“Isn’t he remarkable?” chuckled the Crimson Robe, guiding the mummy to its place in front of Shūhan. “I found him twenty years ago at Yudono. I didn’t even know anyone still practised the art of sokukamibutsu. Don’t mind him, it will take him a few minutes to warm up,” he remarked as the mummy settled uneasily on the floor.
“When alive, he was a celebrated monk at the Chūren Temple. I have observed him for three years. Do you know what they do there? It’s really quite admirable. They starve themselves for years, living on nothing but berries and nuts. Then for a thousand days they only drink tea made from the sap of the lacquer tree. That mummifies them from the inside. Imagine the pain! After that, they seal themselves in airtight tombs until they finally die.”
“The disciples wait for another thousand days before opening the coffin and venerating the mummy, but I did not wait that long. I opened the tomb after five hundred days, just enough for poor Tetsu to attain the Third Power, the Knowledge of Minds. That’s when I turned him into my slave.” He patted the mummy with a smile. “It was easy enough, as he was already dead anyway!” He chuckled, boastfully. “It looks like he’s almost ready.”
Shūhan looked at the creature before him with deep compassion. Here was a monk of such rare piety and devotion that he had managed to fully perform the deadly sokukamibutsu ritual. If left undisturbed, he would no doubt have become a living incarnation of Butsu and now be venerated in a temple of his own. Instead, the wretched creature was suspended halfway between mortal life and Enlightenment, a fate a hundred times worse than simply dying.
As he reflected on the sorry state of the monk, the wizard felt a probing presence in his mind. He could do nothing about it. The mummy stared at him with the gaping eyeholes, reading his every hidden thought with such ease as if his mind was an open book.
The Crimson Robe spoke again, this time addressing Tetsu.
“Where is the Gaikokujin?”
In his head, Shūhan saw a kaleidoscope of random scenes from the recent past as the mummy browsed through the memories searching for the ones that would best answer the question. Eventually the wretched monster opened its ever-smiling jaws and produced a croaking struggling sound that could hardly be recognised as speech.
“In a large shrine on the mountain top.”
“Suwa. I thought so. What is he doing in Yamato?”
There was another quick browse through the wizard’s memories and the creature croaked again.
“He is cast away on a beam of light. Lost. Alone.”
“What do you mean on a beam of light?”
“It has been said so.”
“How odd. Does he know anything more about the Gaikokujin?” the golden-eyed man asked, nodding at Shūhan. “Tell me all. What are his plans?”
“It is not known.”
“What about the Shard?”
“It is not known.”
The monk jolted back as if startled by something in the wizard’s mind.
“What is it?”
“It has been said the boy flies on a ryū.”
“A dragon rider? Now that is interesting, but where’s the dragon?”
“It is not known. The boy is alone.”
“You don’t really know much, eh?” The Crimson One leaned over Shūhan. “All right, no point in torturing poor Tetsu anymore. You may go.”
The mummy rose slowly and made its hobbling way to the exit.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” The Crimson One smirked at the wizard. “I think I’ll keep you here. If you play nicely, I may even ungag you and we can have a proper conversation.”
The wizard was left alone. He was satisfied with how the interrogation had gone. It had been wise of him not to let Satō babble too much about the Westerner. He didn’t even know the boy’s name. That the dragon rider was hiding in Suwa was obvious. This was where Nagomi lived — and if the enemy knew so much, he must have known about the young apprentice too — and this was where he hoped Satō had escaped. Something was telling him the Crimson Robe would not strike at the shrine. Not yet, at least.
The girl was safe. Nothing else was important.
The sun was almost set beyond the mountains when they finally reached Mogi, nestled between a line of low forested hills and a narrow inlet of the Amakusa Bay. Tokojiro halted for a moment, taking in the view. Even though Mogi was a mere half-day’s walk from Kiyō, he had not visited it in years.
What have I been doing all this time?
“What is this blossom?” asked the Westerner, as the road led them down among palm-like trees, heaving under the weight of large, stacked white flowers. The orchard was filled with the low droning hum of thick hairy bumblebees and the intermittent buzz of honey bees, dizzy with the abundance of nectar.
When will his questions stop? It had been like this ever since they left the shrine. The boy was curious about everything he had seen in the city. Tofu curd, cha, fish, brooms, fans, even roof tiles and details of clothing. He kept asking, keen to learn new words, new things. Once Tokojiro would have found it endearing. He used to be such a curious boy too, a long time ago. There was no harm in trying to learn about the world, was there?
“Biwa,” he explained, sighing, “the town is famous for it. In summer it produces sweet yellow fruit. I believe it came from Qin.”
She used to wear it in her hair.
The first two small inns in the village were both full, just as he had predicted.
“There’s no point in looking any further,” the Takashima girl decided, “it’s going to be like this everywhere. Let’s go and see that temple.”
“I agree,” said Tokojiro, absentmindedly. He looked back towards Kiyō again.
The Shiomisaki Temple of the Merciful Bodhisattva was built on a narrow peninsula jutting out into the bay on the south-eastern end of the village. A sandy path through the bamboo grove led to the top of a low rolling dune, overgrown with tall, wind-tattered pines, just as Tokojiro remembered.
The old wooden hall of the merciful Goddess Kannon emerged from among the black pines. One of the orange-robed monks was just finishing his evening prayers. He jumped off the veranda with agile keenness, bowed with hands put together and looked at the travellers curiously.
“We bring greetings from Kazuko-hime of Suwa, and humbly request a place to spend the night,” said the apprentice girl, bowing.
“From Suwa? Of course, of course, follow me!” The monk led them to the white building. “I’m afraid we cannot offer you the comforts of a guesthouse, but there is a roof above and a straw mat below.”
“That will be more than sufficient,” replied the apprentice graciously.
Having eaten what small packed meals they had brought from the shrine, the travellers were accommodated in two neighbouring rooms separated by a thin paper wall — the girls in one, Tokojiro and Bran in the other.
“There is only one futon,” said the interpreter, sliding open a cupboard sunken into the wall, “you can have it.”
“You mean a mattress, don’t you?” the Westerner guessed. “What do you call the blanket?”
‘Mōfu,” Tokojiro replied, sighing heavily. He was standing by the narrow shutterless window, peering outside discreetly. “Kakebuton if it’s a winter one.”
“So how did you learn Seaxe so well?” the boy asked, preparing his bedding. “Who is this Black Raven of whom you spoke?”
Tokojiro turned away from the window and stared at the boy. Now there was an interesting question at last. He sat down cross-legged.
“I was eighteen when I met him… He came from a distant land across the Great Sea — one we did not know from Bataavian maps. A castaway like you, except that he had been cast off a beach in the northern island, Ezo. He was eventually brought to Kiyō, but along the way he had learned our language well enough to teach us his own.”
“Black Raven is an unusual name.”
“He was not a usual man. In his land he was a great prince, or so he said. He looked like one of
us… He believed his people had come from Yamato. That’s why he had sailed here, to find the land of his ancestors. We greatly respected him for that — we, the Yamato, worship our ancestors like the Gods. He was imprisoned in Kiyō, near Sōfukuji, but allowed to have visitors. He would teach anyone who wanted to learn.”
“What happened to him?”
“Black Raven’s gone,” Tokojiro said with a shrug.
“Executed?”
“No, he was too precious to be killed. He just… vanished from his cage one day.”
“I could be precious…” the boy said quietly, thinking about something.
Tokojiro laughed, somewhat more bitterly than he intended. If only the boy knew how precious he really was… He stood up and glanced through the window again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to check something outside. You should probably go to sleep now. It would be good to move out as early as possible.”
“We don’t even know where exactly to go…” said the boy, yawning, “but I suppose you’re right. You can have this… mōfu, it’s a warm night.”
Tokojiro accepted the blanket with an embarrassed bow.
He’s not a bad boy. More’s the pity…
The moon shone faintly from beyond the clouds, but Tokojiro did not need much light to find his way to the back of the white-washed building where they had been accommodated, down a sandy path among the black pines and up a low grassy mound overlooking the sea, where a few monoliths of black stone marked the graves of those who had died in the service of the temple.
He lay a twig of biwa flowers on the top of one of them and bowed, silently.
You would not approve of what I’m about to do, he thought. You’d find a way to convince me I was wrong.
But it was too late. The wheels had been set in motion. Turning back towards the temple he saw a faint shining dot of a lantern moving stealthily among the trees.
It was a night of unquiet slumber. Bran dreamt of ancient conflicts, of great, multi-tiered castles of whitewashed stone under siege. He dreamt of the samurai warriors charging against stone ramparts, brandishing long sharp blades under a hail of arrows. Of destruction and death, bodies filling up the moat, floating down a river red with blood.
He then dreamt of women in silk flowery robes, their faces painted with white lead and lips daubed with crimson, young and old, all beautiful and eager to please their lord with their dance and song — and their bodies, pale and soft to touch.
He dreamt of falconry and hunting, of drinking expensive cha and sniffing precious incense, of reading poetry and writing calligraphy, of tasting refined food and admiring meticulously arranged flowers.
Bran awoke in the middle of the night. For the most part the visions quickly perished from his memory, the details difficult to retain, but the overwhelming feeling of their reality remained. These weren’t just dreams — these were somebody’s memories. And now they became his memories.
As a boy of barely sixteen, he had seen only a few dead bodies at family wakes. He saw some soldiers of the Second Regiment wounded in fighting. He had kissed a couple of girls, he had played at war. But as the Spirit whose memories he shared in his sleep, he had lived and loved, killed and died — all within a span of one night. Who was the mysterious man from his dreams? A warrior — a leader of men, a general without a name…
His head hurt and he felt nauseous. He shuddered. The night was cold after all. He now wished he hadn’t given the interpreter the blanket.
The boy’s eyes tried to pierce the darkness to find sleeping Tokojiro, but he couldn’t see him anywhere in the room. He was too sleepy and tired to wonder about it. He fell asleep again, and his dreams were again haunted by memories of another man. He was back in some courtly mansion among poets, warriors and philosophers.
It was the last night before the great battle. They all watched him dance a slow methodical dance. He sang a majestic measured chant, the words of which he — dreaming Bran — could not understand.
Saké wa nome nome, nomu naraba
Hi no moto ichi no kono yari wo
Nomitoru hodo ni, nomu naraba
Kore zo makoto no Kuroda-bushi
He finished and gulped a great cup of saké, given to him by an attendant. Everyone cheered. A woman came up to him, smiling, inviting, her brocade robes smelling of rosewood and cherry blossom.
“Shigemasa-dono,” she said, bowing, before leading him to her bedchamber.
As she lay on a silk futon, he started to disrobe himself, but his arms became entangled in the sleeves of the kimono. He stumbled clumsily over his hakama skirt and fell onto the futon. The more he tried to wriggle out, the more the bed sheets and layers of clothes wrapped around him. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t, his mouth refused to open. He struggled in panic, unable to make a sound. The woman disappeared somewhere in the darkness.
Bran woke up. He was still bound. He was lying on the straw mat with a rope tight around his hands and legs, a cloth gag in his mouth. Tokojiro was standing above him with a paper lantern, watching.
“Good, you’re awake. The Taikun’s men should be here any minute.”
“Mmrph?” Bran muttered through the cloth.
“Why?” the interpreter guessed. “I may be destitute and unemployed, but I’m still a samurai. I’m loyal to my masters, and to the Taikun. You’re a wanted fugitive; did you think I would let you go simply because some priestess told me to? I just did not wish the magistrate to lay their hands on you. The bugyō doesn’t deserve such a prize.” He glanced through the window. “They’re coming. Don’t try to transform back to your Yamato face,” he advised.
Bran realised he had slipped back to his usual looks while he slept.
“I’m not sure how that will work with a gag in your mouth, and I need a way to prove it’s really you.”
Bran thought fast, desperately. Gagged and bound he could not invoke the power of dragonflame — even if his link with Emrys was strong enough. The Soul Lance was also out of the question. He could maybe surround himself with a tarian, but what good would it do him?
That he was not yet dead meant he was worth something to his captors. Perhaps he could negotiate… Perhaps Nagomi and Satō could help him…
He had forgotten all about them! He turned his head towards the thin paper wall. Tokojiro noticed this.
“They can’t help you. I took care of them in the same way. Don’t worry, these men are only coming for you, they’re not interested in your companions — although the magistrate might be, I suppose…”
Bran started wriggling desperately, trying to release himself from the bonds, but Tokojiro put his foot on the boy’s stomach.
“Please stop. You’re only hurting yourself. I know how to tie ropes; the more you struggle, the worse it will get.”
“He’s bluffing,” a voice spoke suddenly in Bran’s head.
“What… Who is that? Is that you — the Spirit?”
“A child could get out of these knots.”
“You — you are Lord Shigemasa, aren’t you?” Bran remembered the name from his dreams. “I can understand you!”
“I am Taishō Itakura Shigemasa of Mikawa,” the voice in his head grew louder and stronger, “our souls are bound, it seems we can talk without words.”
“Can you help me?”
“Only if you let me. Open your mind, so I can reach you - your joints, muscles, limbs… then I can try to release us from this amateur’s trap.”
“How do I do that?”
“I don’t know, Barbarian. I’ve never done this before. Improvise, but be quick about it.”
Not really sure what it was that he was supposed to do, Bran imagined himself floating away into the recesses of his consciousness. Immediately, the general’s Spirit jumped forwards, pushing the boy’s mind even farther back, giving Bran a glimpse of what it felt like to be a ghost attached to someone else’s body.
Bran’s muscles momentarily went limp, and the rope fell loose off his limbs. Before Tokojiro could r
eact, Bran’s body jumped upright, shaking the interpreter off. Tokojiro drew his sword and tried to strike the boy, but Shigemasa, in full control of Bran’s movements, reached with his hand, grabbed Tokojiro by the wrist and twisted. Everything happened too fast for Bran to see clearly. Within moments, Tokojiro was lying on the floor, clutching his face. Blood spurted from between his fingers, from a cut dealt with his own blade, now in Bran’s — the general’s - hand.
“Thou art no warrior.” Shigemasa spat out the gag and scoffed through Bran’s lips. “Thou art naught but a craven coward.”
The door slid open loudly and four other samurai rushed inside, all wearing a mallow crest on their clothes, brandishing long silver swords, ready to fight.
Bran could sense the general calculate his chances. Shigemasa decided to flee.
“No!” the boy cried into the void. “We mustn’t leave the others alone!”
It was too late. The general kicked his way through the outer wall of thin bamboo and straw, and leapt outside into the darkness.
Something was very, very wrong.
The moment Satō awoke, sensing her wrists and ankles tied up, she understood what had happened. They had been betrayed. Dryness and a bitter taste in her mouth told her they had been given a sleeping herb in their evening cha — skullcap leaf, most likely. That’s why she hadn’t woken when the interpreter was tying her up.
She looked around. Nagomi was still sleeping. The light from a small lantern was seeping from the room on the other side of the paper wall. She could see the silhouette of a man leaning over something — she guessed it was Bran, no doubt bound like they were. The boy must have been Tokojiro’s main target and the reason for betrayal, but why now? Why not give them up back in Kiyō?
There was no time to think about such things. She had to set herself and Nagomi free. Luckily Tokojiro was not only a traitor, but also a fool. He had forgotten to gag her. Did he not know that all a wizard needed to perform magic was his mouth?
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 28
