The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  “That was quite a whale,” said Captain Kawamura, assessing the breach.

  “A whale?”

  “What else? There are no reefs here.”

  “That spell won’t last long,” said Satō.

  “We’ll bring her to port in the morning,” the Captain replied, “I know a place where we’ll be safe from prying eyes.”

  Satō came up to Nagomi, who was kneeling by the still unconscious Heishichi, trying her best to wake him up.

  “How is he?” the wizardess asked.

  “Not badly injured.”

  The priestess’s fingers glowed light blue, and the girl murmured a brief prayer. The Daisen coughed, gasped and opened his eyes. He sat up and shook his head. Satō turned her eyes away; the wizard’s scorched face still made her nauseous.

  “My glasses…”

  “Here,” said Nagomi, handing him the wire-framed pair. “I’m afraid one of the lenses broke…”

  “Thank you.”

  “You should thank Bran,” said Satō, nodding towards the boy. “He got you out of the water.”

  Heishichi stood up, cast Bran an empty stare and went to examine the damage to the ship.

  “Did you do this?” he asked Satō, pointing at the ice.

  “Yes.”

  “We could use a talent like you in our school. Our last ice mage died in Kirishima.”

  She couldn’t help smiling.

  “Thank you, but I have my own dōjō to run in Kiyō.”

  He smirked. “That’s not what I heard.”

  The smile perished from her face.

  The Iroha Maru moored at a low stone pier with a bump. Bran jumped off under Kawamura’s direction to assist with tying the ship’s hawsers to the bollards.

  The place they landed in was a small town, little more than a village, hidden at the northern end of a long, narrow gulf. It was surrounded on all sides by tall, steep hills covered with lush green forest, except for one narrow pass to the west, where some farmers toiled what looked like barley fields.

  There was only the one pier in the harbour. The small fishing boats used by the villagers had been towed out onto the wide beach of fine grey volcanic sand. Sparkling in the noon sun, the shallow sea had the colour of bright jade.

  “This is wonderful!” said Nagomi. “What is this place?”

  “Sakitsu on Amakusa Island,” the Captain said. “We’re almost at the edge of Yamato.”

  “Wait,” said Satō, stopping half-way down the gangway, “I know that name. Isn’t this part of Taikun’s personal domain? Are we really safe here?”

  “They can answer your question, Takashima-sama,” the Captain replied, nodding towards the end of the pier. There was already a group of curious children waiting there, and one or two fishermen coming to see the strange boat. An official looking man came up to greet the newcomers. He was wearing a long black robe, tied with hemp rope, and a tall Phrygian cap. He greeted them with a singing accent. Bran hesitated.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were...” he struggled to find a Yamato word, but could only come up with a Latin equivalent, “a pater.”

  “I am, indeed, pater. My name is Kukai.”

  “You are a Sun Worshipper!”

  The man nodded.

  “Driven to these islands by persecution, we remain faithful to the religion of our fathers. What is this strange vessel?” he added, pointing at the ship.

  The Captain leaned over the edge.

  “This is the private yacht of His Excellency, Shimazu Nariakira of Satsuma,” he said. “We need to stay the night to make some repairs, if it’s alright with you.”

  “Any subject of Shimazu-dono is welcome on Amakusa. We have long enjoyed his friendship and assistance.”

  “You kids go see the town,” the Captain said, spitting tobacco discreetly into a handkerchief, “me and Daisen-sama will get to work.”

  “Please, let me show you around,” said the man in the Phrygian cap.

  The settlement had just a few narrow streets, lined with modest, simple houses, huddled on the edge of a cliff. The farther from the pier Bran went, the stronger a certain emotion he failed to recognize grew within from the very depths of his soul. It was directed at the pater and his congregation and absorbed him so much he barely noticed what went on around him.

  “So many children...” he heard Nagomi say. “The town must be rich.”

  “On the contrary,” said pater Kukai, “the soil here is poor — what little of it there is — and the fish avoid these coasts. But the Taikun keeps sending new colonist families every year.”

  “So I was right. This place does belong to the Taikun,” said Satō.

  “In name only... There is a bugyō on the island, but he lives across the mountains, on the Kumamoto side. All he’s interested in is sending the colonists as far away as possible. Most of them end up here.”

  “And you turn them all into Sun Worshippers?” asked Bran.

  “If they so wish. Whatever scary stories you might have heard in the past, we’re a peaceful people. And here is our place of worship,” said pater Kukai, stopping in front of a dark, windowless, foreboding building, imitating a vaulted cavern.

  The girls went in, followed by Bran, who instantly recognized the shape of a mithraeum. The inside was also familiar with long benches along the walls and a painted altar opposite the entrance.

  “Today is a special day, Mercuralia,” pater Kukai said, “you’re welcome to witness our ceremony.”

  For the first time since his arrival in Yamato Bran could tell the proper date.

  Mercuralia — the Feast of Water. That’s mid-May...

  “Who is this man fighting an ox? And the woman in the blue robe? Are they your ancestors?” Nagomi asked, approaching the altar with great curiosity.

  “These are their main kami,” replied Bran, before the pater could answer. “Isis, the Earth Mother and Mithras, the Sun Warrior. A mockery of our Gods.”

  Eh, our Gods? What am I saying?

  “I see you know something of our faith, young man” the pater said, dryly, “but we do not mock your beliefs: ours are much older. You’re welcome to see our rituals for yourself tonight.”

  “I… I don’t...”

  Bran shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He realized his hands were clenched tightly into fists, and his breath was quickened. He felt sick.

  “Are you alright?” Nagomi touched him on the shoulder.

  “I... I’m sorry. I don’t feel that well. I’d better go back to the boat.”

  He left before they could stop him. He knew now the emotion surging within him, making his hands shake, his teeth chatter. It was hate — pure, seething hate.

  He looked down on the red dirt plain from the top of the tower. A great storm blew across the plain, shrouding the horizon in red haze, raising billowing clouds of dust. In the middle of the hurricane stood Shigemasa; fierce and somehow taller than usual.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bran cried against the wind.

  The General raised his head but did not answer. The storm changed again, forming the clouds of dust into images. Haunting visions, moving sand sculptures.

  Bran saw the Sun-worshipping rebels attack temples, shrines and those of the villagers who refused to join them. He saw a boy, Bran’s age, wearing a black cape and the Western-style ruff collar, leading thirty thousand blood-thirsty masterless samurai and peasants against the castles throughout Chinzei. All the horrors of a civil war were laid before him: bodies hacked to pieces and strewn over the battlefields; limbs torn away by bullets and cannon balls, cripples wading in the mud; babies taken from their mothers; priests tortured, monks hung and quartered; the beleaguered defenders starving to death behind the walls of Hara, forced to eat their horses, dogs and corpses. Death, destruction, suffering brought through actions of those worshipping the Warrior God on the pious Yamato and on themselves alike.

  At last the vision changed. He saw another boy, green-eyed, on som
e black metal ship, sneaking up to a man crouched over a map, with a large wrench in his hand. With a deft stroke on the head, the boy knocked the Captain out. He then dropped the wrench and took a sword from under one of the bunk beds. At that moment Bran realised this was no longer a vision - this was reality.

  He looked down. Shigemasa was gone; the tower was locked from inside.

  In the middle of the vaulted hall a large feast was being prepared. Nagomi sat beside Satō, just before the altar, slightly uncomfortable on the reclining bench. Heishichi observed the proceedings from further at the back, making notes. With Bran and Captain Kawamura back at the ship, the other missing member of the party was Torishi. The bear-man had disappeared into the woods for the night.

  One of the townspeople stood up, holding a heavy stringed instrument, beaten and ancient; to its plucking sounds, the rest of the gathering started a chant in a language unknown to Nagomi. It was more a recitation than singing, not unlike the official prayers of the High Priests in Yamato shrines, but faster and more rhythmical.

  After the singing, pater Kukai stepped onto the altar, with a staff in one hand and a bronze sickle in another.

  “Bring out the haoma!” he announced, stamping the staff on the floor.

  Several girls in long, white, translucent flowing robes came out with clay pitchers. Nagomi presented a small cup she had been given at the beginning of the ceremony and one of the girls filled it with a milky liquid, smelling of pine needles.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked Satō.

  “Maybe some kind of saké? It’s got a strong smell.”

  The wizardess quaffed the drink, but Nagomi hesitated. These, after all, were the Sun Worshippers. They may look benign now, but she was raised on the tales of their blood-thirst and cruelty. What if it was poison, or some strange drug? She looked around and poured the liquid on the floor. Just when she was about to ask Satō about the taste, the door burst open. Bran ran into the building, holding his sword in outstretched hands. The children and women screamed. A man rose from the back bench to stop him but Bran slashed his sword and the villager fell among the plates and pots with a cry, bleeding from his forehead. The rest of the townspeople rushed in panic towards the altar, leaving only Heishichi sitting on his bench, observing the scene with bemusement.

  “Bran! What are you doing?” Nagomi stepped forward, but Satō held her back.

  “Wait, that’s not him.”

  The wizardess put her hand on the hilt and approached Bran, who now stood in the middle of the aisle, ready to strike. His eyes were deep dark and burning with hate.

  “Itakura-dono,” she said.

  The spirit in Bran’s body looked her straight in the eyes.

  “Step aside, girl. I have no quarrel with thee. Or have they converted thou as well?”

  “These are peaceful people, Taishō-dono. Not rebels from Shimabara.”

  “They are all enemies of the Divine Mikado! Step aside, I said!” The General tried to push his way past Satō, but the girl drew her own sword. The blades clashed.

  “I knew thou wouldst be on their side. Thou art half-barbarian thyself.”

  Shigemasa pressed forward, but Satō was strong too. They were in a clinch. The General looked around. He was surrounded by the congregation, closing in on him from all sides. A few of them held walking sticks or fishing knives threateningly.

  “Nngh!” The General pushed once again; Satō slid dangerously on the stone floor, but still had her sword raised. A few of the townsfolk leapt between her and the samurai.

  At the back, Heishichi stood up with a half-frown, stretching his knuckles. Shigemasa cast him a furious glance, then turned back to Satō and the men before him.

  “I’ll get thee yet, traitor. I’ll get all of you!” he cried, then spun around and ran towards the temple door, slashing his sword at one more worshipper who failed to get out of his way fast enough. Heishichi made no effort to stop him.

  “Help the wounded,” Satō told Nagomi, sheathing her sword. The priestess nodded and crouched beside the man lying on the floor bleeding onto the stone slabs from a deep cut across the chest. When she looked back, the wizardess was already gone. She focused on the healing ritual. She cleared her mind, took a deep breath and put her hands on the man’s wound. But before she could start, she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She looked up.

  “We do not wish assistance from your demons, priestess,” pater Kukai said.

  Demons?

  “He is dying. I can heal him.”

  “He will die a warrior’s death, then. It is better to die and join the ranks of the Sun Warrior’s army than to live through a pact with the demon.”

  Nagomi raised herself uncertainly. A few townspeople picked up the two wounded men and carried them away.

  “We take care of our own,” said the pater, “and we will seek revenge on the one who harmed them. The Taikun spy will not get away far.”

  “Bran is not a Taikun spy! He… he wasn’t himself.”

  “Go on,” the pater said with a frown.

  “He shares his soul with a Spirit, who — ”

  “A Spirit? You mean a deva, a demon! I’m not surprised,” the pater interrupted in a solemn voice, “in the presence of the Divine the deva often become agitated and angry.”

  He turned to his congregation, and raised his arms in a calming gesture.

  “Behold! Mitorasu-sama brings us another sign of his power!” he cried. “To show us the dangers of the outside world, he brings a deva into our midst.”

  The townspeople cowered as the preacher continued. Heishichi appeared beside Nagomi.

  “Stay close,” he said. She nodded.

  “Yes, this is how playing with the demonic rituals always has to end. Do not think I am blind or foolish. I know some of you still cling to the old ways. I have seen the shrines and statues in the forest. But I have ignored them for too long, and now we have been reminded all too well what the consequences of worshipping those demons are. The sword of the Sun will fall on them all.”

  He climbed the altar and picked up the bronze sickle.

  “Bring out the bull,” said pater Kukai.

  “The bull! The bull!” the gathered cried. Nagomi’s hair stood on end as she felt the crowd’s growing frenzy. A short, stocky man in a black gi jacket opened the door to what looked like a pantry and carried out a small, terrified calf. One of the young girls in translucent robes approached the animal. Only her eyes, bright and blue, were visible above the veil and Nagomi could see fear and fascination in them as she reached out and put a circlet of silver thread and bells between the animal’s horns. The crowd fell quiet in patient anticipation.

  “Is that a… symbolic sacrifice?” she asked Heishichi. “Bran said they don’t kill the innocent…”

  “I don’t think so,” the Daisen replied, half of his mouth twisted in a sneer.

  Pater Kukai spoke again to the agitated crowd.

  “As the beloved Mithras had slain the Bull sent from the Otherworld,” the priest intoned, "and brought life to the barren world, so do we bring the life of this bull to its end, to renew our bond with the Sun. Blessed be the Bull."

  "Blessed be the Bull," the others chanted in unison.

  “Let its blood wash over us, like the blood of our enemies. Let it drown the demons at our door. Let it clean the souls of our visitors so that they, too, can see the light of Truth.”

  The townspeople howled, “Ia! Ia! Ia!”, while the pater raised his sickle over the calf’s neck. The animal mowed, trying to break free, but the blade fell in that instant with a mortifying swish.

  Nagomi could watch no more. She turned around, passed Heishichi by and ran out of the temple.

  CHAPTER 12

  The guards bowed deeply, stepping aside and allowing Lord Shimazu Nariakira’s entourage into the great tunnel, linking the Kumamoto Castle with the city below.

  Katō Kiyomasa knew how to build, he thought, admiring the craftsmanship of the smoothly
polished great blocks of granite lining the walls. The tunnel was a unique feature of the castle; not only was it the last ditch of defence in case of a siege, it also allowed complete control over any visitors in time of peace, even those as illustrious as the daimyo of Satsuma. Strong guards were posted at either end, and both gates could be closed instantly, trapping everyone inside.

  Lord Hosokawa Narimori waited at the top entrance, twiddling his fingers with a nervous smile on his face.

  “Shimazu-dono. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  Less than an hour earlier, Nariakira’s ship had entered the Kumamoto harbour. The surprise was complete; there was nobody at the pier to welcome the great Lord, no porters or couriers ready to take the luggage and messages, no soldiers to guard — and control — the passage. This was exactly as Nariakira had wanted it; before anyone in the castle could even think of sending a welcoming party, he crossed the city surrounded only by his own faithful retainers.

  Had Nariakira done so in any other domain, it may well have been construed as an act of war; but there were strong ties of friendship between Kumamoto and Satsuma, and Lord Narimori could do nothing but swallow his pride and prepare to welcome the visitors as well as he could.

  “There are urgent matters we need to discuss, Hosokawa-dono.”

  “Of course, of course. You must forgive me. I had no time to prepare accommodation for your men.”

  “There will be no need. I’m not planning to stay the night.”

  Only the slightest shadow of surprise marred Narimori’s face. It was unusual enough for a fellow daimyo to come unannounced; for him to leave on the same day was unheard of.

  He’s trying desperately to guess what I want, thought Nariakira.

  “You have a splendid castle,” he said as they climbed out of the tunnel onto the main courtyard. A magnificent view spread from the topmost terrace over the mist-covered mountains towards the distant sea.

  “You’ve seen it many times, Nariakira-dono,” Narimori replied, his smile twitching even more.

  “Yes, and I am always impressed by the work of your ancestors. With a decent garrison, this place would be unassailable.”