Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten & Other Stories

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Djazir turned. He moved toward the grate, squinting.

  The catch released.

  Al-Ashmar stepped out into the light, ready to charge for Djazir should he make a move toward Rabiah. Instead Djazir dropped the spoon and pulled his dagger free of its sheath.

  “I was willing to let your children live, Al-Ashmar, but an affront such as this demands their deaths.”

  Al-Ashmar, heart beating wildly, patted his vest for anything he might use as a weapon and found only the leftover phials of Bela’s tonic. He swallowed hard and pulled one of them from his vest pocket.

  Djazir chuckled. “Are you going to heal me, Physic?”

  Al-Ashmar unstoppered the phial and waited for Djazir to come close, but Djazir lunged much faster than Al-Ashmar had anticipated. Al-Ashmar dodged but still the steel bit deep into his shoulder. He flung the phial’s contents at Djazir’s face, aiming for the eyes. Enough of the acerbic liquid struck home, and Djazir screamed and fell backward.

  Al-Ashmar fell on top of Djazir, driving his good shoulder into Djazir’s gut. A long, deep, noisy exhalation was forced from Djazir’s lungs, giving Al-Ashmar time to scramble on top of him. Holding the knife to one side, Al-Ashmar seized Djazir’s neck and applied all the leverage he could as the older man writhed beneath him, sputtering and choking, eyes pinched tight. Finally, as the palace bell pealed over the city, Djazir’s body lost all tension.

  Al-Ashmar breathed heavily, wincing from the pain in his screaming shoulder. He cleaned Djazir as best he could and tugged him into position on the remaining bolt of white cloth. Then he rushed to Rabiah’s side and tried to wake her. He thought surely she was dead, thought surely this had all been for naught, but no, she still had a faint heartbeat. She still drew breath, however slowly. He slapped her, but she would not wake.

  The bell pealed. They would return soon.

  Al-Ashmar took a bit of the tonic still left in the phial and spread it under and inside Rabiah’s nostrils. She jerked and her eyes opened. She was slow in focusing, but eventually she seemed to recognize Al-Ashmar.

  “Where am I?” she asked, rubbing the tonic from her nose.

  “Not now. I will explain all later.”

  Al-Ashmar helped Rabiah through the grate, but before he could take the first of the steps down, she turned him around and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Thank you for my life,” she said.

  He freed himself from her embrace and pulled her toward the stairs. “Thank me when you have your new one.”

  Al-Ashmar knew they would have to leave for foreign lands, but it couldn’t be helped. He hadn’t expected this change in fortune, but neither had he expected his wife to die or to raise seven children on his own. He would take what fate gave him and deal with it as best he could.

  With Rabiah.

  Yes, with Rabiah it would all be just a little bit easier.

  Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten

  Deep in the eastern prefecture of Kaidon, a man died. His name was Shikujo, and he was a farmer—a simple one, true, but an honest one, and a man who treasured his wife and four sons above all else. Word spread quickly, for the celebration and fireworks would begin that very evening. After all, his passage into the Lands of the Dead must be bright and festive to help ensure his livelihood once he arrived.

  Over two hundred came to pay their respects. The men put on fine woolen suits and chose their best top hats, the women their prettiest crinoline dresses and frilly bonnets, and they gathered on the parade grounds by the rocky shore of Kaidon’s largest lake. They talked pleasantly of their favorite memories as the warm night wind toyed with the rice paper lanterns that were spread throughout the grounds and along the pier.

  The crowd parted for the surviving family as they paced down the pier toward Shikujo’s plain casket, which rested on a pyre raft. His wife bore a lit torch, and her four sons stepped in unison behind her, each of them carrying a black, lacquered pole tipped with a silver cap. When they reached the casket, the wife kneeled and lit the pyre in three different places: birth, life, and death.

  Yasuo, the architect of the forthcoming fireworks display, stood nearby in case the family had any questions whatsoever. There were typically none, but he always made himself available in case there were. He also liked gauging the crowd’s reactions, no matter how uncomfortable he became with so many people so close. And, he admitted, there was one person he would like to talk to if the opportunity arose. He had been scanning the crowd since the service had begun, but so far he hadn’t seen her.

  As the flames built beneath Shikujo’s casket, the crowd along the pier pressed forward, leaving the barest of spaces out of respect to the grieving family and a not-inconsiderable fear for the dead and those who dealt with it directly. Still, though Yasuo could see space between himself and the crowd, it felt like they were breathing down his neck and in short order he found himself shuffling backward until one more step would mean an ignominious drop into the frigid water of the lake. He steeled himself and took measured breaths, knowing this was the best thing he could do until the display had concluded.

  Shikujo’s sons used the poles in unison to push the raft toward the center of the lake. Yasuo watched carefully as the flame built. Few would have an eye trained as his was, and so they would miss the telltale signs as the dead were attracted to the flames. The first showed itself near the marshes, another nearby—both of them little more than wisps of fog on a moonlit night. Three more appeared beneath the arched bridge in the distance. Another, bolder spirit materialized directly over the lake, only yards away from the pyre, a sign that the spirits were ready to receive Shikujo.

  The crowd’s attention followed the first firework as it snaked upward and splashed against the darkened sky. Castle Taishyoko and its seven tiers were lit in ghostly relief as sparkling tendrils stretched their way closer to the bridges connecting the lake’s islands. A moment later, the thunder of the firework fell upon the crowd.

  As did the first memory.

  The scene of the lake, the pyre, the castle all melted away, replaced by a view of one of the lake’s many islands. The water lapped at the rocky shoreline nearby, and the air smelled of cherry blossoms, for this had happened to him in spring. It showed Shikujo as a boy, wearing blue knickers and his only cotton shirt. He sat cross-legged on the grass, a wriggling crab pinched between two of his fingers. His older sister sat next to him in a white frilly dress, cringing as she defended herself against the crab. Shikujo’s almond-shaped eyes crinkled with glee as he continued to shake the crab at her. Then he flung it, laughing hysterically. The crab stuck. His sister screamed and shot up, acting as if her clothes and hair had suddenly burst into flames.

  As she sprinted across the red bridge, Shikujo stared at her, his face going from smiling to confusion to worry in the span of seconds. He got up and stared down at the crab, which had fallen into the grass as soon as she’d stood. He looked like he would stomp it as it tried to regain the water, but instead he cradled it with both hands and set it gently in the water. Then he ran across the bridge, shouting his sister’s name.

  As the image dimmed, a low susurrus of pleased conversation spread through the crowd. Yasuo turned, feeling their collective weight in the pit of his stomach, and studied them. It was difficult to discern their mood, for there were only a few swaying lanterns along the dock, but when the second firework burst, he could see that their faces were lit by melancholy smiles.

  Another memory played itself out as if the entire crowd shared a single mind. Shikujo was meeting his wife for the first time. How nervous he was; how giddy. Another firework flashed, and the memory of his first-born child came. Again and again the fireworks sparked memories of a man who was certainly walking with his head held high into the Lands of the Dead.

  By the time the show ended, Yasuo had to hide his smile. He was more than pleased, but it wouldn’t do to show himself as overly proud of his accomplishment. The show, after all, had been authored by the vivid and tou
ching memories of Shikujo, not him. But there was a strong sense of accomplishment in what Yasuo had done. He had coaxed the memories from Shikujo—the proper sorts of memories—to share with loved ones and those beyond who stood ready to welcome him to the spirit life.

  The crowd parted for Shikujo’s wife and sons as they walked up the pier. The mother gave Yasuo no more thank you than a short nod of her head before leaving. The sons acknowledged him not at all.

  Then, in pairs and in groups, the crowd began to disperse, and slowly, the pressure in Yasuo’s chest eased. He looked one last time over the crowd, and thought he saw her near the shoreline. It looked like Harune, but the crowd was still so tight that he couldn’t bring himself to brave the parade grounds to find out. When she left, herding her daughter in front of her, Yasuo breathed a sigh of relief. He probably couldn’t have made it to her in time anyway, not without making himself look like a fool.

  He turned and walked toward his boat, ready to row out to his island and end the night with a nice glass of rice wine when someone called to him.

  “Osokura-san!”

  Yasuo turned to find an older gentleman waving, his leather boots clomping loudly on the pier as he strode forward. He wore a black coat with tails and a white shirt with a high, stiff collar. His grey hair was cut tight, his mustache thin as a line of ink. It was more the fashion in the emperor’s city than here in the outlands.

  When the man neared, Yasuo stiffened, for he wore an emerald green cravat. Yasuo quickly squared his shoulders and bowed his head, for this man had clearly been sent by the Daimyo.

  After a respectful moment the man said, “Please, Osokura-san, you may look upon me.”

  “Thank you, O-sama.”

  He stood by a pier pylon with its rice paper lantern, which lit his face with a golden glow. He seemed in such good health that Yasuo hadn’t realized how old he was. He must have seen sixty winters at the very least.

  “If it please you, what service can I perform?”

  “Please, call me Asuhiko-sama. I’ve come to discuss the fireworks. They were superb. Shikujo could not have expected such a display even in his most fervent dreams.”

  “My thanks,” Yasuo replied.

  “Truly, it was spectacular, better than the ones in the capitol.”

  “I am most sure Asuhiko-sama is only being kind.”

  “I am not. It is pure fact.” He looked back along the pier, and apparently found the last few stragglers far enough away to speak confidentially. “There is something the Daimyo would like you to do for him.”

  Yasuo quickly bowed his head to hide his look of surprise. “Of course, O-sama. What service might I perform?”

  “I must begin by confessing that this is most sensitive, and so must remain between us, no matter what your answer.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything.”

  “Yoshida-dono’s mother is sick.”

  Yasuo’s throat tightened.

  “She needs help, Osokura-san. She needs to be prepared for the walk to Shiri-kin, and the Daimyo would be pleased if you would do it.”

  “But, O-sama, the Daimyo’s own mother... Is she gravely ill? Because it takes some time—”

  “She is not so ill that you won’t have time to prepare her.”

  “Then, forgive my boldness, but my skills are surely not up to the task. Someone from the capitol would be better suited, I am sure.”

  “Rise, Osokura-san.”

  Yasuo complied. This gentleman from the castle stared at him with something close to amusement, and Yasuo hoped his embarrassment was hidden by the relative darkness.

  “The Daimyo wants someone who has been here, in the place his mother was born, where she lived and where she’ll die.” He waited for some time, perhaps trying to read Yasuo’s face. “May we expect you at the castle tomorrow morning?”

  Yasuo dearly wished he could say no, but there was no getting out of such a direct request. “I am humbled by the Daimyo’s kindness.”

  Yasuo rowed in from his small island home early the next morning and arrived at the castle with his black leather bag, the one in which he kept all of his implements. The guards at the entrance, wearing traditional bamboo armor, announced his presence, and he was met shortly by Asuhiko.

  He led Yasuo along hallways with lacquered floorboards and ornate paper walls and glazed urns on tall rosewood pedestals. They took the stairs to the seventh story and reached a black-stained door with three carved dragons writhing on its surface. Asuhiko rapped on the bronze knocker three times.

  A servant woman dressed in a silk, cream-colored kimono opened the door. Her hair, bound into an impeccably tight bun, was held in place with a pair of tortoise shell pins. She bowed her head upon seeing Asuhiko and stepped aside.

  “I will leave you here,” Asuhiko said. “She is expecting you.”

  “Wait, is there a bed where I can—”

  “Everything has been prepared,” he said, and with that he left, his footsteps creaking loudly as he walked away.

  Yasuo took a deep breath and entered the room, at which point the handmaid closed the door and retreated to an embroidered silk pillow in one corner. She kneeled, laid her hands in her lap, and bowed her head—for all purposes a fixture until she was called upon by the Daimyo’s mother. A padded couch occupied the center of the room. Two sliding doors along one wall were open, allowing a cool but humid breeze into the room. It had rained that morning, and Yasuo could smell the loamy scent of the nearby forest. It was eerily quiet, which made Yasuo nervous to make any noise whatsoever.

  Several poems were mounted on the wall, each of them set against red silk backing. The corners of the paper were curled and yellowed with age. He stopped and admired one.

  The willow

  Lying on the bank

  Its vines swaying in the breeze

  Who would have thought to find such beauty?

  He set his bag down carefully near the couch, wondering when the Daimyo’s mother would be brought to him, but then he heard shuffling footsteps and the jingle of tiny bells from the balcony outside.

  A moment later, a crooked woman hobbled into the doorway and stood there, staring at him. She wore the ornate robes of the nobility, and a formal, tasseled headdress as well. Her face was painted in white makeup, save for her eyes and lips, which were shaded in the deepest of reds, but unlike the stage actors, who appeared so meticulous, she seemed haggard and worn around the edges. Her bloodshot eyes squinted at him as she shuffled closer.

  Then she shot forward, bells jingling, arms flinging wide, mouth prying open to release a red, waggling piece of flesh that looked more akin to uncooked beef than it did a tongue.

  Yasuo staggered backward, tripped over the couch, landing hard on his hip. He jerked back to find her rounding the couch, her clawlike hands raised high like the dragons on the door. He scrabbled backward, slipping on the floorboards, as a cackle escaped the ancient woman. She slowed and her hands dropped to her knees as she bent over, her cackle turning into a full-fledged, body-shaking laugh.

  Yasuo sat there, watching, confused. But when he realized the servant had stayed in the exact same position, not even bothering to raise her head, he knew this was some sort of prank.

  The Daimyo’s mother reared back and pointed at him. “Do you know how scared you looked? I might help you reach the spirit lands if you’re not careful, smokeman!” She was about to say more, but a fresh laughing fit overtook her.

  Yasuo made it to his feet, wiping his woolen pants and suit coat though the floors of the palace were impeccably clean. He stared at her, trying to summon his dignity as her chuckles ebbed, slow as the tide.

  “Oh, come now, don’t you ever scare children?” She turned and walked back to the doorway, leaving the sour scent of wine in her wake.

  “I am not a child,” he said, suddenly embarrassed he had no children of his own to scare.

  “So you aren’t,” she replied stiffly. “I have only one, and he doesn’t allow me to play tricks
on him anymore. So you will have to do in his place.”

  “Begging your pardon, but I hardly think that is my place.”

  She turned back to Yasuo, nearly tipping herself over. She eyed Yasuo severely before saying, “My, but you are a prickly one, aren’t you? Asuhiko didn’t tell me that.”

  He also hadn’t told Yasuo how cantankerous the Daimyo’s mother was.

  Yasuo, finally remembering his manners, bowed his head. “I assume he did tell you why I’ve come.”

  “Get your head up, you lout! Don’t ever do that in my presence again.”

  “O-dono, I—”

  “My name is not O-dono,” she shouted, “nor is it Yoshida-dono! It is Fuyoko! Now, head up, smokeman, or I’ll have your tongue out.”

  He looked up, his heart racing, but when he saw her smiling again, those old wrinkled eyes crinkled into tight slits, he realized she was trying to goad him again.

  “Or maybe I’ll play more jokes.” She winked. “One of the two.”

  Yasuo took a deep breath and motioned to the couch. “This does take some time, O-dono.”

  Fuyoko rolled her eyes. “You’re dry as a bone, you are.”

  “It tends to follow when one deals with death every day of his life.”

  She had begun pulling at the intricate ties of her robe, but she stopped when he said that, and nodded. “It might,” she said while undoing the last of the ties. “That’s true.”

  “Please, O-dono. I would interview you first.”

  She shook her head while removing the headdress. The simultaneous actions seemed too much for her, for she tipped sideways and had to catch herself clumsily against the couch. She smiled as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I already have a memory for you. Specially chosen...”

  “It is important that we talk—”

  “I told you I already have one.” And with that she pulled her robe free and allowed it to pool about her feet.

  Yasuo hid a sigh while opening his leather case. He removed twelve clear glass cups and set them on the floor in two ordered rows. Fuyoko lay on the couch, her feet pointing at Yasuo, her wrinkled backside glaring at him like an angry old toad. The first moments of nakedness, even after all the years in his profession, were still uncomfortable for Yasuo. He still felt out of place, mostly because he was at a stage where he knew so little about his subject.