Journeys of the Mind

by Sonny Whitelaw Sean Williams

  'Get up, Rokubei,’ Gansuke growled.

  Rokubei returned to the present with a start. The bounty hunter, Kingo and Shigeimon were leaving the room. Sanpachi stretched his legs with exaggerated groans.

  'They've gone to see if the paperwork was sent on in time,’ said Sanpachi in response to Rokubei's puzzled glance.

  'Is that likely?’ Rokubei asked Gansuke as they walked down the long hallway.

  'Depends,’ said Gansuke.

  'Depends on what?’ said Rokubei, greatly daring.

  'The kumi won't be able to afford Jiro's debts. But if the paperwork's in, the rest of the village won't have to, either.'

  It was tough on the bounty hunter, but the paperwork would probably be ‘done'. And there the matter would finish. Except for the questions that nagged at him like mosquitoes in the swamp.

  * * * *

  Rokubei stood outside the eaves of Kingo's house His head was bowed respectfully, his palms lay flat on his thighs. To anyone watching in the still evening, he was a suitably chastened figure.

  'Why did you kill him?'

  'Go away, hinin, before I call your uncouth friends to drag you away.’ Kingo stepped forward to the edge of the porch, assured now that the application to disown Jiro had gone to the domain court. Given Jiro's appalling record, it would undoubtedly be accepted.

  Rokubei felt the calm of decision. Like the calm he had felt when he decided not to follow Teru.

  'The others will remember seeing the mud on your legs, from when you dragged Jiro's body through the swamp.'

  Kingo looked down at his leg, then cursed.

  'And I have a scrap of paper,’ said Rokubei, ‘taken from Jiro's dead hand in front of witnesses. There are only a few words on the paper, but I'm sure an expert could tell us what the rest of the document was.'

  Kingo spread his hands in supplication. ‘You mustn't do that!’ He lowered his voice as if the fields and trees could hear. ‘Jiro would have dragged the whole family, the whole village into disgrace with his debts. When we told him we had had enough and would disown him, he threatened us.'

  'With whatever was on that paper,’ prompted Rokubei. When Kingo seemed unwilling to continue, he added. ‘For what it's worth, I'm not going to tell anyone. I just ... need to know the truth.'

  Kingo laughed shortly. ‘How ironic to explain this to you. In the great flood all village records were lost, including the register. Our family's ancestor survived the flood and the plague that followed because he was in the hills, hunting.'

  He waited.

  'Upper Sugino villagers did not go hunting,’ said Rokubei slowly. ‘You were hinin.'

  'Keep your voice down.’ Kingo shifted back into the shadow of the porch. ‘Our ancestor rebuilt the village and rewrote the register. Jiro said he found a copy of the old register in Iwashiro. We could not risk losing a century of landholding. We could not let him live to tell anybody.'

  'I can understand the bakemono disguise,’ said Rokubei. ‘But why try to frame the hinin by flaying the carcases?'

  'We skinned the cows because we wanted people to believe in the bakemono. But I swear,’ Kingo's voice shook, ‘I swear we didn't do it to Jiro. And we didn't take the meat from the calf. Something's out there and I, for one, won't go near that swamp again.’ He turned his back on Rokubei. ‘Leave now.'

  Rokubei bowed and turned away, down the path from Upper Sugino. Nothing more he could do. A hinin's ‘proof’ would not be allowed to stand in court. And he could hardly blame Kingo's family for resisting a return to outcaste status; to the ranks of ‘nonhumans', ‘humans but like beasts'. If he could return to his old life, would he not risk beheading or banishment, as the kumi members did?

  Return to an actor's life—to uncertain jobs, uncaring audiences, the stultifying hierarchy.

  Maybe.

  On his left, dragonfly wings flashed in the setting sun over golden ears of rice. Smoke rose in pale tendrils from the village houses. On his right, the hills rose dark and silent. At their foot the swamp formed a belt of brighter green, alive with the calls and rustles of nesting birds.

  He breasted the hillock that lay between the village and the hinin station. Ahead, the path passed under the trees. If a bakemono were to appear, you'd think it would choose a gloomy place like this. Quiet, too. Usually at this time of day you couldn't hear yourself think because of the birds...

  The footsteps behind him barely shifted the leaves.

  Rokubei stopped.

  The footsteps stopped.

  A chill spread along the ground and rose to Rokubei's knees. He'd heard somewhere, a long time ago, that if you didn't look at them, you'd be all right.

  'You can go away now,’ he said. ‘There won't be any more bodies put out in the swamp.'

  The cold swirled around his thighs. Behind his head something sighed from all directions at once.

  'We showed you what to do with the cows, didn't we? We can't complain if you did the same to Jiro.'

  A puff of icy breath on the back of his neck made him jerk away. Don't turn around, don't look.

  'No more. You'll have to go back to sleep. Or whatever you did before.'

  Silence.

  'Go on. Away with you.'

  It had learned what could be done to dead bodies. Please, don't let it realise that it can create the dead bodies for itself...

  Silence.

  Slowly, the back of his neck warmed. His feet, too. In the branches, sparrows twittered indignantly at his presence.

  He didn't make the mistake of checking behind him. Knees shaking, he just walked home to the hinin hut.

  * * *

  GET OUT THE GARAMOND

  Valerie Parv

  'And don't-a you come here no more, okay?'

  The sales representative hurled himself through the door, allowing a rare shaft of sunlight to stab the interior of the printshop before the door tinkled shut again and the customary gloom returned.

  Guiseppe Morelli watched the man leave with a look of satisfaction. ‘Is a-good he go,’ he said, half to himself and half to the two men who worked for him. The older man, Harry, grinned broadly then covered up the look with a frown, but not before Guiseppe had glimpsed it.

  'What's a-matter?’ he demanded. ‘You think she's a-funny business, huh?'

  'They just want to show you how to modernise this place a bit, Joe. Wouldn't hurt to find out what's been happening in the trade, now would it?'

  'So, it's a-modernise now, I gotta. Youse as bad as a-rest. This shop, she's been good enough for my poppa anna my granpoppa before him. Is good enough for me.'

  'But ‘struth, Joe, times change. Hot metal's had its day. When these presses break down, you won't be able to get ‘em fixed. Nobody knows how any more. It's all computers and stuff.'

  Guiseppe opened his mouth to respond then seemed to realise he was wasting his time. He spread has gnarled and blackened fingers wide in a gesture of futility and arched his shoulders in an expressive shrug. Then his expression softened as his eye fell on young Ralph, busy hand-setting some headline type. Even if they did say Ralph was simple, anybody could see how much he loved the printing business, and that was enough for Guiseppe. The old man smiled fondly and Ralph blushed under the paternal gaze.

  'Youse a good boy, Ralph. Don't a-let ‘em tell you no different,’ Guiseppe said and patted the tow head, although he had to reach up a good foot to do so.

  Ralph pulled a proof of his handiwork and held it at arm's length for Guiseppe to admire, but the expected words of praise didn't come. Instead, Guiseppe's skin mottled and his eyes bulged as he looked at the proof. Then in one slashing movement he snatched the sheet from Ralph's hand and crumpled it savagely. ‘Bastard,’ he growled.

  Ralph's face was a study in bewilderment. The change from praise to condemnation had come too fast for his simple understanding. ‘What is it? What'd I do, Joe?'

  'You used his ‘second coming’ type, that's what.’ Harry had left his machine and come over to where G
uiseppe stood quivering with rage.

  'Is-a no joke,’ Guiseppe snarled. ‘Thirty-nine years I've a-been save that type—nobody use it before ... nobody use it again, you hear? YOU HEAR?'

  Ralph quaked in his ample shoes. ‘Sure, Joe. It just looked so nice and shiny. I didn't know, honest. I—I'll put it back right away.'

  Without another word, Guiseppe stormed off into his glass-walled cubicle and slammed the door shut with such force the walls rattled.

  Ralph looked after him fearfully. ‘Tell me, Harry, what'd I do that was so awful?'

  Impulsively, Harry put a fatherly arm around the youngster. He could feel him trembling underneath the thin sweater. ‘It's not your fault,’ he said. ‘The 96 Garamond is Joe's pride and joy. He's been saving it for years for ... well ... for the second coming.'

  'You mean Jesus?'

  Under the stubble of his too-infrequent shaves, Harry could feel his skin reddening with embarrassment. ‘Yeah, Jesus. Joe really believes He's coming back here some time, and he's been saving that type so he can tell the whole world when it happens. So you see, that particular typeface is kinda sacred to him.'

  Ralph nodded slowly. ‘And that's why he got so upset that I used it just for a handbill?'

  'Yeah. Joe thinks the type might be dirtied by a thing like that, not ... pure ... the way he wants it.'

  'What can I do, Harry? He won't sack me, will he?'

  'Naw, he'll cool off in a bit. You just clean the stuff up and put it back in the case. Then you'll have to set the handbill again if we're to make the deadline.'

  Anxiously, Ralph did as he was told. He jumped every time there was a noise from Guiseppe's office, but nothing more was said about him using the Garamond. After an hour or so, Guiseppe came out, jammed his hat onto his head and announced that he was going to Rosa's.

  When he had gone, Harry grinned at Ralph. ‘See, he's okay. He's still going to Rosa's as usual.'

  Ralph smiled tentatively back. ‘That's right. He wouldn't be going out to lunch if he was still upset, would he?'

  'Course not. After some of Rosa's pasta and a bit of the old rough red, he'll have forgotten the whole thing.’ Harry stretched and massaged the back of his neck with a grimy hand. ‘Tell you what, I'll just finish running off these repros then you and me can sink a few ourselves at the Bathurst.'

  The first schooner barely touched the sides. It usually took two before Harry felt halfway human again. Today, after the beer and a couple of pies and peas at his favourite watering hole, he was starting to feel like a new man. Even young Ralph was getting a bit giggly over his lone middy. Normally he didn't have that, but Harry thought the drink would do him good after his run-in with Guiseppe this morning.

  'Feeling better now?’ he asked, and Ralph nodded. The more Harry looked at Ralph and thought about the incident this morning, the more it nagged at Harry. Slowly he lowered his glass. ‘Hey, Bella,’ he yelled over the bedlam in the bar, ‘what day is it tomorrow?'

  'First of April, luv. Same again?'

  He nodded but hardly noticed when she bustled up to clear away their glasses and bring fresh ones. He was too busy having the very beauty of an idea. He leaned close so he wouldn't have to yell at Ralph. ‘How'd you like to play a joke on old Joe? Sort of get even for this morning?'

  'You mean, like, for April Fool's Day?'

  'Dead right.'

  Ralph looked doubtful. ‘It wouldn't be anything to hurt him, would it?'

  Harry laughed. ‘Would I do a thing like that? Naw, this'll only get a rise out of the old codger. What do you say?'

  'Okay, I'll be in it. What are we going to do?'

  'Well, first I'm gonna ring this actor mate of mine. Bit of a poof, but that's his affair. He's just the bloke we need to pull this off.’ Harry fought his way through the throng to the payphone at the back of the bar. He had to shout to make himself understood, but at last he got through. It took a bit of fast talking but he got Nigel to agree to what he wanted. That plus a tenner to make it worth his while, of course.

  'You'll do it then? Beauty. What time should we expect you?'

  'I'll have to stick around the theatre until seven. But anytime after should be OK.'

  'Sounds good. What about the rig, though?'

  'The costume? I've got a friend over at the Playhouse. They've just finished doing Superstar so he should be able to lend me something.'

  'And you won't forget the nail marks and all that stuff?'

  There was an offended silence then Nigel said, ‘Please, Harry, give me credit for being a professional.’ Then he rang off before Harry could get another word in. Touchy, these theatre types, he thought as he replaced the receiver. Still, it was going to be worth it.

  He was still hugging himself with delight when he and Ralph settled into hiding places at the back of the printshop next evening. Poor Joe wouldn't know what hit him, he thought, as he stowed some sandwiches and a couple of cans of beer behind the linotype. It could be a long wait but they had to be sure of getting there before Guiseppe. For the past thirty-odd years the old printer had put in a few hours work each night so there was no reason to suppose tonight would be any different.

  He arrived on the dot of six-thirty, hung his coat and hat in their usual place behind the door, then sat down at his keyboard to begin setting type for the next day's jobs. Harry watched the ritual in fascination. Jeez, you could set a watch by Joe, he was so predictable.

  In the confined space, Ralph squirmed, but was stilled by a look from Harry. It would spoil everything if they were discovered now, before Nigel had a chance to do his thing.

  Then the bell above the shop door tinkled. It sounded louder than usual in the still evening air. Harry held his breath and Ralph jammed a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. Harry had to do the same when he got his first look at Nigel. He must've got the costume from his Playhouse mate because it looked so real, it was almost uncanny. There was a kind of white light coming from all around the edges of him, although how he'd managed that trick, Harry couldn't work out for the life of him. Still, these theatre types had all kinds of stunts to fool a bloke. He willed Guiseppe to turn around.

  As if in response to Harry's mental urging, Guiseppe turned slowly from his keyboard. Suddenly every drop of colour drained from his face. His eyes widened and turned glassy with a mixture of shock and fear as Nigel stood where he was, unmoving. Guiseppe all but fell off his stool onto the floor, where he knelt and brought his hands together in a posture of prayer. Slowly Nigel stepped toward Guiseppe and held out his hands in a kind of blessing. The nail marks were clearly visible from where Harry crouched. Jeez, they looked so real. But the voices of Guiseppe and Nigel reached him only as an infuriating murmur. Strain as he might, he couldn't catch one word of what they were saying. He had to content himself with watching and trying not to bust a gut laughing when Nigel solemnly placed a hand on the old man's head. The eerie glow seemed to be all around the pair of them now. How in blazes did he do that?

  Harry looked sideways to see how Ralph was enjoying the show, and was surprised to see that he, too, had his hands clasped together as if in prayer He jabbed an elbow into the lad's side and Ralph quickly put his hands down and grinned sheepishly. Harry winked reassuringly at him then turned his attention back to Nigel and Guiseppe. God, but Nigel was earning his tenner with this performance.

  He tensed ready to spring out and yell, ‘April Fool’ as they'd agreed, when abruptly, the light around the pair went out and Guiseppe slumped to the floor. Harry looked quickly around but could see no sign of Nigel. He stood up and climbed over the machinery to reach Guiseppe, but some sixth sense told him there was no reason to hurry.

  'Is he dead?’ Ralph asked, his voice quavering.

  'Yeah, he's dead. Shock must have been too much for the old so-and-so.'

  'You said he wouldn't get hurt,’ Ralph reproached.

  Harry couldn't blame the kid for sounding on the verge of tears. He felt a bit that way hims
elf. The joke had backfired in a way he could never have foreseen. ‘How was I to know he had a weak heart?’ he said roughly. ‘Christ, where's Nigel got to? He should've stuck around to help us with this.'

  The door opened again and Nigel peered around it. He paled as he saw the body on the floor. ‘Oh my, what happened to him?'

  'What happened to him?’ mimicked Harry in a bitter falsetto. ‘You were too bloody convincing, that's what. He really believed you were Christ-God-Almighty and his heart couldn't take it. Did you have to be so bloody good? All that white light and stuff.'

  'Look here,’ Nigel interrupted angrily, ‘I tried to ring to tell you the actor I understudy took sick this afternoon. I had to go on in his place, so I couldn't get away until the second act. So what's this all about, because I only just got here?'

  Ralph's voice held a tragic mix of fear and wonder. ‘You didn't send anybody in your place?'

  'Who would be silly enough, I ask you?'

  'Then who was that, Harry?'

  In the space of a few seconds, Harry's face had become that of a very old man. The hand he lifted to wipe the sweat from his forehead shook uncontrollably, and his shoulders hunched against an invisible storm as he looked down at Guiseppe, sprawled on the ink-stained concrete. Damn it, he looked so happy, as if he had enjoyed some last, wondrous vision before he died.

  'Ralph, lad,’ Harry said shakily, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘You better get out the Garamond.'

  * * *

  THE TENTH LIFE OF SERGEANT TOM

  Damon Cavalchini

  Cat: a carnivore belonging to the family Felidae. Cats are the most specialized of the carnivores, and are well adapted to a hunting life. Their ears, eyes, whiskers, and nose are well developed as organs of sense while their teeth have evolved in a specialized carnivore pattern with even some of the rear molars (the carnassials) developing into well-defined cutting blades.

  In order to pursue their prey, cats make use of scent, sight, and even such obscure clues as footmarks. They are masters in the art of leaping; from a running, walking, standing, or sitting position they can catapult into the air to hit their prey with stunning impact. They land with jaws wide open, teeth bared, and claws extended ready to sink into the throat and flesh of their prey.