by Peter David
“I tend to think Ali would have wanted to live, and the rest of it is speculation designed to make us feel better,” I replied. I leaned forward, probably looking an eerie sight as the light from the flame danced across my face. “I saw one of his killers. A woman.”
“A woman?” echoed Lun Chin. She looked apprehensively at her husband. It was purely a guess on my part, but I felt as if she suspected something already.
“Yes. Dressed in black. She came in here while looking for Ali, and she…”
I stopped. I suddenly felt rather uncomfortable with the notion of trying to explain what had happened. I wasn’t entirely sure that even I understood it, and I had been there for it.
To my astonishment, Double Chin said, “Did she try to take advantage of you sexually?”
“Yes. That’s correct…”
“And as she did so,” asked Lun Chin, “did she speak in an overwrought, emotionally driven manner involving similes and metaphors that made little to no sense? In an almost superreal fashion?”
“Yes!” I couldn’t believe it. “How did you know? Do you know who these women are? You must. You couldn’t have just guessed all that…”
The older couple exchanged significant glances. Then Double Chin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “One hundred and fifty years ago,” he said, “a group of monks fell out of favor with the Imperior… himself a rather dyspeptic and vicious man who abused his power terribly. Women, in particular, suffered his wrath, some in the most vicious and unthinkable of ways.
“The Imperior feared the fighting skills of the monks, and came to believe court advisors who told him the monks posed a threat. So the Imperior set his deadliest and fiercest warriors upon them, and hounded them out of the heart of Chinpan. Eventually they founded a monastery, high in the mountain range known as the Anaïs. And there, in hiding, they became a place where women who feared the Imperior went to study, to learn self-defense. To become something other than victims.”
“Eventually, the monks died off,” Lun Chin spoke up, “but more and more women came to the monastery, there to study and learn from those who had absorbed all the monks had to teach them. They expanded their studies beyond anything the monks could have dreamt of. They learned to draw strength from their passions, to use their sexuality as a source of power, and to celebrate that sexuality in a variety of ways.”
“And they became a warrior caste,” said Double Chin. “Shadow warriors bursting with lust, and tormentedly twisted ways of expressing it. They meld with the darkness, wives of the moon, sisters of the silhouettes. They are…” And he paused and glanced around as if making certain no one else was listening, and said in a lowered voice, “…the Anaïs Ninjas.”
“And why would these Anaïs Ninjas have an interest in killing my teacher?” I demanded.
I didn’t truly expect them to have the answer and, as it turned out, I wasn’t disappointed. They shrugged, shook their heads. “The important thing to remember,” Double Chin told me, “is that Ali is with the ancestors now. He is truly honored.”
“He is truly dead, and the Anaïs Ninjas will pay.”
Double and Lun Chin looked saddened. “There is no point to vengeance.”
“There doesn’t have to be a point,” I replied. “It’s an end in itself. It’s just… it’s too much.”
“Too much?” His eyebrows knit.
“You don’t know. You can’t know!” I said, my voice getting louder, and it was with tremendous effort that I reined it in. More softly, but speaking with a tremor that I couldn’t quite control, I repeated, “You can’t know.”
“Can’t know what, Po?” asked Lun Chin.
“Me. What I’ve been through. The things…”
I was accustomed to lying. So accustomed to it, in fact, that it was almost painful for me to speak the truth, as if I was paying the price for flexing long-unused muscles. But for once, I wanted to tell the complete, unvarnished truth. I had to say it aloud, lest I explode, and I had to say it to someone, lest I go insane.
“You have no idea of the life I’ve led,” I said. “Every person I’ve ever loved has either been taken from me or betrayed me or tried to use me in some way for personal gain. Every thing I’ve ever owned of any real value, ranging from treasure to friendship, has been lost to me.”
“Have you brought it on yourself?” Double Chin inquired.
It was a softly phrased question, but it cut through with the precision of a hot needle. I was fond of seeing myself as the perpetual victim. As fortune’s fool, the favorite object of godly torment. I lowered my head and said softly, “Sometimes. Sometimes, yes. I have betrayed others. I have betrayed friends, and let them down. I was responsible for the death of my best friend, after stealing his fate. As much as I cry out over the misfortunes that fall like shite-filled raindrops upon me, the truth is that I’ve brought it on myself, more often than not. Payment in full for the misdeeds I have done to others.”
I raised my gaze, looking up at them, not quite believing that I had been so candid with them. They were staring at me blankly. Then Double Chin said, “We didn’t understand a word you just said. You spoke in your native tongue.”
I blinked owlishly, and then laughed in self-deprecation. How typical. One of the few times in my life I’d ever been honest, and my basic nature kicked in and made sure they wouldn’t comprehend what I’d said.
Well, who was I to argue with my basic nature?
“No. I’ve never brought it on myself, except that I’ve tried to live a good and decent life, and the world and the gods themselves have allied to prevent it,” I said.
They nodded sympathetically. “There are some who are made to suffer,” said Double Chin sagely.
“I know. And I’m tired of being one of them.”
There had been times in my life in which I was struck by what I considered to be moments of clarity. Instants where I saw beyond where I had been, and was able to have a clear vision of where I should be going. They had been few and far between, but had always had a catastrophic impact on my existence, and sent my life into unexpected and unorthodox directions.
This was one of those instances.
The anger that I had mentioned earlier, burning within me, was stoked to new heights.
“Yes. Tired of being one of them. Tired of loss. Tired of…” I stared at them, but my mind was years agone and thousands of miles away. “My mother was killed. The only creature on this planet who never betrayed me, and she was murdered by a heartless brute. And do you know what I wanted to do in retaliation? I wanted to hunt down, not the murderer… but the murderer’s mother, and kill her.”
“As an act of vengeance, it has a certain poetic justice to it,” Double Chin said judiciously.
“It was cowardice! Cowardice on my part!”
“It… could be seen in that way…”
I got to my feet, suddenly sensing that I was at a crossroads. But for once, it was a crossroads that I was not being propelled toward by outside forces, but instead striding toward myself. “Everything that I ever have is taken away from me! Everyone I ever loved has been killed or left me! And I let it happen! Every damned time, I let it happen, and I never do a damned thing about it. That’s why it keeps happening!”
Lun Chin looked confused. “I… I don’t understan—”
“It keeps happening because the gods look down upon me and say, ‘Oh, look there! There’s Apropos!’ ” I was pacing back and forth as fast as my right leg would allow. ” ‘We can do anything we want to him, and he’ll just keep taking it and taking it!’ Well, no more! No more! I was on the verge of something with Ali. I’m not sure what it was, and now I’ll never know. That’s the real killer of it. I’ll never know! And I’m sick of it! Sick of not knowing what could have been! Sick of a life full of… of might-haves and just-missed-its! Those women, those Anaïs Ninjas, took Ali from me, and they didn’t just do it at random. They did it for someone.
“But they didn’t just do it to
Ali. They did it to me. And I’m not taking it anymore. Do you understand? It ends here and now! It ends today!”
I’d gotten myself so worked up that I was shouting at the top of my lungs. My head was pounding, and the veins were sticking out on the side of my head. But I didn’t care, because it felt good. It felt good to care about something so passionately that I could get myself so exercised.
“What… will you do, though, Po?” asked Double Chin. “You are but one man. What can you possibly do?”
“Find them,” I said intently. “Find them… and kill them all.”
Chapter 8
Dragon My Tail
By morning, naturally, I had come to my senses.
It was interesting to learn that I was still capable of such passion, of such fire, of such a staggeringly naïve belief in ephemera like justice and fairness, that I was capable of feeling—even for a few moments—as if I wanted to do something personally to maintain such things.
Except I wasn’t.
It wasn’t that I was afraid of dying. Once I had very much been, so much so that it had informed every single thing I did. But during my experiences in Wuin, I had come to something of an “understanding,” for want of a better term, in dealing with my own mortality. My innate cowardice had caused me to grab on to life so desperately that it had placed a stranglehold on every other aspect of my existence. Wuin had loosened that stranglehold somewhat.
However, there was still enough of the stubborn bastard in me that I was not prepared to simply throw my life away. That was the province of heroes. Heroes, as near as I could determine, fell into two categories. Either they had so little regard for their own lives that they didn’t care if they died, so long as it was in some heroic fashion. Or else they were so convinced of their own superiority and innate righteousness that they were certain they would overcome whatever challenge lay before them and live to laugh over the corpses of their enemies.
For my part, I had seen far too many heroes come to unfortunate ends, usually with very surprised expressions on their dying faces. So I had no interest in rushing headlong into a potentail lethal situation simply for something as pointless as vengeance.
Still, I had been utterly sincere when I’d spoken of seeking revenge in the name of Ali. One of the ways I had survived as long as I had was that I was something of a master of deception. The number of people I had fooled, lied to, outfoxed, outwitted, flimflammed, and cheated was practically legion. Apparently, not being satisfied with fooling others, I had taken up the ultimate challenge: fooling myself.
And temporarily, I had succeeded. I had convinced myself that I was ready to go charging into the fray, to seek out the bitches who had killed my teacher and make them pay.
That resolve had lasted for as long as it had taken me to stare long and hard at the ceiling of my hut as the rainstorm, with renewed energy, splattered away on the roof, and realize just how close I had come to being killed by that one woman. And that was just one of them. And I’d been damned lucky. If I went after the Anaïs Ninjas, I would not only be pressing my luck, I would practically be shoving it through the ground.
Depression swept over me. Depression over my innate weakness, depression over my inability to overcome it. I really, truly wanted to do something to avenge myself upon Ali’s assailants. But simple vengeance had never been sufficient motivation for me to embark on any endeavor, especially if it required putting my own meager existence on the line.
The problem was, I had just made a great show of talking about vengeance to two of the Chins. I had valiantly declared that I was going to dispose of the Anaïs Ninjas. I had spoken great words. The problem with great words is that they have a habit of spreading. That night, mine spread faster than syphilis at a prostitute convention. Despite the increasing lateness of the hour, despite the foul weather, various members of the village kept showing up the entire night. Each time, the ritual was exactly the same. They would politely knock, come in upon my permission, smile, and bow deeply. Then they’d leave. One after another, sometimes in groups of threes and fours.
They didn’t need to say anything. I knew why they were coming by, and they knew I knew. They were mutely thanking me for taking it upon myself to defend the honor of the village and achieve vengeance for the demise of Chinpan Ali.
Which left me wondering what the hell I was supposed to do next.
I couldn’t just pretend that I hadn’t said anything about it. I couldn’t back out. They would all think me a coward. Not that I was normally especially worried over what people thought about me, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to be dismissive of what the good people of Hosbiyu considered me. I liked them too much. They’d been too good to me.
I had spent my life letting myself down. I was used to it. The thought of letting them down, however, was too much.
Besides, they might be so annoyed that they’d turn against me and I’d wake up one morning to find myself buried out in the wheat field.
By the time the rain stopped and the morning sun rose, I knew I had to leave the village.
I had, however, already hit upon a plan. It was not one of my more elaborate schemes, but that was perfectly fine. In this situation, simpler was probably superior.
Hosbiyu was a small, isolated village. In all the time I had been there, such a thing as “news” was nonexistent. None of the villagers ever left town, except for Cleft Chin, who would, every so often, haul the excess wheat to a larger city and exchange it for supplies that were not readily handy. Other than that, the people of Hosbiyu were more or less self-sufficient and knew nothing of what transpired beyond their boundaries.
Which meant that they’d have no idea if I was successful in my quest or not beyond what I told them.
Faced with a problematic situation, I realized upon further consideration that instead I had a win/win scenario on my hands.
I would pack my few belongings and depart. Granted, smuggling out Chinpan Ali’s sword was going to be a bit of a challenge, but I was up to it. Once I left, I would simply wander about for as long as seemed a reasonable time. Who knew? Perhaps I would happen upon a situation that was superior to the one I’d initially stumbled into. But if I didn’t, then when enough time had passed, I would return to Hosbiyu and simply tell the people that I’d done exactly what I’d set out to do. I’d certainly have more than enough time to come up with a good story as to how I’d accomplished it.
I’d make sure it was filled with much derring-do, adventure, and even a bit of tragedy. I’d give myself a sweet young thing who would die pitifully at the eleventh hour trying to save her great love—me, of course. And I’d include an evil villainess who wasn’t at all what she appeared. Gods knew I had enough experience with that. And at the end, I would survive all the challenges and leave everyone else in the dust, annihilated. Chinpan Ali would be avenged, and honor would be right.
Even as I mentally congratulated myself, I was appalled at the glee I found in devising a way to bamboozle these people.
It made me wonder how anyone ever felt good about themselves.
I mean, I certainly never did. Oh, on rare occasions there were brief moments of happiness and a sense of self-worth, but such times usually meant that someone was suffering and I was benefiting from it. At which point, I would loathe myself all the more.
Was I really that different from everyone else in the world? Did they truly toddle through life, filled with good thoughts and an innate sense of their own wonderfulness, and never stare directly into their dark side and recoil from it? Was anyone truly happy? Or were they simply more skilled than I at putting a false face upon their own self-contempt and misery?
After all, virtually everyone I’d ever encountered until coming to Chinpan had been something of a right bastard. Were they happier than I?
Was anyone? And if so, how did they manage it? Was it that I was entirely too self-aware, or that they were simply oblivious?
I mean, as much as I despised myself, there were so man
y, so damned many who were so much worse. At least, I liked to tell myself that. Were they eaten up with the same self-doubts, frustration, and loathing as I? Was the concept of human happiness mere myth? Was the only difference between me and the rest of those I’d encountered that I was the one-eyed man in the proverbial land of the blind? And if so, when the hell did I get to be king?
Well… what about the people of Hosbiyu, I wondered. They were decent people. They felt consistently good about themselves. What were they doing differently? Was it something in the food? Something in the air? Philosophies, religion?
Or was it that they weren’t actually all that superior after all? There was always that possibility.
Consider the joy with which they had greeted the news that I was going to seek vengeance for the death of Ali. Perhaps they were so cheered because they burned with as much dark need for retribution as anyone else.
Yes. That was probably it. Despite their outer trappings of righteousness and goodness, deep down they were as scummy as anyone else, including me. And cowardly. They were cowardly, too, hanging back and letting me attend to the job of vengeance.
The thought should have made me happy. Instead it made me more depressed and more filled with self-loathing than ever before.
It was nice to know there were some things on which I could count.
There was a knock at the door and I looked up. Cleft Chin was standing there, scowling at me, as he was wont to do. I realized he was the only member of the village who had not come by to bow to me and mutely express appreciation for my self-inflicted adventure of vengeance.
He wasn’t bowing.
He continued to scowl.
I got to my feet. “Problem?” I inquired.
He didn’t step in. It was as if he thought he would be contaminated if he set foot into the place. Instead his face darkened and he growled, “I know you.”
“Yessss,” I said slowly. “Yes, I should think you…”
“I have been watching you,” continued Cleft Chin. “I know your type. I know how you think.”
