Earth-Thunder

by Patrick Tilley

  With a sigh of frustration, she gave up. Her husband, having placed the bag of gold coins under the floorboards, was already in bed. Shoshi joined him, shook his shoulder until she had gained his reluctant attention and related what she had seen. Her story failed to rouse his interest.

  ‘If whoever she is, is here for what you think she’s here for, you can find out all about it in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said firmly. And for once, to his amazement, she lapsed into silence. Normally, she never stopped. During the day, he got some respite because her attention was directed towards their domestic staff, but in bed she had him cornered – and that was when she usually got her way. He was glad to say ‘yes’ to almost anything just to get some peace and quiet.

  From past experience, the inn-keeper knew the heavy silence meant she was staring at the ceiling, and that in due course he would pay for his temerity. It didn’t matter, his unexpected good fortune had given him a new boldness and more interesting things to think about.

  He closed his eyes and picked up the thread of the agreeable fantasy he had been weaving. The idea of setting up a house of pleasure had been abandoned in favour of a more practical but equally appealing scenario. He would re-tile the roof and build a new bath-house in which, given a bit of luck, he could tumble his two favourite serving-girls, while one of the gardeners took his place on the cart and drove his chattering jackdaw of a wife on the monthly trip to the market in Firi.

  When Lady Mishiko had changed back into her own clothes, Lord Min-Orota obtained her permission to dismiss her servants. As they and her guards were led away to wait at the inn, Kiyo invited her to be seated, and took his place on the mat facing her.

  After the usual exchange of courtesies he said: ‘Mi’lady, you honour me with your presence. It is a gesture of the trust and friendship that exists between us and which, for my part, I have always treasured. In these dark days, trust is a rare and precious commodity. But let us delay no further. I promised you news of the Herald, Toshiro Hase-Gawa, and you shall have it. But not from my lips.’

  He saw the look of puzzlement and explained: ‘Just as the Fates drew your life and mine together through the appointment of your late husband as Consul-General to my domain, my path here was crossed by two strange individuals who told me they had a message for you … from beyond the veil.’

  Lady Mishiko caught her breath. ‘… beyond the veil?’

  ‘Yes. They are spirit-witches. I do not know what they have to tell you, or how they knew that my steps were directed towards the Winter Palace, but they are here at the behest of the Herald.’

  Mishiko clasped her hands together over her heart. ‘Mi’lord, if this is true, no words could express my happiness, but can they be trusted? I could not lightly forgive any charlatan who played so cruel a trick on me.’

  Min-Orota answered with a polite bow. ‘Nor would I, mi’lady. Set your mind at rest. I can vouch for the wondrous power of their magic, but as to what or who they are I cannot say, for they can change their shape and the nature of the world around us in the twinkling of an eye!’

  The existence of spirit-witches had never been properly established, but the widespread belief in their supernatural powers was older than Ne-Issan itself. Tales of magic and witchcraft were rooted in the primeval mists that shrouded the birth of The World Before.

  Spirit-witches were able to communicate with and conjure up the souls of the dead. They dwelt in the depths of the forests which still covered huge areas of Ne-Issan, and they were popularly believed to be grey-faced shadowy figures dressed in a mixture of leaves and rags – remnants of clothes stripped from the rotting corpses of the unburied dead. And it was said they were hunch-backed, long-haired crones, with shrivelled claw-like hands, and green red-rimmed eyes that stared out of hideous faces covered with warts.

  Mishiko gathered up her courage. ‘Are they … are they dreadful to look upon?’

  Min-Orota threw up his hands. ‘You will see whatever they wish you to see, mi’lady! I can only say they have never shown themselves to me as the ghostly grey-faced creatures that are said to disturb the sleep of travellers in the forest when the moon is full. In my opinion, if those wraiths were ever caught by the light of day, they would turn out to be ronin – common cut-throats with artfully-applied hollow eyes and bodies dusted with chalk!

  ‘Be assured. Our visitors know you to be a cultured and sensitive person who still mourns the passing of a loved-one. They are here to guide you, not to frighten you and, above all, they come at the bidding of the Herald.’

  Mishiko composed herself. ‘I understand, mi’lord. I am ready. Take me to them.’

  They stood up together. Min-Orota said: ‘They are in the next room, but before we enter, allow me to offer one last word of reassurance. I cannot remain with you for what you are to see is for your eyes alone. If at any time you find yourself transported by their powers to another place, do not fear for your safety. I shall be here, on this side of the screen, just a few paces away from you at all times. You have but to call and I will come immediately to your aid.’

  Mishiko accepted this with a regal nod. Kiyo Min-Orota slid the framed wall-panel aside and ushered her into the darkened room beyond. Mishiko allowed herself to be guided to a mat edged with silk ribbon, and sank gracefully into the straight-backed kneeling position that all noblewomen were required to adopt – sometimes for hours – during formal court ceremonies; heels splayed wide under the buttocks, hands laid midway along the top of the thighs, with fingers and thumb closed.

  Min-Orota bowed then withdrew, sliding the wall panel shut behind him.

  On the floor in front of Mishiko were two hooded lanterns which threw light onto her, but left the other half of the room in deep shadow. Between the lanterns was a charcoal brazier. This was also half-covered. Behind it were two seated figures, one notably taller than the others. The spirit-witches.…

  The arrangement of the lights and the glow from the brazier made it impossible to make out their features. Their heads and bodies were reduced to black silhouettes that were only just visible against the darkness beyond.

  Roz studied Mishiko intently as Cadillac addressed her in a throaty whisper. ‘Please accept our humble greetings your highness. We have been directed towards you by the restless spirit of the Herald, Toshiro Hase-Gawa. Betrayed by his master, deprived of his life before your love for each other was fully consummated, he cannot leave the Valley of Death for the Heavenly Plains beyond until he has made his peace with you. Will you speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ replied Mishiko in a barely audible whisper.

  ‘Then open your heart and mind to receive him, for his spirit draws nigh.…’

  Roz, who had been gently delving into Mishiko’s memory for the images she needed, took control of her mind.

  Cadillac, sitting next to Roz, prepared himself to share the same hallucinatory experience, but he was no longer totally imprisoned within it as he had been during their first double act at Sioux Falls. Although he was not linked to her telepathically the way Steve was, he possessed formidable mental powers of his own and he had succeeded in tuning his mind onto the same wavelength as hers.

  This enabled him to ‘see’ the images that Roz was feeding into the minds of their adversaries without being trapped, as they were, in the ‘reality’ of the experience. So when Lady Mishiko recoiled as a cloud of pale grey smoke spilled out of the charcoal brazier and began to weave itself into a vaguely human form, Cadillac saw the smoke and the emerging figure as a semi-transparent image superimposed on the room as it really was.

  Lady Mishiko stared at the forms emerging from the shifting layers of smoke that continued to rise from the glowing brazier. It carried the scent of burning autumn leaves, but it was not the kind of smoke that stung the eyes or made you cough. It was not smoke at all. This was the Veil; the mysterious curtain that separated the world of the living from the world inhabited by the souls o
f the dead – and her beloved Herald was being drawn back through it by the power of her love and the magic of the spirit-witches.

  An unseen external power drew her to her feet as the darkened room and the black shapes of the two witches faded away.

  The scents of autumn, the rustle of golden leaves underfoot were an integral part of her first encounter with the Herald. Their lives had converged on a sunlit October afternoon, while she was walking through the woods that formed part of her husband’s official estate. Toshiro, resplendent in his black and crimson armour, with the house-flags of the Toh-Yota and Hase-Gawa fluttering from their back-staffs, had been on his way to present his seals of office to the Consul-General.

  For Mishiko, accompanied by two maid-servants, it was love at first sight. A white knight on a black charger. She had never seen someone so handsome, so … beautiful. As her path through the wood ran parallel with the road, she watched him spellbound, caught her foot under an exposed root and fell, twisting her ankle painfully.

  Toshiro, hearing her cry, had dismounted and run to her aid. By the time he reached her side, her maidservants had restored her to an upright position. Toshiro was the very model of solicitude – and even better-looking close-up than he was from afar. A greater contrast to her bloated toad of a husband would have been hard to imagine.

  There was the usual exchange of courtesies, and it was that which sealed their fate. Once Mishiko discovered that the young man who had rushed to her aid had an impeccable social pedigree, her ankle took a sudden turn for the worse. Toshiro – as she hoped – would brook no argument. He insisted on carrying her to his horse and placed her sideways on the saddle. Mishiko, on being lifted up in his strong arms, had almost fainted with pleasure, and from that moment on, she could think of nothing else but the moment when those same strong arms, stripped of their armour, would enfold her naked body.

  The grey forms emerging from the swirling smoke coalesced into lifelike shapes and were suffused with natural colour. And there he was, magically and gloriously restored as in that first unforgettable moment, seated on his horse, with the sun raying through the forest behind him, flaring brightly off the polished brass helmet crest that marked him out as a trusted servant of her brother, the Shogun.

  His face was shadowed against the autumn sun, but her heart leapt as he dismounted, reached her in one stride and gathered her into his arms. She embraced him eagerly, moulding her body against his, and as she did so, his armour seemed to melt away, becoming a soft silken kimono through which she could feel the muscled hardness of his stomach and thighs. She clasped his face in her hands and covered it with kisses.

  It was only then, as he drew away, that she saw – and was shocked by – his haggard expression, the deathly greyness around the staring, red-rimmed eyes. Her beloved Herald had not been brought back to life. She could feel his presence, hear his voice, but the physical contact was a bitter-sweet illusion wrought by the power of witches’ magic. Toshiro was, and would remain, a spirit entity, but there was more. Despite the love which still bound them together, this was a soul in torment – a torment which only she had the power to ease.

  Using the images stored in Mishiko’s brain, Roz produced a series of vignettes featuring Ieyasu, the secretary Shikobu and the Shogun – her brother Yoritomo. The vignettes were moving, three-dimensional recreations of the recent past that Mishiko was able to walk into and observe at close quarters without being seen by the characters within.

  Roz was working to a script mapped out by Cadillac. It was his voice Mishiko heard throughout. He could not use his powers of mimicry because he had never heard Ieyasu, the Shogun or Shikobu speak, but in this instance it did not matter. All Roz’s powers were concentrated on a single mind and this enabled her to convince Mishiko that when she saw her brother speak, it was his voice she was hearing.

  The sunlit woods dissolved into a shifting abstract pattern of rainbow colours then became a room that Mishiko recognised as being part of Ieyasu’s quarters in the Winter Palace. The Herald took her hand and led her into it.

  Ieyasu sat crosslegged on the floor with a strange black box in front of him. Shikobu, one of his senior secretaries, was seated at a low writing table, with paper, brushes and ink blocks ready to hand. Mishiko circled slowly round the much-feared figure of the Chamberlain and was relieved to discover he was totally oblivious to her presence. Both she and the Herald were invisible.

  Ieyasu reached out a thin bony hand and twiddled various knobs and small levers. Little red and green studs spaced along the top of the box gleamed like jewels. Moving closer, she caught sight of several small white calligraphic symbols; the Japanese characters for ‘send’, ‘receive’, ‘volume’, ‘frequency’ and ‘record’. But this box had not been fashioned by Iron Masters; this was the work of outlanders, those skilled in the High Craft.

  Mishiko jumped back in alarm and sought reassurance from the Herald as the sound of a human voice burst from the box. Shikobu listened closely as Ieyasu touched two or three of the knobs. The disembodied voice became softer and clearer. Mastering her amazement at the fact that a box could be made to speak, Mishiko tried to grasp what it was saying.

  The Herald squeezed her arm and whispered: ‘The voice comes from afar. It is carried on the air like a leaf in the wind, but it is propelled by the power of the Dark Light!’

  Mishiko took another step backwards. She knew nothing whatever about this dread subject and didn’t want to. Even the mere mention of it was bad news. ‘It cannot be! Such things are forbidden!’

  ‘To you and I, and the other loyal subjects of your brother, yes, they are! But Ieyasu has placed himself above the law! He uses this demonic power to betray us and gain more power for himself! Listen!’

  Mishiko turned her attention back to the voice coming from the box and caught her breath.

  ‘… as you know, mi’lord, the Herald Hase-Gawa has long suspected that we have been armed with speaking and listening devices filled with the Dark Light to maintain control over the nation’s affairs. At the moment, he has no tangible proof to offer the Shogun, but he is a dangerous adversary. He should be eliminated before he is in a position to harm our organisation.’

  Ieyasu responded with a thin smile. ‘Do not worry, Tohijo. We have already laid plans to discredit him and destroy the Shogun’s faith in the entire College of Heralds. Yoritomo will soon come back under our wing when he reads the letter Hase-Gawa will post – and which one of my agents will intercept.’

  ‘Which letter is this?’ asked the far-away voice.

  ‘The letter Shikobu is about to write! Besides having a gift for fairy tales, he is also an accomplished forger!’ Ieyasu gave a gloating laugh and signalled his secretary to apply brush to paper.

  Mishiko gasped in horror and once again turned to the Herald for support. ‘Is this the letter which caused my brother to demand your life?!’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Toshiro.

  The room dissolved around them and became the room the Shogun used for confidential meetings at the Summer Palace. Yoritomo sat on the raised section of the floor with his personal bodyguard of five samurai ranged in a semi-circle behind him. The Herald left Mishiko’s side and knelt down immediately below the dais. He put his nose to the spotless straw matting then sat back attentively and waited for the Shogun to speak.

  ‘Have the long-dogs agreed to help us destroy the Heron Pool?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. The Federation has delivered the necessary devices and everything is in place. A massive blow will be struck against those who have conspired to bring down your noble house.’

  ‘And will this blow rid me of Lord Yama-Shita and that swine Kiyo Min-Orota?’

  ‘They cannot be targeted personally, sire, but the viewing stand in which they will be seated during the flying display will be destroyed.’

  ‘Good. I wish you to perform an additional task.’

  Toshiro bowed. ‘I am yours to command, sire.’

  ‘The Consul-General Naka
ne Toh-Shiba. I can no longer tolerate his dissolute behaviour. He defiles my sister and dishonours my house. I cannot bear to think of her in his bed. The marriage must end.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘For reasons which are obvious, I shall decline Min-Orota’s invitation to attend the ceremony at the Heron Pool. The Consul-General will represent me, and as a gesture of my faith in this project, I will order him to take to the air in one of the flying-horses. You will deliver the letter personally.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘I want him taken aloft. When the flying-horse has attained the greatest possible height, he is to fall from the sky. His body is to be split and broken like that of a stray mongrel crushed under the wheel of a passing cart. I leave it to you to make the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure, sire.’

  ‘And when it is done, you will escort Lady Mishiko and her children to Aron-Giren.’ Yoritomo waved his hand to signal the audience was at an end. The Herald took leave of the Shogun and rejoined Mishiko who – once again – had not been seen by the other participants, even though she had been sitting on the edge of the dais just a few feet from her brother.

  The outlines of the room broke up into shifting planes of colour. When they reformed, Mishiko found she was still in the Summer Palace but now she was with the Herald in the pebble garden – Yoritomo’s favourite retreat.

  Her brother sat on the raised wooden floor of the open-sided summer-house. The body-guards who shadowed him day and night were in their usual places behind him. Hearing footsteps, Mishiko looked to her right and saw Kamakura, an officer in the palace guard, lead her most trusted maid-servant towards the summer-house. She was carrying a letter – the letter Mishiko had written, asking Yoritomo’s permission to marry the Herald.

  Prostrating themselves, the maid and Kamakura handed over the letter then withdrew. Mishiko gripped Toshiro’s arm tightly as she watched Yoritomo read its contents then crumple it angrily between his hands. And although he said nothing, his unspoken thoughts blazed an angry path through her brain.