After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

  I do not begrudge Rona her happiness. If I’m honest—and I rarely am—she deserves it. She is a good-hearted creature and I ... I am a rogue. A once-handsome and oft-times clever rogue, but a rogue nonetheless. Little wonder after spending my formative years among faeries. But it was I and I alone who demanded the payment of a maidenhead from every virgin passing through Carterhaugh forest. None of them complained—Janet surrendered hers with alacrity—but I could have asked for a kiss. Or a rose. Or a lamb chop.

  Rona looks back only once. Her deep bark echoes across the water. Then she turns eastward and glides effortlessly away, a dark form slipping through the moonstreaked silver of the river.

  I stand on the shore long after she has vanished. Then I turn homeward. The sight of my dark cottage is so depressing that I keep walking. The ache in my back subsides a bit. The ache in my bollocks persists. As does the less familiar one in the general vicinity of my heart.

  As I walk into Gil’s, a familiar voice cries out, “Stop me if you’ve heard this one! A man walks into a bothy. . . .”

  Every head in the place swivels towards me. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, I lean against the door-frame until it passes.

  The faeries brush past, ostentatiously gaping. Conscious of their gazes, I straighten, wincing with the effort. I walk unsteadily towards Thomas, who leaps to his feet and embraces me. I wonder why he is crying. Perhaps he misses Rona, too. Then I realize that, although I must look up into his face, I no longer have to twist my neck to do so.

  I run my hands over my hips, my thighs, my knees, marveling at the graceful contours, the rippling muscles, the long, straight, beautiful bones cracking with gleeful abandon. I long to race out of the bothy, to race across the grasslands, to race all the way to the sea and cry, “Look, Rona! I am becoming a man!”

  But of course, she knew that when I held up her sealskin.

  I ease myself onto the bench, mindful of my bruised bollocks. Shielded by the table, I surreptitiously examine myself. My left foot is still a paw. So is the right. Fur still swaddles my body. And when I slip my hand into my braies, my pintle feels as small as ever. But the fur feels a bit sparser. Coarser, too. Like pubic hair. This is encouraging.

  Gil wanders over, a wooden cup in his hand. I meet his gaze without cringing.

  “Evening, Tam.”

  “Evening, Gil.”

  “Where’s Rona?”

  “Nearing Kelso, I expect.”

  “Nice night for a swim.” Gil places the cup of beer before me. “On the house.”

  I clear my throat. “Any idea how long this process will take?”

  Gil shrugs. “Becoming a man takes longer for some than for others.”

  Thomas saves me from a precipitous descent into gloom by urging me to share the tale of my adventure. I describe the long days digging under logs and tree roots, nosing through shrubbery, peering into the low-hanging branches of saplings before finally discovering the sealskin hanging high in the branches of the beech.

  Enthusiastic cheers greet the conclusion of my tale. As they subside, Thomas calls out, “Little wonder it took so long to find what you were seeking, Tam.” He pauses dramatically and surveys the room. “You were barking up the wrong tree!”

  There is a general groan. A few curses. Gil heaves the sort of enormous sigh only an immortal can heave.

  Wallace calls out, “Gil? You mind?”

  When Gil shrugs, I seize Thomas’ arm and drag him under the table. We lie there, giggling, while tankards and cups clatter onto the tabletop like hailstones.

  “I shall write a song,” Thomas shouts over the din. ‘“The Ballad of Tam Lin: Part Two.’ Or something.”

  I hope he will leave out the part about my tiny pintle. I hope Rona will make it safely to the sea. I hope I will not have to live like a saint in order to become a man.

  When you come right down to it, every man is a bit of a dog. And I am just like other men. Only more so.

  SAKE AND OTHER SPIRITS

  Maria V. Snyder

  THE paper lanterns swung as cold air gusted from the open door. A group of traders bundled in furs hurried into the sake-house. Flakes of snow swirled around them. Azami noted the lack of excited chatter and boisterous calls to Gilga-san, the owner of the establishment. Concerned, she stuffed her bar rag into her kimono and helped the men remove their heavy coats and leather boots.

  She caught Saburo’s gaze. Usually so quick with his smile, his lips were pressed tight. His movements were stiff with tension as he shrugged off his fur. His fellow traders kept their somber expressions as they ordered sake and shabu stew.

  “What happened?” Azami asked Saburo in a whisper.

  “Two traders have died and Toshi’s caravan is missing. I’ll tell you more later,” he said as he joined the men around a low table, dropping onto a cushion as if defeated.

  Gilga-san, always alert to the mood of his customers, crossed the room with a seasoned fighter’s grace. He managed to fold his tall body into an open space at the table. Even sitting he towered over the traders.

  As she served bowls of steaming stew and cups of sake, Azami heard snippets of the traders’ conversation.

  “. . . white as snow, not a drop of blood . . .”

  “Disappeared for days, then . . .”

  “. . . on the western bank . . .”

  “. . . Toshi and four others ... gone . . .”

  Each word caused her greater alarm. Besides being horrified for the men and their families, these strange happenings might bring the samurai to town. And if they came, Azami would need to flee.

  When the night grew late and only a few customers remained, Gilga-san assisted in the clean up despite her protests.

  “This is what you pay me for,” she said. “Go and entertain your guests.”

  Gilga-san enjoyed regaling his customers with stories that put the best Rakugo to shame. But tonight he seemed preoccupied, and his gray-green eyes peered through her. “Not tonight. No one is in the mood for frivolous stories.”

  “Is it because of the traders who died and the missing men?”

  “Yes. The first two disappeared three days ago from Yukio’s caravan while they traveled around Lake Biwa. A fisherman found their bodies today, washed up on shore.”

  “Drowned?”

  “Hard to tell. Their lungs were full of water and their throats were shredded.”

  Azami’s hand went to her neck as she glanced at Saburo. Since the snows had closed the mountain passes, his caravan also passed the lake. He remained at the table with three others. The rest had gone home.

  “Murder?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “The other five?”

  “Toshi’s caravan was due back this afternoon.”

  “That’s terrible. Their families must be upset.”

  “They are. You should keep your kaiken close at hand when you leave tonight,” Gilga-san said.

  She jerked in surprise. No one knew about her dagger. Or so she thought.

  He shot her a slightly amused smile. “We’ve been working together for over a year.”

  A year? Already? She had taken the job in his sake-house to earn enough money to leave Hokuga. Azami needed to increase the distance between her and her former life. The small fishing village of Hokuga had just been a temporary stop. Except Gilga-san treated her as an equal, and his bookkeeping had been an utter mess until she had taken it over. Then there was Saburo with his kind heart, good intentions, and sweet smile.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Gilga-san said, “Saburo won’t let you go home tonight unaccompanied. But he has no fighting skills.”

  Azami searched his expression. Most men would forbid her to carry a weapon. Did he suspect her former identity? He must, otherwise he would send along another protector who could defend them both.

  Aware of her assessment, he waited. His foreignness used to unnerve her. With his oval eyes, black curly hair, pale skin and muscular build, he stood out among the l
ocals who were mostly thin with straight black hair, olive-colored skin and brown slanted eyes. Like her.

  She glanced away, stacking clean cups under the bar. “Why didn’t you mention my kaiken before?”

  He gestured to the room. “Men inebriated by sake plus a beautiful serving girl equals trouble.”

  She snorted. “You can handle trouble.”

  “But I can’t protect you when you leave here.”

  Gilga-san lived upstairs and had never been seen outside the building. Azami stifled the desire to question him. He hadn’t pried into her past so she would respect his privacy as well.

  Saburo, on the other hand, had been curious. She had told him a fire killed her family and she wished to start a new life someplace else. As Gilga-san had predicted, Saburo insisted on walking her the few short blocks to the room she had rented. They bundled in heavy coats before muscling their way through the icy wind. No others walked the streets of Hokuga, which was odd, considering the town was a popular stop-over for caravans traveling to the western sea ports.

  “Until the criminals are caught, you shouldn’t be out on your own,” Saburo said.

  “Did you know the men who died?” she asked.

  “Only in passing. Do not worry.” He took her hand in his. “I will protect you.”

  She kept her tongue as frustration boiled. Years of tradition could not be undone by one outburst. Women were wives and mothers. They were protected and cared for. As Saburo talked of other topics, Azami realized if she truly desired independence she would need to disguise herself as a man.

  It was a prospect she had toyed with this past year, but it galled her to no end. She had been taught how to fight and defend herself. Yet her skills could only be used to serve another—her future husband. To keep his house and children safe when he was away from home.

  Azami hated the need to be connected to a man—a father or a husband—in order to be accepted as a member of their society. Women without a family had no rights. They were frequently arrested and sent to be yūjo in the walled pleasure cities.

  But she didn’t hate men. In fact, some, like Saburo, treated her almost as an independent person. He also didn’t act stoic and emotionless, mimicking a samurai. She wished she could spend more time with him.

  Wished she could stay in Hokuga.

  Wished to no longer be afraid.

  Two days later, the five missing men surfaced in Lake Biwa. Their bloodless corpses and shredded throats matched the first victims. To add to the general panic, Saburo’s caravan had been attacked in broad daylight. A few traders had been injured and others taken, but no one who came into the sake-house could name them.

  When she heard the news, her chest felt as if she’d been skewered by a katana. Time slowed and each breath she pulled hurt.

  Azami kept busy, serving stew and sake to customers. The hushed conversations had turned from speculation of robbers and murders to the belief that a malevolent water spirit had taken up residence in the lake.

  “. . . greenish-yellow skin like seaweed . . .”

  “. . . scales and webbed toes . . .”

  “. . . misshapen head . . .”

  “. . . small, like a child but stronger than a sumo . . .”

  “. . . kappa . . .”

  This last comment stopped Azami. Did they really believe a kappa haunted the lake? Gilga-san had told tales about the creature before. She glanced at the far corner of the sake-house. Gilga-san had drawn the screens around his biggest table. The town leaders had assembled to discuss the situation.

  She fretted about Saburo until he strode through the door late into the evening. He sported a deep gash and a nasty bump on his forehead.

  The tightness in her heart eased and she rushed to him in relief. She remembered her place, stopping short and stifling the desire to crush him to her. Instead she bowed politely and took his coat. They locked gazes for a moment.

  Near closing-time, Gilga-san gestured for Azami to follow him. He pushed open the screen and offered to bring the leaders fresh food. They declined.

  “Have you made a decision?” Gilga-san asked.

  “We will appeal to the daimyo and request help from his samurai,” Moyama, the oldest and therefore wisest man of Hokuga, said. “We cannot fight a kappa.”

  “If a water vampire does prey on your shores, then all you need to do is—”

  “What do you know of fighting a kappa?” Moyama asked, but he didn’t wait for a reply. “You’re gaijin. And too afraid to leave your sake-house. Let the samurai deal with it.”

  Gilga-san bowed to the men and retreated. Azami collected the used stoneware and carried them to the kitchen to wash. Once again, Gilga-san helped her, but his sour mood and frequent outbursts about the stubbornly traditional locals made her wish he had chosen to brood in his office.

  “How long until the samurai arrive?” she asked him.

  “Three days at most.”

  Azami had to leave Hokuga. The only way to avoid the incoming samurai would be to head west—past the water vampire. If it existed. Yet Saburo and the survivors of the attack had been convinced a kappa haunted the lake. Azami couldn’t risk leaving now. That was the reason she clung to, and not because of her reaction to seeing Saburo alive. She would endeavor to blend in and hope the samurai wouldn’t recognize her. They shouldn’t as they lived in another district than her hometown.

  Despite his injuries, Saburo walked her to the inn that night. Azami’s kimono flapped in the cold wind. The night sky sparkled and a three-quarters moon illuminated Hokuga’s wooden buildings. The weathered structures huddled together like lost children.

  When they neared the Ryokan, Saburo paused. “Azami, I. . . .” He played with the toggles on his coat. “The attack made me worry about the future. I’d always assumed I had more time.”

  He turned to face her, taking her hands and pulling her close. Her heart thumped against her chest.

  Saburo’s intense gaze met hers. “Today I learned the future could be gone without warning. Time has become precious and I do not wish to waste it. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She had known he cared for her, but respectable traders didn’t marry kojis. Or liars either. They married the daughters of other traders. These thoughts weren’t helping her sort out her chaotic feelings, but they gave her a place to start. “Your family—”

  “Already approved.”

  “But I—”

  “Not anymore. Gilga-san has offered a dowry for you.”

  Shock silenced her. Then fury at her boss’s presumption warred with affection for the meddling man. She pushed those emotions away. Marriage had been the reason she ran away in the first place. Granted it was a different type of union, but still.

  “I would wish to continue my work for Gilga-san,” she said.

  “You won’t need to. I will provide—”

  “For me, I know. I love you, Saburo. I do. But I cannot be a traditional wife.”

  He stiffened as if she’d slapped him and dropped her hands. “You’d rather be a serving girl than a respectable member of this community?” His harsh tone cut through her.

  “I’d like—”

  “Do not say another word. I will inform Gilga-san his offer was rejected.” He strode away.

  The desire to run after him and explain pulsed in her chest. However if she told him the truth, he would no doubt report her to the daimyo, his honesty another admirable quality. Deep down, she’d always known nothing could come of their relationship. But it had been nice to delude herself for a little while.

  The samurai’s’ arrival injected hope back into the terrified townspeople. The sake-house filled with relieved traders, fishermen, farmers and a company of samurai. Saburo wasn’t among the customers. No surprise.

  “The boy’s an idiot,” was Gilga-san’s only comment to her regarding the marriage proposal and he ignored her questions about the dowry.

  Azami wove her way through the crowded tables, but kep
t clear of the warriors. Gilga-san waited on them. They livened the mood with their boisterous laughter and confident manner. And the best part was, she didn’t recognize any of them.

  But they lingered until the other customers had gone. Gilga-san told her to go home; he could handle a dozen men. Before she left, the door swung open and the rest of the samurais entered. Azami returned to the kitchen with dread pushing up her throat. They were the warrior elite and by law the sake-house would remain open until they chose to leave.

  Thirty men gathered. They kept her and Gilga-san busy with orders. Their conversation focused on the village’s rumors and the survivors’ stories, comparing information to create a plan of attack.

  Gilga-san approached the leader. He bowed slightly and introduced himself. The men shook hands.

  “May I offer a suggestion on killing this kappa?” he asked.

  Azami suspected he was being polite for her. This was his place and if he wished to speak his opinion, he could.

  Amusement quirked at the samurai’s lips, but he invited Gilga-san to join them.

  “The water vampire is strong and quick. Before engaging him, I suggest you show him the proper respect and bow to him. The lower the better.”

  Laughter rippled through the men.

  “We do not honor a malevolent spirit,” the leader said.

  “In this particular case, it is vital that you do.”

  The leader scoffed. “Ridiculous advice, gaijin. Samurais do not bow to evil.”

  “Then you will die.” Gilga-san walked away as another wave of mirth erupted.

  Azami hurried after him. In the kitchen she asked, “Will they succeed?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “These things are not limited to the waters of Nihon.”

  “Can it be killed?”