by Jay Noel
Zen turned to check on the others inside the gallery. He was about to take a step towards the chamber, but a piercing scream followed by a gunshot sliced through the blackness. With pistol in hand, he ran inside.
Marcel screamed from ten feet away, and his mother stood next to him. There was something odd about Neva's posture. Her right arm held out her pistol, but both her legs were bent at awkward angles. Someone moved in the shadows on the far side of the gallery, and Zen raised his gun and squeezed off two shots in a harried attempt to keep the attacker away. When he turned his attention back to Neva, he saw her struggling to stay on her feet even with Marcel's help.
Enapay burst past Zen. He snatched Neva and Marcel and pulled them to safety behind one of the large exhibit cases. Zen's eyesight caught subtle movement beyond the reach of the gas lanterns' flickering light, proving Zen's shots had missed. He kept his weapon raised. He hoped to catch even a glint of the man he knew must be Kai.
Zen spotted a dance of shadows from afar, but there wasn't enough time to dodge the silver knife whirling at him. The blade plunged into his left leg, right above the knee. Zen pitched backwards but managed to drop to his right knee and yank the knife from his flesh. He lost his breath. His lungs shuddered from the new pain overwhelming him.
Simon, still carrying his rifle, ran and shoved the old man behind another large wooden case. They crouched low to the floor directly across from Enapay. Zen heard Neva gasp. Enapay held Marcel's head down while clutching Neva's shaking body with his free arm.
Zen wanted to take cover as well, as he was still out in the open. The flowing rage rose up to his mouth, and if he was going to die today, he wanted to make sure he killed Kai first. He remained on one knee and scanned for his target.
He was sure Kai was still lurking somewhere in the dark side of the gallery, and Zen detected more subtle motion from behind a glass exhibit about fifty yards in front of him. The longer he glared into the murky side of the museum, the more he thought the flitting lantern light was playing tricks on him.
“Get over here,” Enapay called out from Zen's right.
Zen turned to him but seeing Neva lying on the floor with the throwing knife jutting out of her chest made him lose his breath. Acid burned on his tongue. Despite his body's protests, Zen stood up; the stabbing pain made it difficult to walk. He ignored Enapay's plea and advanced deeper into the gallery. He lifted his gun and unloaded another three bullets at what he guessed was Kai's fluid movements in the dark.
He was sure he missed again, as all he heard was the explosion of glass and wood from his wild shots.
“Take cover, damnit!” Enapay wildly waved a bloody hand at him. “Neva's wounded!”
Zen couldn't swallow the dry lump in his throat. He glanced at Neva again. Her legs were stretched out as if her entire body was immobile. Her head lay in Marcel's lap, and her eyes fluttered open. Neva looked up at her son who hovered over her and cried silently.
Blind fury took over, and Zen pulled his trigger again. The pistol was empty. He holstered it while pulling his other gun from its holster. His eyes fully adjusted to the dark, and this time, he saw the twirling glint of metal spiraling towards him. Somehow, he threw his body towards Enapay's position in time to avoid Kai's spinning knife. He landed flat on the cold stone floor. Sharp stabs of pain attacked his body from the clumsy belly flop.
Zen remained on his stomach, and it hurt to move. Enapay bent forward. He grabbed Zen's hand and pulled him to safety behind the antique display case. While fighting Enapay's tugging, Zen raised his revolver. Without even aiming, Zen fired four more bullets into the darkness.
“I can't see him,” Simon yelled from directly across from them. He lifted his rifle and pointed it towards the far end of the gallery, firing three blind shots. “It's like trying to kill a ghost.”
Zen got to his knees. The sharp pinch above his left knee made his whole body tremble. He looked down at Neva who struggled with every rattling breath.
“It doesn't look good,” Enapay whispered. He jerked his head towards Zen. “You're not looking so great right now either. Why don't you use that Ishen stuff and kill this bastard already?”
Neva's body convulsed, the still embedded knife in her chest quivering. “Can't breathe...” Her voice was barely audible. She kept her eyelids open and looked straight up at her whimpering son for a few seconds before closing them again.
“I cannot,” Zen said while trying to exhale his anger from his chest. Clarity. Focus. Serenity. These were the prerequisites needed to bring his mind to the proper state, but he found none of those three in his heart. Hatred consumed him. “I am too angry.”
Neva tried to speak. Her mouth moved, but Zen couldn't hear her words. Marcel looked up at Zen, his flooded eyes full of pleading desperation. For one ephemeral second, Zen wondered if his own eyes looked that way at his mother's deathbed.
“Just have to do it the old-fashioned way. If you can stay on your feet, draw him out. Just don't get killed.” Enapay lifted his rifle. “Get me a clear shot.”
Zen pushed all of his pain aside. He allowed the healing breaths he took to fill his entire body. He pulled himself up to his feet and leaned up against the exhibition stand. Zen readied his second pistol. He caught a glance of the growing pool of blood on Neva's chest, and a wave of hopelessness filled him, settling into the back of his throat.
Zen slid the cylinder of his pistol open, confirming what he already knew. He had two rounds left. When he stepped out from behind the exhibit case, he saw Simon across from him wave his arms wildly.
“Get down. Are you crazy?” Simon yelled at him.
DePaul reached up to yank Simon back behind their cover.
Smoldering anger remained, and he knew bringing his mind into conjuring Ishen was impossible. His mind wouldn't relinquish the image of Marcel helplessly watching his mother die. Zen's only option was to use his hate to fuel him.
Zen's eyes caught a flash of metal in the distance to his left. He saw the flying knife only after it penetrated the shadows and came into the light. Zen slid to his right to avoid it. The twirling blade hurled harmlessly over his already wounded shoulder.
Raising his revolver, Zen went into a slow jog towards the dark end of the gallery, leaving the light of the gas lanterns behind him. He spotted movement to his right, and Zen squeezed off a shot. It struck a tall exhibit holding a colossal ax, the glass exploding into a thousand shards. The low strained grunt met his ears, and he knew he at least wounded Kai.
A growl echoed from that same direction. “Prince Kanze Zenjiro.”
Boots scraped glass, and Kai shuffled out from behind what remained of the display case. The ancient ax it once protected, however, was still held upright by its metal stand. Kai was in agony. He flashed his teeth in a tight grimace and glared at the ax as if he contemplated taking it in his hands.
Kai looked as if he were ready to collapse. The man had short cropped hair and wore a uniform the hue of dark indigo. He bore no clan emblem on his chest armor, but his dark pants were soggy from fresh blood spilling underneath his clothing.
The man looked familiar to Zen. It took only a few seconds for him to recall meeting this solider on his way to his father's study the day of Nihon's Unification Day celebration. He knew Kai was a Shadow, a member of the secret army Zen believed existed but never discussed with his father.
The stone Zen wore under his shirt was burning his skin, the blue light penetrating his white shirt. He ignored it, and he forced his attention to return to the wounded Kai.
“Who are you?” Zen pointed the barrel of his gun and cocked the hammer back. He had one round left in the chamber, and that's all he needed.
Kai's shoulders drooped. His arms hung loosely at his sides. He opened his bloody hands to reveal that they were empty. “You know what I am, but not who I am.” The Shadow removed the katana from his scabbard before throwing it on the floor. His mouth flashed a gloomy grin.
“I know you, Zenjiro. The
most honorable warrior of Nihon. You would never kill an unarmed opponent. That is not your way. That is not the way of the samurai.” He spat a spray of red from his mouth. “Honor first, right?”
Zen's insides caught on fire. The need to pull the trigger was overwhelming.
“You look like your mother.” Kai dropped his head. “My beloved sister.”
Zen froze. “What?”
Kai's eyes rolled back as if he was going to pass out. His body lost all tension and started to go limp. Instead of collapsing in a heap, he steadied himself. Kai raised his right hand, flashing another throwing blade that had been concealed in his sleeve.
The crack of gunfire came from behind Zen, followed by another. Zen remained still, unable to move his aching body. Kai's dark form jerked and jolted from the two bullets punching through his torso. He let out a weak exhale before dropping his knife and crumbling to the floor.
Zen struggled to stay on his feet. He nearly dropped his pistol, and he fought to stay upright. The room felt like it was spinning, but he kept his gun trained on Kai's unmoving body. Had the Shadow tried to distract him?
If so, Kai had succeeded. His mother never spoke of having a brother, or any other family. She was an orphan. Zen felt dizzy with humiliation, ashamed of his moment of weakness and foolishness. His moment of hesitation had nearly cost him his life.
Enapay stood at the edge of the shadows, the light still revealing his rifle's smoking barrel. He ran to Zen's side and poked Kai's body with his gun.
“Are you okay?” Enapay asked him.
“I will be fine.” Zen turned around and looked towards the open entrance to the museum. “How is Neva?”
The dread in Enapay's eyes answered him.
Zen shuddered in a silent rage. The full realization that his own father had hired Kai made him sick. Hideaki had also conspired to take the Machine Boy. Abducting children broke the samurai code. His father's dishonor hurt far worse than his bloody wounds.
The stone around his neck continued to emanate hot energy, more intense than ever before. Enapay caught a glimpse of it before leaving his side to run back to Neva. Zen bent over Kai's body and took the sword and wooden scabbard from the floor. His instinct was to say a prayer for Kai's spirit, but instead he turned to where Neva lay. He hoped she was still alive.
The heat from his medallion was almost unbearable, and the stone seemed to be moving by itself. He pulled it from underneath his blood soaked shirt, and it immediately felt like it was pulling to the left. The chain was taut, the stone nearly levitating in mid-air. When he turned to the direction of the stone's pull, he allowed himself to be led by the amulet.
Zen reached an artifact in Geller's gallery, protected inside a long horizontal glass case. The entire weapon was of a strange black metal and lay broken in several jagged pieces. It looked long eroded by nature and the passing of centuries. His eyes welled with tears, and the stone continued to rattle. It seemed to nearly catch fire against his skin.
With whatever strength Zen had left, he slid the glass off the wooden case, and it shattered on the stone floor. He removed the medallion from his neck, keeping the stone hovering above the broken sword. The pull downward was strong, and when he let go of the chain, the stone clung onto the once-ornate hilt of what he knew had to be the Sky Blade.
Enapay and Simon shared Neva's weight on their shoulders, her head lifted and her breaths remained rapid and shallow. Marcel clung to her and held her up from her waist. The old man followed, peeking around them to stare at the exhibit.
“What is that?” Enapay asked, looking at both Zen and DePaul for an answer.
“The Sky Blade,” Marcel said between quiet sobs.
Zen's normally steady hands continued to quiver. “Yes, Machine Boy. You are correct.”
When Zen swallowed, it was as if the sharp fragments of glass on the floor were now in his throat. His world tumbled upside down. All he had ever known were revealed to be nothing but lies. The Sky Blade was nothing more than a rusty useless antique, a display purchased by a greedy, and now dead, merchant.
The veil of mystery and mysticism of the universe evaporated, and all Zen could find was cold reality. The world lost its color. Zen reached over and pulled Enapay's leather satchel from his free shoulder. Enapay straightened his arm, allowing the strap to slide off.
“It is the Sky Blade.” Zen's words were hollow, which is exactly how he felt inside. “Not so mighty after all.”
Enapay was about to speak, but he shook his head instead. He had been right all this time, but he looked as if he took no joy in being so.
Zen picked up the pieces of the sword and threw them into the bag. Drying his eyes, he slung the pack over his wounded shoulder and scanned the gallery for the large tapestry Kamau had described. On the wall directly in front of them hung the earth-colored woven rug.
Zen pulled the tapestry from the wall, revealing a small wooden door. “Let's get out of here,” he said as he pulled it open.
The warmth of the stone stuck to the Sky Blade's hilt penetrated the leather satchel on his back, mocking him. Zen carried with him a bag filled with broken promises. He silently cursed his father as he led what was left of his group through the hidden doorway and into the pitch-black of the underground tunnel.
DEPAUL LED THEM TO HIS friend's building, hidden underground in the center of the now empty market. The man with the mechanical leg named Anton brought them to a simple chamber resembling a small bedroom. He supplied Simon with the medical materials he needed.
Simon had been a surgeon in the Francian army, DePaul explained. The old man's nephew worked furiously to save Neva. He worked with determined skill and urgency. DePaul remained at Neva's bedside, his wrinkled face full of gloom. Everyone wallowed in horrible silence as Simon continued to work on her.
Marcel's cries eventually subsided, his face void of any color. Zen and Enapay sat on the floor up against the wall. After noticing Zen's bloody injuries, Enapay got up and snatched several cloth strips and a small bottle of yellow disinfectant from the table at Simon's side. Despite Zen's initial protest, Enapay tended to Zen's wounded shoulder and leg.
“I cannot help her,” Simon whispered to DePaul. “Her injury is too severe. I cannot stop the bleeding. I gave her something for the pain, but that's all I can do.” He turned to Marcel. “She has little time left, and she wants to speak with you.”
Simon and DePaul left the room. Marcel tiptoed up to Neva's side. He leaned over the bed and kissed her cheek. Zen watched Neva's flickering green eyes stare at the top of her son's head, her expression eerily identical to his own mother's during her final moments.
When Marcel lifted his face to hers, Neva forced a thin smile on her grayish face.
“My little Machine Boy. You're safe, and that is all that matters to me.” Her voice trembled, and the sound of bubbling fluid filled her throat.
Enapay stopped dabbing the medicine on Zen's shoulder and motioned for them to join the boy. As they approached, her hand gestured for them to come closer. Enapay and Zen leaned in; Neva focused on them for a moment.
“Please take care of my son,” she gurgled. Her eyes rested on Enapay as if to confirm her wishes. “Watch over him.”
Marcel buried his face into the crook of Neva's arm. Enapay took a long time in composing himself. He gently touched the boy's chestnut hair and looked into Neva's eyes. “Are you sure? I'm not the best influence. I might corrupt him.”
Neva's lips tightened. “I trust you, savage.”
She slowly turned to Zen, and he felt a familiar pain fester in his chest. This was to be a good death, as Neva had proved herself to be both brave and honorable. One of the best he had ever met, but this was little consolation. He was watching another mother leave her son in this unforgiving world.
“Zen,” she breathed. “Your mother is proud of you.”
Forgetting proper decorum, Zen allowed the cold tears to run from his eyes. “I know she would be.”
“No.
” Neva took another shallow breath, pausing for a moment. “She. Is.”
Zen said a silent Nihon prayer and bowed. He placed his hand on hers.
The brilliance of former glory is now dimmed. While mortal men pray for tomorrow, your spirit runs free forevermore.
He opened his eyes and stared at the Machine Boy, knowing intimately every ounce of despair the child felt.
“My son, please.” Neva's chin pressed tightly against her chest. She waited for Marcel to look up at her again. “Come close to me.”
The Machine Boy put his face close to hers. Neva whispered something in the boy's ear. When she finished giving her final message, Marcel nodded and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
“Don't be afraid,” Neva told him.
With her final words to her child, Neva slipped from the known world.
EARLY STREAKS OF SUNLIGHT CLIMBED from the horizon when Anton led them to the local funeral parlor where they properly burned Neva's body. Marcel's weary eyes looked empty during the entire funeral.
The five of them said goodbye to DePaul's old friend and hiked back to the Triton. When they arrived, Simon offered to properly address Zen's injuries, which he graciously accepted.
McMillan piloted the Triton to stay close to shore, but still hidden under the depths of the ocean to avoid detection by the pirates who lurked along the coast. Simon proved to be an excellent surgeon. He stitched up his left shoulder and leg and changed the dressing on the healing wound on his thigh.
During the three days of being submerged underwater, Zen did little else other than sleep and eat. He had lost a lot of blood, and he was content with doing as little as possible in order to regain his strength. Enapay and McMillan took turns taking care of the child, who continued his quiet mourning.
The entire group finally came together on the third afternoon, congregating in the control room to decide what would be done next.
Simon and McMillan sat in the cockpit chairs to pilot the craft, while Zen and the rest of them gathered around the small table. An awkward silence permeated the room. The old man took a sip from his steaming tin coffee cup before finally speaking.