“Connor!” Dani drew tight against me and pointed.
Bernhard had crawled from the cocoon of the Nazi flag and had extended his ruined hand. He caught at corner of the cloak, dragging it from the body. His head came up, his face expectant, his sightless eyes filled with blood. He began to tremble, then his head lolled, and his body went slack.
Bloodstone untangled the cloak’s hem from the man’s grip, then folded it and returned it to the reliquary.
Before sirens began to rise, we sped away in the Jaguar. Dani was shaking to pieces, and I couldn’t blame her. I was trembling, too, but I held it together long enough to get us home. Only Bloodstone didn’t seem to be reacting, and he did offer to drive, but the chances of our making it home in one piece with him behind the wheel were slightly worse than his surviving two pointblank pistol shots.
I ensconced Dani in a guest room and told her everything would be okay. I told her to get some sleep, then went to visit Bloodstone in the office. He stood by my desk listening to the 10 o’clock news. The radio squawked about a murderous Nazi cult whose leader had been found with a burned corpse. They said he’d survive his wounds but would lose his sight. He’d been arrested and was under guard at St. Joseph ’s Hospital.
I turned the radio off before the local sheriff could offer his thoughts on the matter. “What’s more nuts? You telling me not to bring a gun, or you thinking bullets bounce off?”
He shrugged. “You know that the Righteous and Harmonious Fists, during the Boxer Rebellion, practiced spiritual exercises that made them impervious to Imperialist bullets.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember that working out too well for them.”
“Perhaps the ones who were shot lacked faith.”
“Sure, and your faith saved you?”
“Do you believe otherwise?”
“Can’t answer. Don’t know what you believe in. What I do know is what happened.”
Bloodstone smiled. “And what would that be?”
“Bernhard did his own bullet reloading. He primed a cartridge, but never added gunpowder. The primer kicked the first bullet into the barrel and it got stuck. The next bullet slammed into the plug. The hot gasses blasted back into Bernhard’s face. The gun exploded.”
“If you know what happened, why question my action?”
“My hindsight doesn’t equal your foresight. No one could have predicted what happened.”
He smiled in that annoying, all-knowing way he has. “Why do you think I told you not to bring your pistol?” Before I could reply, he continued. “Bernhard was right. The cloth in the reliquary was the cloak Jesus had worn. Can you imagine the Prince of Peace allowing violence in His presence?”
A chill ran through me. “But you said he was swindled, so that couldn’t have been the true cloak.”
“He was swindled by the Russians.” Bloodstone shrugged easily. “Do you honestly think-no matter the profit-that any Russian would sell Hitler’s corpse to a Nazi?”
“Good point. Putin probably has the corpse in a box he can check just to make sure he’s still dead.” I shivered. “I just can’t believe…”
Bloodstone laughed. “As a skeptic, you can’t believe the cloak had any power, despite the statistical improbability of the gun’s explosion. I, however, have no doubt about the cloak’s authenticity.”
I smiled quickly. “But if it truly is Jesus’ cloak, why wasn’t Bernhard healed when he touched it?”
“Luke, chapter eight, verses forty-three through forty-eight. The only person healed by touching the cloak was a woman who had been hemorrhaging for a dozen years.” Bloodstone opened his hands. “All other healings were a matter of faith. Bernhard believed in the magic, not in the Christ.”
“Is what you’ve said, true?” Dani stood in the office doorway. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”
Bloodstone nodded toward the box on his desk. “I believe it to be true.”
“Then how did my grandfather get it? Did he steal it from Italy during the war?”
“No. It has been with your family for far longer than that.” Bloodstone smiled slowly. “In his history of the Knights Templar, Stephen Howarth suggests the mysterious ‘Templar Treasure’ was the Shroud of Turin. We know, from radiocarbon dating, this cannot be true. Your grandfather’s cloak, however, may well have been that treasure. The Templars were wiped out without ever surrendering their treasure. Jacques DeMolay, the last Grandmaster, had an aide named Jules de Grange, who was never caught.”
Dani hugged her arms around herself. “De Grange became Granger at Ellis Island.”
I tried to lighten things up. “Sounds like you have the sequel to The Da Vinci Code all ready to go.”
He waved that notion away. “Bernhard sought to profit from the cloak, and you saw what happened to him. The teachings of Christ are not friendly to capitalism.”
“Tell that to televangelists.” I glanced Dani. “What will you do with the cloak?”
“I don’t know.” Her face took on a determined expression. “Doctor Bloodstone, do you think my grandfather knew what it was and entrusted it to me after his death?”
“I see no evidence to the contrary.”
Dani crossed to the desk and opened the box. She rubbed her hand over the cloak and smiled. Her head came up and her spine straightened. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
Bloodstone shook his head. “I am quite certain that is not for me to know. I am equally certain, however, that if you did not have the answer within you, the cloak would never have found you.”
“You really believe that?”
“I have great faith in it, Miss Granger.”
She touched the cloak again, then closed the box and snapped the latch shut. “So do I. I don’t know what I will do, but I’ll do something.”
“Of course.” Bloodstone bowed his head to her. “And you will make your grandfather proud.”
ANCESTRAL ARMOR by John Helfers
Wreathed in the golden rays of the rising sun, the samurai stood motionless, one hand at his side, the other resting on the hilt of his katana. He was dressed in a magnificent suit of armor, with a do maru, or breastplate; kuzakuri, armored skirt; haidate, thigh guards, and sode, large square arm guards, all made of gleaming dark green lamellar: thousands of overlapping tiny scales lacquered into small plates and bound together with leather cords. All of the pieces had been decorated with hundreds of small, stylized pine trees, each one centered in a mountain peak so that they formed a pattern of larger scales on the armor. His arms were encased in dark blue kote, padded sleeves with metal plates attached at the end to protect his hands. His suneate, or shin guards, were made of dark blue lamellar, as was his nodowa, or throat protector. His kabuto, or helmet, was also colored in the same motif, with a dark green shikoro, or flared neck guard attached under the deep blue helm. Unlike other samurai, this warrior did not have a large crest on his kabuto but instead had a simple round medallion featuring the black pine tree affixed to the front brim. His unblinking, dark brown eyes were visible above a dark green menpo, a carved mask that covered the lower half of his face.
Four armed and ready men surrounded him, two holding swords and two wielding spears. They were clad in various pieces of mismatched armor, with plain helmets and iron breastplates. Each of the quartet was completely focused on the samurai in their midst.
A few steps away, Kitsune did his best to remain absolutely still, not wanting to disturb the scene that was ready to burst into furious motion at any second. Beside him, Ashiga Asano, his mentor in the arts of sorcery and court physician to the Emperor of Japan, regarded the men with his usual calm gaze, his arms folded inside his simple silk kimono, leaving the empty sleeves to flutter in the spring breeze. Next to him stood a broad, imposing man with his hair drawn back in the traditional topknot. He was dressed in a neat kimono with a large pine tree and mountain sigil embroidered on the back, and he carried the katana and wakizashi of the samurai sheathed on his uwa-obi, or belt.
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Asano looked sidelong at Kitsune, a whisper leaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Would you care to predict what is about to happen?”
Kitsune stared at the five poised men, sensing their ki, or inner energy, rolling off in waves, battling across the field in a kind of psychic duel, each one waiting for their opponent’s concentration to flag for even an instant-for that would be the time to strike. “I suspect that the next several moments will not go to according to the four men’s wishes.”
Asano nodded. “They have already lost-”
As the words left his lips, the five men exploded into furious action. The pair in front of the samurai attacked as one, the spear-wielder thrusting his weapon at his opponent’s head while the swordsman raised his blade and lunged, ready to cleave the man from shoulder to waist. The two men in the rear were also on the move, charging the samurai’s unprotected back.
The armored warrior stepped forward to meet the charge of his enemy, ducking underneath the spear’s point while executing a flawless iaijutsu draw and slicing across the swordsman’s abdomen. Before the man fell to the ground, the samurai whirled in a half-turn and brought his blade around in a deadly arc, opening the spearman’s side even while he tried to bring the butt of his weapon up in defense. The spear fell harmlessly aside as the second enemy went down, his chest slashed open.
The samurai completed his turn to face the remaining two men as they closed. The swordsman came in first, with the spearman following. The armored warrior continued his circular attack, bringing the sword up in a diagonal slice across the man’s chest as his opponent tried to swing his weapon down at the same time. The samurai struck first, and the warrior fell, the third victim of the single sword stroke.
The final soldier charged with his spear, but the samurai, his katana still raised, used the blade to parry the point and shove it to one side. As the spearman ran past, the armored warrior grabbed the wooden shaft with his free hand and jerked the fighter even farther forward. The man staggered, trying to keep his balance as the samurai executed another half-turn and slashed him across the back, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“-they just had not realized it yet.” Asano finished.
The entire fight had taken less than three seconds.
The samurai sheathed his katana in one fluid motion as the four men rose, all bowing to each other. The victorious warrior untied his mempo and helmet and removed both, revealing the unlined face of a young man barely out of his teens under black hair shaved at the sides and back and bound in a topknot. Tucking the helmet under his arm, he strode toward the small group that had been watching and bowed to each of them in turn, including Kitsune. As he came up, he rocked back on his heels, his right hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. Despite the casualness of the group, his eyes flicked from each of them, his body tense, as if expecting another attack at any moment.
“Your skill is impressive indeed, Nishina-san. Your province is certainly in the hands of a capable warrior.” Asano studied the young warrior’s helmet. “I see that your family’s crest signifies longevity.”
“Not only my family’s crest, this was my grandfather’s and my father’s suit of battle armor, may their spirits rest in peace.” The man noticed Kitsune’s eyes on his katana. “My grandfather’s and father’s-and now my-blade, of course.”
Kitsune knew what was expected. “A magnificent weapon, and superbly wielded this fine spring morning.”
Nishina bowed. “Perhaps later I could arrange a closer examination of the entire daisho, if you wish.”
Asano nodded. “It would be an honor for us to have a closer look at the famed Nishina blades.”
The young man’s eyes lit up at Asano’s words, but his reply was interrupted.
“Morning practice is over, Nishina-san. Perhaps you should change before we break our fast.” This came from the stocky man that had also observed the fight, the Nishina clan’s sensei.
For a moment, the young man looked as if he was about to protest, but he nodded instead. “Hai, Inoue-san. I should review the terrain and mountain passes to the south again anyway.” The young man bowed to the group again, then turned on his heel and stalked across the practice field toward the white multistory pagoda castle that loomed over everyone.
The sensei exhaled, and Kitsune noticed the older man’s lips tighten and his shoulders slump ever so slightly as he watched the other man leave. Silence reigned among the three of them for a moment, and he breathed in the blossoming spring morning, enjoying the scent of the immaculate lines of cherry trees on the grounds.
“It is good to see you again, Ashiga-san.” The sensei did not look at Asano, but kept his eyes fixed on the distant samurai as he climbed the steps to the castle.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it, Inoue-san?” Asano’s mouth quirked in a brief smile. “The last time we spoke was at court.”
“Your memory serves you well indeed. Afterward I traveled north, until I found my current employment. Nagai was very good to me, and his son, Satomi… has been most kind as well.” Inoue’s pause was so small it would have gone unnoticed in casual conversation. “I see that there have been changes in your life as well.” He nodded toward Kitsune.
“Of late I have felt the need to pass on some of my wisdom to the next generation. However, given my pupil’s rapt admiration of your student, perhaps he now feels that he has chosen a profession that does not suit him.” Asano turned his slitted gaze on his protégé. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Kitsune? I’m sure Inoue-san could provide excellent instruction in the martial arts, even for one as old as you, and then you would no longer have to traipse behind an old man across the length and breadth of our revered Emperor’s majestic kingdom, never knowing what might await us around the next bend in the road.”
Kitsune kept his face impassive as Asano spoke, quite familiar with his own sensei’s often-brusque style. “There are those whom are fated to learn the ways of bushido, as Inoue-san and Nashida-san have expertly demonstrated this morning. However, my path lies along a different route, and I must regretfully decline my sensei’s offer, in order that I may continue traipsing behind him wherever he may lead.” As he finished speaking, Kitsune bowed deeply, eliciting grunts and nods of approval from both. Besides, the study of the infinite world of magic and the realms beyond this one holds more fascination to me than ten thousand warriors, he thought.
“Well put, young one, well put indeed.” Inoue chuckled. “Some things about you still haven’t changed, Asano-san. Come, let us stroll through the gardens on our way back. After all, they are the highlight of the estate, and most relaxing, particularly in the first bloom of spring.”
The Nishina sensei led the way, with Asano falling in beside him, and Kitsune following a few steps behind. He felt a presence several yards away and knew that Asano’s ever-present bodyguard-a tall, taciturn bushi known only as Maseda-was nearby. The fact that they had not seen him during the combat demonstration didn’t mean that he hadn’t been present, for the man-at least, Kitsune assumed he was a man-had uncommon powers of stealth and concealment. More than once Kitsune had suspected him of being a ninja, or thought that Asano had perhaps struck a bargain with some kind of demon and bound it into human form to serve and protect him. Whatever his background, Maseda was loyal, efficient, and utterly ruthless when dispatched against anyone that might cause harm to Asano-or Kitsune. He could probably defeat the young Nishina leader without breaking a sweat. Kitsune had seen the tall man’s katana in action, and the silent warrior’s speed made the young man seem positively glacial by comparison.
Asano’s voice brought him back to the present. “It would appear that Nishina-san is taking his duties as leader quite seriously.”
“Yes, perhaps a bit too seriously.” The humor slipped from Inoue’s face. “That is why I had invited you here as soon as the mountain trails were clear.”
Still careful to keep a respectful distance from the two men, Kitsune kept a
n ear on the conversation, intrigued by Inoue’s dispensing with the common small talk so quickly. Asano said nothing, but merely nodded thoughtfully while waiting for his old friend to continue. The three strolled though the large, gorgeous garden, with more white-studded cherry tree branches waving gently in the breeze all around them. Paths lined with crushed white stone led in several directions, around and to wooden bridges over calm ponds containing large koi fish gliding through the clear water. The land around them was a pleasant riot of fragrances, from graceful snow willow trees studding the garden here and there to the clusters of pink azaleas, violet hydrangea, white daphne, purple wisteria, and red and white lotus flowers planted in artful configurations. It was the exact opposite of the mountains in winter, and Kitsune felt a flash of dizziness for a moment, overcome as he was by the beauty of it all.
“Kitsune!” Asano’s voice snapped him back to reality. “You are to be attending to your duties, not wandering along dumbfounded with your mouth hanging open at the wonders of this beautiful garden we are most fortunate to be touring.”
With a quick bow, Kitsune quickened his pace and fell in behind the two men again.
Inoue continued as if nothing had happened. “Please understand that I have nothing but the utmost respect for Satomi. Indeed, over these past few years he has been my finest student. However, recently I have noticed a subtle yet definite change come over him.”
“Indeed? From what I could see, he seemed a sober, serious young man.”
“You speak the truth, but although he has always excelled in his martial skills, he also made sure to devote the time to hone a samurai’s other talents. Over the past few months, his thoughts have turned darker, and he often speaks of battle, even proposing to start a war with the Yamazaki family to the south, which we have been at peace with for many years. He has neglected the spiritual side-poetry, the tea ceremony, origami-all these have been abandoned in favor of preparing for combat. The most unusual thing is that he has taken to wearing his armor more often, even during the day when there is no need for it. He has even hung it in his room so that he can don it quickly if necessary, as if he expects a surprise assault in the night.”
Pandora's Closet Page 9
