by I. J. Parker
And then the tunnel ended.
Akitada had been in front for a while, moving more quickly in his impatience. He suddenly stubbed his toe, stumbled, and fell forward onto a pile of rocks.
“What are you doing?” Haseo asked. He came up and felt for Akitada.
“It’s a rock pile,” muttered Akitada, scrambling up it with some difficulty, because the rubble kept shifting under his feet and he kept slipping back down, causing small rock slides.
“Move aside.” Haseo passed him, having better luck.
“How much is there, do you think?” Akitada asked from below. He jumped aside when a low rumble announced another rock slide. When it stopped, he said, “Be careful or you’ll bring the whole mountain down on us.”
Haseo did not answer. Akitada could hear him sliding all the way down. “It’s the end,” Haseo said tonelessly, stopping beside him. “It goes all the way to the ceiling. If this tunnel ever led to the outside, the rock fall has filled it. Maybe that’s why they stopped working it.”
Akitada sat down next to him. He was very tired. “We must think,” he said.
Haseo gave a bark of bitter laughter. “You’re a fool. I told you so last night. We’ll die here.”
“We won’t die here. And if you thought it was so foolish, why did you come?”
Haseo did not answer that. Instead he said, “You’re right. Let’s think.”
“We could go back and try the other tunnels. One or two seemed promising.”
But they did not have the heart for it. They had been so sure. Perhaps an hour passed while they rested, dozed, tried to gather their strength for the next attempt. Akitada was the first to stand up.
“Come on. There’s not much time. We must try another way.”
Haseo staggered to his feet. “All right.” He started back, but Akitada caught his sleeve.
“Wait,” he said. “Do you hear something?”
Haseo listened. “No. Nothing. Just the air.”
“Yes, the air. The current is still there. And it makes a whistling sound we did not hear before. Like the sound a flute makes when you blow it. Do you know what that means?”
“Forget it! You can’t go by air flow. See where it got us.”
“But the sound comes from the rock pile. Somewhere up there is a narrow opening letting in the air and that is why it whistles.”
Haseo pondered this. “Surely you don’t plan to move the whole rock pile?” he finally said.
“We’ve carried rocks before. Why not now when it may mean our freedom?”
“The whole thing may come loose and crush us.”
“Yes. But perhaps not.”
Haseo grunted and then climbed back up to the top, Akitada at his heels. He could hear him scrabbling about, and then a large piece of rock slid his way. He caught it barely before it would have crushed his fingers, and slid back down with it.
They worked on like this for what seemed like hours, sweat and stone dust crusting on their skin. Haseo grunted, cursed, and muttered, “Waste of time,” and “Stupid” under his breath, but he continued loosening rocks and passing them down by feel alone. Akitada was tiring. His excitement had carried him this far, but now his weakened body rebelled. After each stone he deposited below, it was a little harder to climb back up the few steps to where Haseo had made a foothold for himself. He was working much faster than Akitada could carry the rocks down.
Eventually Haseo was surrounded by a wall of rocks and stopped. “It’s no good,” he said. “There are too many for us to move. Let’s go back before we wall ourselves in.”
Akitada listened. “The whistling has stopped,” he said.
Haseo listened also and started groping around again. “Wish we had a light. I can feel the air in my hair. Wait a minute.” There was clatter, then the rocks beneath them seemed to come alive and shift.
“Watch out,” cried Akitada as he fell on his back and was carried downward. Haseo began to curse amid the rumble of falling rocks. When the noise stopped, Akitada cried, “Haseo? Are you all right?”
“Yes. I think so.” Haseo’s voice came from somewhere beyond the rock pile.
“Where are you?”
“You were right. We’re through. The tunnel goes on from here. Come on, but watch your feet. I got a nasty cut on my ankle.”
“Stand back in case it shifts again.” Akitada groped his way to the top of the pile carefully, found that he could wiggle through beneath the roof of the tunnel, then sat and slowly slid down on the other side.
Their success gave them new hope and they moved forward again. But soon the tunnel narrowed sharply and the ceiling dipped until they had to crawl again. It looked as though they were coming to the end of the lode. Haseo was in front, and when Akitada got down on his hands and knees, he felt something wet on the ground. He raised his hand to his nose and sniffed. Blood.
“Wait, you’re bleeding,” he cried.
Haseo gave a snort—“I know”—and kept crawling.
“It must be bad. We should stop and tie up the wound,” said Akitada.
“There’s not enough room,” grunted Haseo. Then he stopped and said, “Amida. I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“I can see the stars. Either that or I’m dying.”
Since Haseo’s body blocked the crawl space almost completely, Akitada could not see, but his heart started hammering. “Can you get out?”
A muffled “Yes, oh, yes” came back on what sounded like a sob. Then Haseo slid away from him and there, barely lighter than the tunnel, was a patch of night sky.
Akitada crawled forward like a man in a dream. His hands touched the moist coolness of grass and he felt his shoulders brush past the mouth of the tunnel as he slipped through, then rolled down a steep slope and came to rest in a batch of bracken, breathing the scent of pine and clover and looking up at a starry sky.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE GOLDEN PHOENIX
Little Flower asked to see Tora the next morning. He had just finished his bowl of watery rice gruel without complaint—he did not mind sharing with Oyoshi’s large brood—when the request came. His hopes that Little Flower might have some new information about Wada to impart were quickly crushed by the landlady’s knowing wink.
“I’m pretty busy this morning,” he hedged, scratching one of the flea bites he had picked up overnight.
She grinned her gap-toothed smile and slapped his back with a cheerful, “Go on, handsome!” Tora, conscious of his new rank, thought her manner overly familiar, especially when she added, “You’re the first man Little Flower has lost her heart to. She deserves something nice for a change.”
He reached for his helmet and edged toward the door. “I’ll look in later,” he lied.
“It’ll just take a moment.” Oyoshi firmly took his arm and led him to the back of the hostel.
She flung back Little Flower’s door and pushed him in, slamming it behind him with a giggle.
Little Flower had taken pains with her toilet. She wore a garishly printed robe, covered mostly with red and pink peonies and brilliantly green leaves, and had tied a yellow sash about her tiny waist. Her face was powdered, the eyebrows black smudges painted on her forehead, the eyes ringed with charcoal, and her lips rouged into a tiny rosebud. Someone, perhaps Oyoshi, had brushed her hair and draped it artfully over her thin shoulders. On either side of her painted face, a portion of hair had been whacked off in the style that little girls wore. These small black wings framed her face, making it appear incongruously young.
Tora, still scratching, simply stared at her.
She smiled—carefully, so as not to disturb the thick layer of powder—and revealed black teeth. “Do you like it, Master Tora?” she asked. “I wanted to show you that I can be quite pretty when I’m not sick. I’m much better today.”
Tora swallowed. “I’m glad.”
She sat down and patted a cushion beside her invitingly. “Why don’t you keep me company for a little wh
ile?”
“I . . . I have things to do.”
Her eyes grew large with hurt. “You don’t like me like this? The hair? I should have pinned it up. Or perhaps you prefer less paint? Master Wada doesn’t like me to paint. He wants me to look like a child, but I thought you . . . you would be used to the women in the cities . . . very elegant and beautiful . . . oh, I shouldn’t have bothered.” Forgetting the thick white paint, she hid her face in the peony sleeves and wept.
Tora muttered a curse and knelt beside her. “Don’t do that, Little Flower,” he said gruffly. “You are really very pretty just as you are. You shouldn’t try to please that animal Wada or me. You should go home to your family and find some other kind of work where you don’t get hurt by men.”
But it did no good. She sat there, weeping sadly into her finery, and after a while, he got up and left.
For once Turtle was nowhere to be found, and Tora walked to the harbor alone. The day was overcast and a chill wind whipped up the incoming tide so that the fishing boats bobbed like chaff among the whitecaps and dirty yellow foam covered the shore. Gulls swooped with raucous cries, diving for the small creatures the sea had thrown up on land and which scrambled madly to return to the safety of the ocean. This land was inhospitable to man and beast. The scene filled Tora with more gloom and a sense of urgency.
A few bearers were moving remnants of the previous day’s cargo, but no new ships from the mainland had arrived, and the harbor was without its usual staff of constables. Tora strolled along the street of ramshackle wine shops, warehouses, and port offices toward the end where some trees and more substantial roofs signaled better accommodations. He passed the wine shop where he had first stopped after disembarking. It was empty, but then it was still early in the day.
The grove of trees was behind a building that bore the sign “The Golden Phoenix.” Tora stopped and looked the place over. So this was where Wada had met Little Flower. Somewhere in back must be the place where he had almost beaten her to death. He wondered how often a man like that needed to repeat this sort of experience. There seemed no shortage of poor women willing to take their chances with such men, but how sharp were Wada’s appetites? Did he indulge them once a month, every week, or more often? He wished he could send Turtle to ask some questions for him. Where was the rascal when he was needed?
It was much too early for business, and no one seemed about. Tora decided to play the curious visitor and take a stroll about the premises. He put his head in the main house first. It was filled with the smells of such establishments: stale wine, food, perfume, sweat, and, faintly, sex. Apparently none of the employees had returned yet to clean up and ready the place for another night of debauch. But Tora did not think that even in lax Sadoshima a house would be left wide open to casual thieves, and he continued his reconnaissance with a stroll around the main building and into its back gardens. These were surprisingly well kept. When he turned to look back at the house, he saw why. Most of the rooms of the Golden Phoenix overlooked the gardens. Very nice.
But the gardens were only trimmed neatly near the main house. Farther off, dense shrubs and trees had been allowed to close off the view to the small building whose roof just showed above them.
A narrow path, lined with stones, led to the far corner of the property. Here a small cottage or summerhouse stood close to the woven bamboo fencing separating the grounds of the Golden Phoenix from a wooded shrine area beyond. The door to the cottage was open, and he saw that it contained only a single room, occupied at the moment by a small elderly woman on her hands and knees, scrubbing the grass mats and muttering to herself.
Tora had approached silently on the smooth stones of the path. She jumped a little when he cleared his throat.
“Good morning, auntie,” he greeted her. “Up so early after a late night?”
She took in his uniform, then stood painfully and bowed. “Good morning, sir. We’re not open yet, but please to return later this evening. The Golden Phoenix offers the most elegant entertainments, the finest wine, and the most delicious foods. Can I be of some service to the officer?”
Apparently the polite phrases had been drummed into her head. As a potential customer of the Golden Phoenix, Tora must be encouraged to spend his money. He sat down on the veranda steps and smiled at her. “I was taking a stroll out near the harbor, but it’s a bit windy, so I came inside. Nice garden, this. Do you mind if I rest here for a while?”
She bowed again. “Please make yourself at home, sir. Can I fetch you some wine?”
“No, don’t trouble. Go on with your work. I’ll just sit here.” The infernal bites started to itch again, and Tora scratched as he watched her.
She got back on her knees and started scrubbing again. Bloodstains? Yes, Tora thought the water had a pinkish tinge. “Some of your guests spilled their wine?” he called out to her.
“Not wine.” She made a face.
Pretending idle curiosity, Tora got up to take a closer look. “Oh,” he said in a startled tone, “it’s blood. Somebody got hurt. A drunken brawl?”
She sat back on her heels and looked around at the many small dark red splatters which dotted the mats in all directions. Tora pictured the nude childlike body of Little Flower flung face down on the floor while that bastard Wada stood over her with a leather whip. The picture sickened him. Would she have been tied down? He glanced around the small room. Two smooth wooden pillars supported the wooden ceiling. The floor was also wood under the grass mats. Against the back wall stood a screen with badly painted willow trees and two lacquered trunks for bedding. There was no sign of any whips. Wada probably carried his own.
The elderly woman followed his eyes and shook her head. “Just a customer and his companion.”
“What did they do?”
“Some men enjoy hurting the girls,” she said, her face stiff with disapproval.
“That sounds nasty.” Tora pretended shocked interest. “Does it happen a lot?”
“No, thank heaven. The Willow Cottage costs extra.” She bent to her scrubbing again.
“It should. These men, what do they do to the women?”
She paused in her scrubbing, but did not turn around. For a moment, Tora thought she would tell him, but she just shook her head and continued with her work.
“If the owner knows,” said Tora, “why does he allow such customers here?”
“Money.”
“Oh.” Tora sat back down. “You’d think the police would take an interest in such things.”
“Hah,” she snorted.
“What do you mean?”
She turned around and gave him a pitying look. “You being a stranger here, Officer, all I can say is, stay away from the police.”
Tora tried to get more from her, but she clamped her mouth shut and shook her head stubbornly.
“You must expect the customer back tonight,” he said.
“I hope not.” She got up and gathered her rags and bucket of water, muttering, “I doubt the poor thing’s in any shape for it.”
And that was that. Tora thanked her for the rest and took his leave. He walked away glumly. Turtle’s suggestion had been to catch Wada here during one of his private nights of pleasure with Little Flower. It would have been perfect. The cottage was secluded, and even if they made any noise grabbing him, nobody would pay attention. Now, with Little Flower too injured to service the depraved lust of the police lieutenant, there was no chance to catch him alone, and Wada knew what had happened.
Tora turned at the next corner and passed the shrine. Beyond its gateway the trees clustered thickly, hiding both the shrine building and the adjoining Golden Phoenix. He walked into the grounds, looked around, and then resumed his stroll about Mano. The main street took him all the way to the end of town without revealing much of interest. People were going about their daily business, glancing his way, but averting their faces as soon as he looked at them. No doubt recent events in Sadoshima had made them suspicious of soldiers.
Eventually, the houses thinned and straggled into open country. The road split, one arm leading north toward the mountains, and the other east. A dilapidated set of stables marked the crossroads. Tora put his head in the open door. A one-eyed groom who had several fingers missing—there seemed to be a lot of cripples in Mano—was tossing a small amount of stinking hay into a trough where three thin horses gobbled it eagerly.
“How much to rent a horse?” Tora shouted.
The man spat and mentioned an exorbitant amount.
“What? And where do you keep the magnificent beasts worth that much silver?”
He got an ugly squint from the remaining eye and a thumb pointing at the three nags.
“Them? You’re joking. I guess you don’t do much business at those rates.”
“Take it or leave it. Most people walk. Horse fodder costs as much as food.”
Tora told the fellow he would think about it and walked back to the hostel. Oyoshi greeted him so eagerly that he was afraid she would try to lock him into Little Flower’s room, but she only wanted to know if he wished to buy another dinner for that evening. Half her brood were gathered about her to hear his answer, their eyes glued on him with such fixed intensity that they might have been praying to the Buddha.
“Why not?” he said, smiling at the children and pulling out the money. Back in his room, he kicked the vermin-ridden bedding out the door and checked his money. Feeding a family the size of Oyoshi’s and taking care of the injuries of local whores was rapidly depleting the funds his mistress had carefully counted out. He decided against a visit to the bathhouse to get some relief for his itching body. If he did not catch Wada tonight, his chances would rapidly disappear.
Turtle made his appearance late in the day, about the time when appetizing smells wafted from Oyoshi’s cooking pots. Since Tora planned to visit every low dive in town and thought his fine new uniform too good for what might happen, he was changing into a plain dark robe when Turtle appeared in his door.
