark circles ringed his eyes. Since they killed the fox, he woke every night, sweating and gasping. Iwata held him until he calmed, saying nothing. For years Hiroshi had been chasing the fox, seeking vengeance for his sister. It would take time for him accept that it was over.
They were leaving the island in two days. Daigo had proposed marriage to Kyoko while the healer sewed up the ragged stumps where his fingers had been. He’d begged Hiroshi and Iwata to stay for the wedding. They agreed, even though Iwata was restless to return to the mainland. He was sick of the smell of fish.
“Will you go back to the army?” Hiroshi spoke suddenly. “The prince’s son would be grateful to have you.”
“You’re not going back.”
Hiroshi shook his head, his mouth twisting sadly. “I can’t. Not after… all this.”
“No. I’m not Lord General Iwata anymore. I told you.”
Hiroshi stopped walking. He considered Iwata thoughtfully. He’d shed something, Iwata saw, some burden. “Then what will you do?”
“Discover more information about that ship. The sailors’ families deserve to know they weren’t merely lost at sea.”
“And then?”
“Inform your other nephew of what’s happened.”
“And after that?”
“I don’t know, Hiro.” Iwata faced him. A faint smile, the first Iwata had seen on him since the fox’s death, touched Hiroshi’s face.
“We’ll think of something together,” Hiroshi said, and leaned forward to kiss Iwata.
About the Author
PATRICIA CORRELL believes that all humans are natural storytellers. She’s been telling tales since she could string words together, but in the last thirty years or so has graduated from My Little Pony stories to the unholy trinity of fantasy, SF, and horror.
She lives with her husband, their sons, and a fifteen-pound calico cat. When she’s not writing, she spends her time being a stay-at-home mom, occasionally working at a bookstore, and trying to make her cat lose weight (which is almost impossible to do). She also eats lots of ice cream, pretends to be a gardener, and possesses staggering amounts of Hello Kitty merchandise. She likes maxi dresses because they hide both her fat calves and her two-pregnancy stomach.
Contact Patricia:
E-mail: anakhouri79@gmail.com
Google+: Patricia Correll
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