“Yes, Captain!”
“Where?”
“Looks like there was a village, but all the people are gone now.” Ushihara pointed along the beach toward the northeast, toward a spot on Hakata Bay that Ken’ishi knew well.
This was the second time one of the builders had died in the area of what was once Aoka village. One death could be an accident; two could not. “I will investigate.”
It was almost a year now since the barbarians had slaughtered most of Aoka’s inhabitants, including Kiosé and Little Frog. A lifetime ago, it seemed.
Ken’ishi looked around the earthworks, where men swarmed over the shoreline like ants, moving stones and shoveling earth. Stonecutters worked from bamboo scaffolds interspersed along the wall. Lever arms of wood and bamboo swung great buckets of earth and stone into place. Then he spotted the engineer overseeing this section of the wall, a man named Hojo no Akihiro, hunched above a makeshift table under a cloth shade, poring over a sheaf of drawings and lists.
Ken’ishi approached the engineer, Ushihara close behind. Akihiro was a thin, pensive man, whose opulent robes hung sodden with sweat in the heat. His bald pate, fringed with carefully trimmed gray, shone with perspiration.
Annoyance flashed on Akihiro’s face at Ken’ishi’s approach. Akihiro often stated, “Every moment that work is delayed reflects badly on our efforts and dishonors us before the shogun.” Even though Akihiro had come all the way from Kamakura, one of the shogun’s own builders, Ken’ishi’s rank equaled his. Ken’ishi’s men respected him; they despised Akihiro.
They greeted each other tersely, then Ken’ishi said, “There seems to be trouble along the work line to the east. Another death.”
Akihiro waved a hand. “And what of that? Keep the men working.”
Ken’ishi said, “Ushihara here says the first death last week has the men in that area frightened.”
Akihiro raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
Ken’ishi gestured for Ushihara to speak.
Ushihara said, “I saw the body, Lord. His face was...awful. Eyes wide and staring.” He circled his fingers to bulge his own eyes. “Mouth open like he was screaming. His skin white like paper. Not a wound on him. Healthy as a horse the day before. I just got word there’s another one.”
Ken’ishi said, “I’m going. We cannot let this continue. The peasants are already working double shifts. Fear will send them stealing away back to their villages.”
“Then they’ll be flogged as deserters!”
“It is harvest season. Their villages are already suffering from their absence. Michizane will serve as foreman until I return.”
Akihiro snorted and waved a dismissive hand again. “Do what you think you must.”
* * *
Ken’ishi retrieved Silver Crane from his tent and Storm from the makeshift stable. Ushihara retrieved his own horse, a swaybacked, old stallion with as much gray in his coat now as brown. Nevertheless, he mounted the horse with the same pride as if it were part of the shogun’s private herd.
The two of them took the road toward Aoka village, trotting their mounts at a quick, sustained pace.
In only half an hour’s travel along the shoreline road behind the construction of the fortifications, they passed at least ten new shrines honoring the kami of the air and sea, honoring the gods who had sent the storm to destroy the Mongol threat. Some of the shrines were still under construction. The Shinto priests were swimming in gold as people poured their thanks into coffers more than happy to accept those thanks. The scent of incense carried up and down the shoreline road.
The farther they traveled from Hakozaki, the sparser the shrines became. Ken’ishi knew these roads well, and soon he and Ushihara rode into the ruins of Aoka village. The charred remains of burnt houses sat untouched. The few structures left standing bore the stamp of desertion, their thatch falling away, their shutters and doors looking ever more weather-beaten, ragged curtains and broken shutters hanging limp in open windows. Near the center of town lay what was once Norikage’s administrative office, and near that the ashen ruins of Ken’ishi’s humble house, where he had burned the bodies of Kiosé and Little Frog.
Heaviness settled into his heart at this portion of his life that was lost.
The village was not deserted now, however. The fishermen’s docks had been demolished, along with all the buildings closest to shore. In their places, great mounds of earth had been built in preparation for the stone walls. But all work had ceased. Stonecutters should have been chiseling blocks of stone. Laborers should have been carrying baskets of earth on their backs. But instead they were standing in sullen clumps, eyes furtive and hooded.
Ushihara served as a workgroup foreman here. “The body is over here, Captain.” He spurred his horse toward the ruins of Ken’ishi’s house. A group of workers stood near a body covered by a dirt-stained blanket. They bowed low at the sight of Ken’ishi.
He dismounted and approached. “Tell me what happened.”
One of the men, a gnarled, leathery man with a sparse set of remaining teeth, bowed and stepped forward. “I found him this morning, Captain. Found him right here, I did. He was with us last night when we went to bed.”
“Where have you been sleeping?”
“In some of the houses, Captain.”
“Did none of you see him go outside?” Ken’ishi said.
The man shrugged. “We all get up in the night and shake off the dew, Captain.”
“But did anyone see him?”
The men traded wide-eyed looks and shook their heads.
“Which houses are you sleeping in?” Ken’ishi said.
The men pointed, one street over, toward a cluster of houses that had escaped fire, perhaps seventy paces away. Ken’ishi knew who used to live there. They had not escaped barbarian blades and arrows.
The distance was too far to walk for a man who was just out to relieve himself.
What could have happened here, on this spot?
He knelt beside the body and threw back the sheet.
The men gasped and jumped back.
The miasma of decay flew free with the sheet. Ken’ishi covered his nose and mouth. One of the men made a sign against evil kami. Fat, blue-black flies buzzed lazily. The dead man’s milky eyes stared, one straight up at the sky, the other rolled back out of sight. The mouth was wide open, as if in a scream, but the bloodless lips were peeled back grotesquely to expose the teeth. The pale, almost white skin was lined with blue-gray streaks. The fingers were clawed and reaching, as if gripping something. There were no bloodstains, no wounds.
The men milling around had obliterated any discernible tracks.
He stood and sighed. “Ushihara, ride back to Hakozaki and find a suitable priest. Bring him back before nightfall. We must put this man’s spirit to rest. Such an evil death will haunt this place, and we have work to do.”
Ushihara bowed, “Yes, Captain.” He ran back to his horse and was soon away.
Ken’ishi surveyed the area again.
“Do we need an exorcism, Captain?” one man said.
“I don’t know,” Ken’ishi said. “The realm of the dead is not my knowledge.” He composed himself to listen for the kami. A pall of dark fear hung in the air, an unquiet stillness. The surrounding forest lay silent. The kami offered no alarm. Whatever danger there had been, whatever had killed this man, was apparently gone now.
* * *
Gravediggers were working among one of the crews in the area. They kept to themselves as no one else wanted to work with them, given their status as unclean, but they dug the grave and dutifully disposed of the body. Ken’ishi hoped that Ushihara would return soon with a priest, lest the dead man’s spirit be trapped in the mortal realm as a hungry ghost.
At Ken’ishi’s urging, the men went back to work, but uneasiness kept them looking over their shoulders. A wave of ill fortune swept the area. Broken shovel handles, torn baskets, a stonecutter pulping one of his fingers with a hammer, a section of w
all collapsing in a small avalanche of loose earth and erasing several days of labor.
When dusk descended, turning Hakata Bay into a sea of glimmering blood, the workers dispersed to their evening meals with much grumbling and troubled talk. Ushihara, however, had not returned. This was unlike him. Surprisingly, he had become one of Ken’ishi’s most reliable men.
With an eye toward inclement weather, Ken’ishi took up a place beside one of the remaining houses with a broad, clear view of the village. Clouds slid across the faces of the stars, deepening the darkness. Sounds of tense conversation diminished in the houses where the workers quartered. Firelight faded to orange glow through the windows. The lap of the sea against the beach subsided. The birds and crickets remained silent. Even the mosquitoes slept. Silver Crane lay quiescent at his side. He leaned against the wall, munched on a rice ball, and watched.
The silence thrummed like a heartbeat, lulling him toward sleep. His limbs seemed to expand and contract rhythmically with the sound of his breathing. Fingers of silver spread through the clouds as if lit from within. The moistness in the air did not smell clean and fresh like rain, but thick and moldy with decay. Mist crept across the ground from the forest at the village edge. Fireflies blinked in the shadows of the forest, bobbing in and out of the mist. The ninth month was not the season for fireflies. He blinked and sat up a little straighter, rubbing his eyes.
His house now stood on its old spot, whole and unburned.
He rubbed his eyes again.
He took up his sword and approached the house.
The same thatched roof. The same weathered walls and shutters. The door stood open. A yellow light swelled within.
The steps up to the door felt solid underfoot. A shadow moved inside.
He stepped inside and found Kiosé lifting the lid from a pot above the crackling fire pit. Steam mushroomed toward the ceiling.
She smiled at him. “Welcome home, dear.” Then she stirred the pot with a rice paddle. “Are you hungry? I’ve been cleaning.”
His mouth hung agape, but words would not come.
“Sit down,” she said, “you look so weary.” Her hair hung long and free about her shoulders, a style he could not recall her wearing.
He took a few steps closer. “Kiosé...”
“It’s been too long since we’ve had a night to ourselves. Little Frog is already asleep.”
She was as pretty as any time he could remember.
“Do you...remember me, Kiosé?” Ken’ishi said. Last year, he had lamented to a strange, old man in the forest—Hage, in actuality—that Kiosé’s love for him was holding him back. It felt like an anchor. He could not bear to hurt her any more by returning her ardent love with tepid affection. Hage had enchanted Kiosé’s memories to erase Ken’ishi from them.
“What a silly question!” She scooped steaming rice into two wooden bowls. From a wooden box she plucked two wrinkled, purple globes—pickled plums—and arranged them atop the bowls.
As she worked, he studied her. He thought he caught sight of an opening cut across the back of her kimono. Its placement seemed as if it should be significant, but then it was gone. And her skin was so porcelain smooth now, like...like someone else’s whose name eluded him. The more he looked at her, the more beautiful she became, and the greater his admiration grew, as if she drank it up.
“Kiosé,” he said, “how is it you’re here? It’s been so long.”
“I’ve been here all this time, dear.” She smiled again and offered him a bowl.
He took it, and the brush of her finger against his was as cold as if she had been walking outside in winter. “But why?”
“You know why!” she snapped. Then her voice softened again. “You know.”
“Do you remember what happened here?”
“Eat. You’re hungry.” She smiled again, faintly.
Mist filled the corners of the room now.
As he looked at the rice and the plum, a wild, desperate buzzing filled his mind, like ten thousand mosquitoes trapped his in skull. The rice smelled good. She was so beautiful, and he had not lain with her for so long. He missed her body against his, her little sighs of pleasure, the touch of her lips.
“Kiosé.” He reached for her. She edged nearer, coquettishly, but still out of reach.
“There’s something I must tell you, Kiosé,” he said.
“Mmm?” She edged a bit closer, shoulder toward him, her face obscured by her long hair.
“I...I’m very sorry for what happened. While I was away, I thought about you often.”
“And where were you?” she said, a harsh accusation lurking there. Again, her voice softened. “Where were you?”
“Searching, I think. Imprisoned. Trying to return.”
A distant voice echoed through the door. A dimly luminous fog now obscured the night outside.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Oh, dear. The baby is awake.” She turned toward the back of the room, where she gently scooped up a bundle wrapped in a dingy blanket. She gingerly peeled open the bundle, then bared her breast and lifted the bundle to it.
Warmth and joy shot through Ken’ishi. How he had yearned to hear Little Frog’s coarse little voice again. He reached out. “May I hold him?”
Kiosé smiled, “When he’s finished.” She sang and rocked the bundle against her, walking around the small room. Her waist-length hair swayed with her.
In the distance, voices called, “Captain! Captain!”
Ken’ishi jumped to his feet. “What is that?”
“Just fools lost in the fog,” she said. “There, I think he’s satisfied for now. Such a hungry baby.”
She turned toward him and offered the bundle.
Reaching out, he took it gently, cradling it in his arm. Why had he never held Little Frog like this before? Something crawled across his hand. Instead of warm wriggling baby, the bundle rattled like sticks. Instead of a baby’s quiet cooing, the bundle made no sound.
He lifted the flap of blanket aside. Instead of Little Frog’s round, pink face, there were only two empty sockets in a small, blackened skull, nestled in a parcel of charred bones.
“He’s such a good boy,” Ken’ishi said. His voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a well.
“Handsome like his father,” Kiosé said. She clasped her hands over her heart, brimming with pride.
Something brushed across his shoulder blades, stroking his back with affection.
She looked up into his eyes. She was so much more beautiful than...that other person.
Somewhere a baby wailed, as if from a great distance. “Shhh,” he said, and rocked the bundle as Kiosé had done.
“I think he is asleep now.” She lifted the bundle from his arms and, with infinite gentleness, placed it on the mat. With her back still turned, she said, “You will let me stay, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You make me so happy.” She stood and turned toward him. Her knee length hair almost enveloped her, black and silky.
“Captain! Captain!” came voices from the fog.
Ken’ishi stepped into the doorway, but the fog was too thick to see anything. “What are they doing out there in the fog?”
A touch slid up over his shoulder blade. “Come back, dear. We only have a little time,” Kiosé said in his ear.
When he turned, she was kneeling across the room from him, unfolding a futon. She patted it. “Come to me, my love.”
Mist covered the floor, ankle deep. Things black and fibrous slithered in the mist, tickling his feet like seaweed as he crossed to her.
Rather than standing, she seemed to flow upright, rising up to nuzzle his chin. “Why not put that down?”
“What? Oh.” He still held his sword by the scabbard in his left hand. “What shall I do with it?”
“Throw it away.” A dozen soft hands brushed up and down his back, his buttocks, his legs. Kiosé’s hands lay upon his chest.
The sound of a great silver be
ll pealed through his mind, almost as if meaning were embedded in the echoes.
Obsidian tendrils snaked over his shoulders, between his legs, around his thighs, around his arms, around his neck, so soft, so gentle, caressing, coaxing him down onto the futon.
He stretched out on the futon. It was not strange at all that Kiosé had no legs. The hem of her kimono floated just above the mist. Her shape knelt beside him, cold, hard hands pressing him down against the mat. The tendrils encircling him cinched tighter, pleasantly.
The tendrils tugged at Silver Crane with increasing strength. He gripped the scabbard tighter. The tendrils’ insistence continued to increase, stretching out his arm.
She hovered above him, with no legs to straddle him, leaning down into his face with a screech. “Let it go!” The harsh moment of shrill rage came and went in less than a heartbeat, then she was smiling again. “Let it go. You do not need it anymore.”
The peal of the silver bell came again.
“No, I—” He tried to reach for the sword with his right hand, but something pinned his right hand to his side. Her eyes were so dark and deep and beautiful.
Something fell out of her hair, into his mouth. Something sour and wriggling. He spat it out with revulsion. In the darkness he could not see what it was.
The slithering tendrils of black hair cinched tighter, squeezing his chest and throat, cutting off his breath.
“It’s all right, my love. Just lie still.” Her eyes were cold and empty as a freshly dug grave.
The fire in the firepit turned green.
A blaze of fury erupted in his chest. “No!” With a great heave he tore his right arm free with a sound like tearing cloth.
With his free hand, he shoved against her chest. His hand sank into her breast as if her body was cold mochi. He yanked it free, and a deluge of squirming maggots gushed over him. A venomous centipede scuttled across her face and back into her hair. Clamping down on the urge to wretch, he heaved his right arm across his body, reaching for Silver Crane’s hilt. Slick black tentacles of hair rose up to ensnare his arm again. Still he could not breathe. His fingers touched Silver Crane’s ray skin hilt, encircled it, gripped it. Then, with a stifled roar of defiance, he dragged it free. Its blade caught the green firelight like a glimmering mirror. Shards of emerald light danced across the ceiling, across her corpse’s face.
Spirit of the Ronin Page 26
