Black Pearl Dreaming

by K. Bird Lincoln

  “Your buddies had other plans for it,” said Kwaskwi. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’m starving.”

  Ken came around my side and shifted half of Dad’s weight on his shoulder. “We can’t just walk through customs with an unconscious man.”

  “Can you make him invisible?” said Kwaskwi.

  “Not if I have to carry him, too.”

  “Let me see if I can get another dolly,” said the stewardess.

  “What if the attackers come back?” I asked quietly. “We can’t be sure they gave up.”

  “I ensured my guy gave up,” said Kwaskwi, rubbing his hands together.

  “We need to get Dad someplace safe.”

  “Japanese immigration is pretty strict,” said Ken. “Especially since SARS and Zika.”

  Kwaskwi rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh Grasshopper,” he said. “Ye of little faith. Follow my lead.”

  “You can’t possibly—” the stewardess started to say.

  “Come on,” I interrupted, tugging Dad and Ken to the top of the escalator stairs. Enough of Princess Stewardess. “Move now, doubt later.” We wrestled our bags and Dad down the escalator to trail after Kwaskwi through empty, endless beige halls with signage in English, French, and Kanji.

  We finally emerged into a large room cordoned off into multiple rope mazes. Half a dozen tired and rumpled people of various races dutifully lined up on one side, and on the other, two or three Asian folks waited for their chance with the crisply uniformed officers at desks behind bullet-proof glass. Princess Stewardess strode toward the crew lines, leaving us without a backward glance.

  Dad’s weight lifted from my shoulder. Ken frowned and pointed toward the tired people. “You go that way. Japanese citizens are this way.”

  Dad’s eyelids fluttered open. His gaze was unfocused, but he stumbled along with Ken.

  Huh. I hadn’t thought about being separated here. Weird thinking of Dad as a Japanese citizen.

  Kwaskwi ducked under the ropes, heading straight for the front of the line. He flashed his trademark grin. “Check this out.”

  Reaching into the battered, brown leather messenger bag he’d toted through the battle with the attackers and the endless beige halls, he cupped something in both hands. He carefully pulled it out, uncurling his fingers to reveal a large jay with gray feathers and white beak. The jay blinked, arching its neck.

  A live bird. Kwaskwi brought a live bird on a transpacific flight and into Japanese customs. He leaned down and whispered something close to the jay’s head. I glanced in Ken’s direction, but he and Dad were quietly waiting behind the solitary remaining passenger in the Japanese citizen line. A uniformed, gray-haired man directing the foreigners in my line was giving them a harried look that did not bode well.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, now would be a good time.”

  Kwaskwi immediately dropped his hand, but the jay was already in motion, skimming just beneath the ceiling and fluorescent lighting to roost on top of the closest bullet proof barrier. The female customs agent gave a comic double-take.

  The jay screeched, and then took off again directly into the face of the harried old guy. A slightly hysterical hiccough slipped from my lips.

  This is serious. Pay attention.

  When Kwaskwi grinned like a proud papa, I had to clap my palm over my mouth to keep in the giggles.

  Now a whole posse of uniformed, gray-haired men converged on the harried guy. The jay perched on the harried guy’s head, hopping in little circles as the posse yelled conflicting instructions, shooing the queued-up foreigners into a chaotic, milling mass.

  Ken slipped in front of a female immigration officer’s desk, slapped two red passports onto the counter, and somehow managed to make Dad look like he was standing under his own power. The officer was half out of her chair, clearly wanting to help the harried guy, but unable to leave her post. Ken said something, and the officer sat down with a thump, rapidly shaking her head.

  “Kwaskwi,” I hissed.

  He had joined the circle yelling advice in various languages to the harried guy. Or maybe he was egging on the jay—hard to tell. It pecked at any hand that reached out. At my hiss, he glanced back. I rolled my eyes to Ken and Dad.

  “Okay, you asked for it.” He gave a high-pitched cough. The jay blew out its chest feathers and flapped its wings. A chorus of ohs sounded as the posse froze. A thick, viscous white goop began oozing down the harried guy’s forehead directly onto his bottle-thick glasses. The room erupted into laughter. Officers scurried in all directions, desperate for towels, and Ken and Dad were waved past the barrier by the female officer.

  “We did it!”

  “That’s two you owe me now,” said Kwaskwi. He coughed again. The jay took off, skimming under the ceiling until it reached the next set of escalators leading down from the balcony to the baggage claim area below. It nose-dived between escalator-riders, leaving behind a stream of startled gasps in its wake.

  If only Kwaskwi could have turned me into a jay. It took another quarter hour for the officers to rescue the harried guy, settle down, and queue up the milling foreigners again. Duly fingerprinted and photographed, I made it through the cursory customs inspection and emerged, blinking, into the dingy gray, smoke-tainted hall of Narita Airport’s arrival lobby.

  Princess Stewardess and Ken stood near the double glass doors to the street, arguing. When Ken noticed us, he changed his expression to a smile and waved us down. I hesitated, wanting to drink in the sight of Kanji and Romanji signs, noodle-slurping businessmen in suits, girls sporting furred, thigh-high boots, and an obstacle course of designer roller cases.

  I’m in Japan. This is Japan.

  “Come on,” Ken called, reaching for my roller case handle. Outside, humidity hit like a wet wool blanket. A black limousine idled by the curb. Ken herded us over and indicated we should head to the back. The door opened automatically.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Now this is what I’m talking about,” said Kwaskwi.

  “We’re going straight to the Council,” said Ken after Princess Stewardess waved goodbye and the rest of us settled on the two plushly upholstered bench-seats covered in what looked like lace tablecloths of a weird linen-plastic hybrid nature. My slipping in next to Dad forced the other two guys to sit together. Both of them man-spread to take up as much space as possible.

  Dad shifted uneasily. His lips were dry and chapped, split into a pinkish fissure at one corner.

  I turned to Ken. “Isn’t there time to go to the hotel first?” Viewed from the window, a wide expanse of green cut into geometric shapes by mounded dirt and paths distracted me. Rice paddies. Modern looking houses featured old-fashioned curved ceramic tile roofs. I turned away from the tinted window. “At least get something to drink?”

  Ken opened up a panel in the door to reveal a black glass refrigerated compartment. “Here.”

  I took the bottled water from his hand. It proclaimed ‘I Lohas’ next to a pastel mikan orange on the label.

  “Sure you want to present us to the Council looking like something the cat dragged in?” said Kwaskwi. He crossed one leg over the other and lounged back like a playboy millionaire in a reality show. “Obviously I’m presentable, but these two? Yikes.”

  Infuriatingly, Kwaskwi was right. Both Dad and I had hair sticking up in strange directions and a definite eau-de-airplane.

  A double shot macchiato and a hot shower with my favorite Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap was needed—something to push back the fuzzy gray blanket of fatigue encroaching on my brain.

  “I need a latte,” I sighed.

  Ken made a clicking noise and gun-fingers, pointed directly at the panel on my side of the limo. “It’s best just to go directly, not only because of danger to Herai-san, but there are also Council members made, ah, uneasy by Herai-san’s return.”

  I’d wrestled the panel open. Plastic tumblers emblazoned with a suspiciously Mt. Ranier-like mountain and Starbucks-esque green let
ters appeared. Iced lattes in the limo. I would never ride in a normal taxi again. Just stick the accompanying pink straw through the foil top and… bliss. What else did this fabulous limo have hidden? “Afraid of Dad?”

  “Yes,” said Dad simply, his eyes fluttering half-open. That one syllable was worse than any explanation. I squeezed his sleeve-covered arm with one hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  He gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “Where does the Council hang?” said Kwaskwi. “Tokyo Tower. No, wait, the Imperial Palace?”

  Ken shook his head, affronted. “The Emperor lives at the Imperial Palace. The Council sits at Yasukuni Jinja.”

  Kwaskwi snorted. “Subtle.”

  “What does he mean?” I asked Ken.

  “Yasukuni Shrine was established by Emperor Meiji for the souls of the war dead.”

  “Yeah, including Class-A war criminals,” said Kwaskwi. An obvious aura of discomfort crept over Ken. Kwaskwi ignored him. “And the Prime Minister goes there to commemorate the dead each year. Causes all kinds of problems with Korea and China.”

  “Those who support Japan’s modern incarnation as a country with no standing army think the yearly visit in poor taste,” Ken said. The overly formal inflections felt like a defense mechanism. Kwaskwi was challenging him.

  Kwaskwi scoffed. “Yeah, Manchukuo and Nanking survivors totally have their panties in a twist.”

  “All war dead are honored there,” said Dad in a raspy voice, “not just criminals.”

  Kwaskwi sat up a bit, the lazy mirth abandoned as he zeroed in on Dad. None of us were used to Dad contributing much to the conversation, but this was his country. His history.

  “Dad,” I said. “You’re lucid, right? You know we’re on our way to Yasukuni Shrine to see the Council?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly in Japanese. “But you cannot rely on me. The pressure in my skull…it will be too much soon.”

  The limo slowed to a crawl. We’d left the rice paddies and entered the outskirts of the Tokyo mega-city. Billboard after billboard covered in Roman letters, Kanji, Hiragana and vivid images all jumbled together. Concrete buildings squished side by side with structures of more outrageous architecture—was that a church or a love hotel?—as if eager to swallow up the streams of pedestrians and bicycles headed every which way.

  Ken cleared his throat. “I will present you to the Council.”

  “The hell you will,” said Kwaskwi. “I can present myself.”

  The two men glared. “Certain formalities must be observed. This is the Council. You can’t just barge in there and let loose a flock of blue jays.”

  “My jay saved your ass at Narita.”

  “The Council already sees you as a loose cannon. Arrogant. Brash. Not quite civilized. If you want—”

  “I am arrogant and brash,” said Kwaskwi, settling back again. Tension ratcheted down a notch. “It’s part of my charm, right, Koi?”

  Darn him for dragging me into this. This false sense of camaraderie was meant to maneuver me into a position of foreigner versus the Japanese.

  “They will dismiss you if they think you don’t respect the power and traditions of the Kind,” Ken insisted.

  “They already dismiss us. Walking in all meek, led like a horse on a rope by the Bringer won’t change that.” Kwaskwi looked directly at me. “Americans have never gotten anywhere by being quiet and docile.”

  Dad gave a little huff. The limo jolted into motion and general plane queasiness sloshed around my stomach along with the overly-sweet latte. I really didn’t feel good. When were we going to reach the shrine? And would I have a second to at least run a brush through my hair, or possibly barf in a toilet, before having to meet the Council?

  “Coming with a Bringer tells them you are nothing to fear,” said Ken.

  Dad’s eyebrows formed a worried line across his forehead. “But they should fear us, fear me,” he said. “They cannot continue on like this.” He paused, gasping like all the air had suddenly been sucked from the inside of the limo. Or like a fragment was taking over again. “They cannot. They will—” His eyes rolled upwards until only white showed.

  “Dad? Dad!” I dropped the latte into the cup holder and grasped him by both shoulders.

  “They can’t keep the Black Pearl,” he said, eyes closing. “They know that’s why I’m coming.” Under my palms, muscles slackened, strength melting away until Dad was boneless, chin bent to his chest. The mysterious Black Pearl again?

  “So much for lucidity,” said Kwaskwi.

  “It’s okay,” said Ken, putting a hand on my knee.

  “How is this okay? He was okay back in Portland. He spoke, he sat up, and he could function. He’s been a shadow of himself since we boarded the plane.”

  “But at least he provides entertainment with cryptic pronouncements,” said Kwaskwi.

  I glared at him. “You are not helping.”

  Ken whispered in rapid Herai dialect. “Don’t be fooled by charm. The blue jay has a hidden agenda.”

  I bit my lip against a sudden upswell of bitterness in the back of my throat. “And you don’t?”

  Ken’s eyes turned the darkest, Italian espresso brown. They bored into me diamond-hard, peeling away flimsy defenses I’d been trying to erect ever since we’d first met on a Portland street. All of a sudden I had a lot more to worry about than just awkwardness. “I believe you and Herai-san needed to come here,” he said. “I’m trying to help.”

  “So far it’s only Kwaskwi who’s managed to help.” As soon as the words hit the air, I wished I could reach out and catch them in a fist and squash them out of existence. Not true. Ken was trying to help. I had to believe that. Or grab Dad and catch the next airplane out of Narita. I did believe that.

  But it was too late to stop Kwaskwi from grinning at the window as if he’d won some kind of victory. Or to smooth away the bloodless, pale line of Ken’s usually plumper lower lip as his face took on a stony, shuttered look.

  The limo jolted again into a stop-and-start pattern as we passed some kind of city center area. Dad was restless in his pseudo sleep, eyeballs swimming in all directions under closed eyelids. Battling car sickness, I soothed Dad while shying away from bare skin contact. Whatever fragment he dreamed wasn’t one I wanted any part of, especially if it was more of that weird river dream.

  It was evening Portland time. I checked my texts. There were ten messages from Marlin, progressively more and more snippy, demanding updates on Dad. As if I couldn’t be trusted with him by myself.

  Why are you being so crazy? I texted back one-thumbed.

  The reply came back so quickly I jerked, startled, in my seat.

  You aren’t responding to texts! How am I supposed to know what’s going on if you don’t communicate? We talked about the importance of not shutting down.

  I was on the plane. I’m sure you could have everything under control even in your sleep. Sorry I had to actually close my eyes for two seconds. I’m doing my best.

  This time there was a pause. A pregnant, meaningful pause that probably meant Marlin was typing, deleting, and typing again. I sighed. It sucked being the sister who had to be handled with kid gloves.

  When the text came, it wasn’t the tirade I’d braced myself for. That’s the problem. You are doing your best.

  I sent back an emoji face with wide eyes and a dozen questions marks.

  Her text came back very slowly. It’s weird not being needed. Suddenly I’m the one struggling to keep up.

  I rubbed my eyes. Enjoy not having to babysit me or Dad. Expand your client base. Spend weekends guilt-free with your friends instead of being forced to binge-watch Marvel superhero shows with your hermit older sister.

  This time her reply came back with its usual snappiness. But I like Jessica Jones. Luke Cage is hot.

  A suspiciously wet heat gathered in my eyes. I coughed, clearing phlegm and emotion from my throat. Ken gave me a concerned look.

  You shielded me all
through high school and college. Relying on you meant I wasn’t lonely like I should have been.

  That’s seriously fucked up. She added an angry Asian emoji face.

  Let me shield you from this, I typed.

  “We’re here,” said Ken. I tucked my phone away. I wasn’t going to get a better exit line.

  The limo was pulling onto a gingko tree-lined lane, clusters of fan leaves shivering in a light breeze. We crunched over white gravel, stopping before a path framed in drooping purple wisteria blossoms and closed off by a velvet rope.

  “Here we go,” said Kwaskwi in that infuriatingly gleeful voice. At least someone’s looking forward to this.

  “Wait,” said Ken. “They will come for us.” Just as he spoke, two high school-aged youths, with sleek, orange-brown hair tied back in long ponytails that brushed the back of their knees, emerged from behind the wisteria. Plain, white haori jackets and red, divided hakama skirts gave their skin a joltingly pale creeptastic vibe, while somehow suiting the landscape. I realized one of them was actually a boy, shorter than the girl by at least a foot, and he was pushing a wheelchair.

  Dyed hair? They would have fit in with Mom’s Pierce family kaleidoscope of hapa-haole, no problem. Maybe the Council wasn’t all conservative geezers.

  “O-Miko-san,” said Ken. “A shrine maiden and her brother. They are servants of the Council. Kind.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Figured that out.”

  Kwaskwi was already out the door flashing his trademark grin at the shrine boy. “You Tokyo folks sure know how to treat guests,” he said with a John Wayne twang he’d never sported before. He made to sit in the wheelchair.

  The shrine boy was caught off guard, or possibly blinded by Kwaskwi’s shining, white teeth. His face flushed for just an instant before turning into a marble almond-eyed expression of calm. He pulled the wheelchair back.

  “I apologize, this is for Herai-san.” He approached the side of the limo and opened it. “Let’s make Herai-san more comfortable.”

  As if I had been torturing him in the limo? These two were already raising my hackles.