Late Summer, Early Spring

by Patricia Correll

  After a moment something warm touched his leg. Without looking, he knew it was the dog, leaning on him. Iwata was too tired to chase the damned thing away.

  For a long time they sat, each drawing warmth from the other, staring at the silver-sheened ocean.

  THE SEA at dawn looked very different from the sea at night. Iwata absently rubbed his thumb over the hilt of his katana, staring blearily at the water.

  The water that had been silver-rimed in the moonlight looked gray and dirty under the overcast sky. The endless wash of the waves had become irritating. Iwata had dozed a little, sitting upright with the white dog beside him. The scant sleep had been just enough to fill his head with a murky fog, and his thoughts moved as sluggishly as tree sap. His mouth tasted metallic and sticky. Beside him the dog curled against his thigh, its sides moving rapidly as it breathed.

  The others had probably already woken in the barn to find him absent, his sleeping mat still tightly rolled. Daigo might be startled, but he was too discreet to ask his uncle what had happened.

  Iwata rose, his muscles cracking in protest. The dog blinked awake, yawning, and hopped lightly to its feet. It tilted its head back and fixed him with its persistent stare.

  He scowled at it. “What?”

  It barked. When Iwata didn’t respond, it stood on its hind legs and buried its nose in his sash, snuffling wetly. Iwata shoved it away. Fine salt spray coated its fur, and as he tried to push it down, his damp sleeve grew wetter.

  “I don’t have any food. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  The dog whined shrilly. Suddenly its ears twitched. It swiveled its head around to peer past his legs. Iwata tensed. Daigo or Hiroshi, or both. Who else would come to the beach at this hour? The dog trotted past him. Iwata stiffened his shoulders and rounded on them.

  It was only Daigo. His face was white, his expression stricken. Iwata guessed he’d stayed out most of the night, drinking with the young fishermen. He had no sympathy for the young man. Iwata had spent similar nights when he was younger, but never before a battle. And what were they heading into but a battle? Somewhere across the water, the fox had alighted on a beach like this one and was waiting for them.

  “My lord.” Daigo’s voice was a strangled gasp. “You have to come back to the village. Something’s… something’s happened. There’s a dead man.”

  “Dead?” Iwata’s annoyance dissipated. “Who is dead?”

  “A man… they said he might be one of the sailors. From the ship that left yesterday. He was… his body is… Lord General, please come and see.” Daigo’s tone was brittle with dismay.

  The dog seemed to sense their urgency, for it made no sound as it followed them along the path back to the village. The place looked deserted. The streets were empty but for a three-colored cat that fled at the sight of the dog.

  Daigo gestured vaguely. “Behind this storage shed.”

  The villagers—the men and a few women—crowded around the shed he indicated. They glanced at Iwata with narrowed eyes, but they stepped aside to let him and Daigo through. A body lay sprawled on the ground, face turned to the cloudy sky. Hiroshi crouched by its feet, his expression inscrutable. His gaze was pinned to the corpse’s head.

  The body was a man, stocky and powerful, skin tanned dark. He wore simple clothes, the fabric stiff and stained with salt. His staring eyes were filmed with white, and his mouth hung open—in surprise or horror, Iwata couldn’t say. Beneath the man’s chin was a bloody wasteland of shredded flesh. The ground beneath his head was stained black. His sleeves were torn, and great gashes opened his arms. The fox must have come upon him, pinned him quickly to the ground, and then completed its work.

  “Sailor?” Iwata muttered.

  “He… he was here for a few hours, with some others, buying a few supplies. He left with them before it got dark,” a man with sagging jowls reported. Iwata had probably learned his name the evening before but couldn’t recall it.

  “Something left with them, anyway.” Iwata reached the corpse, rifling through his kimono, but there were no papers, no money, and no way of determining his identity.

  “Give him a proper funeral and scatter his ashes in the sea,” he said finally. The jowly man nodded. If he resented Iwata giving orders, he didn’t show it.

  Daigo was staring at the dead man, his jaw working. “Is that… is that what it did to my mother?”

  Iwata remembered a body beneath the floorboards of the Nightingale Palace, flesh blackened by late summer heat. It was a question for Hiroshi to answer. When he said nothing, Iwata nodded. Daigo followed him back through the crowd, but Hiroshi remained with the corpse. Iwata headed to the barn where his few possessions lay in the loft. The dog trotted after them.

  The barn was deeply shadowed, empty of animals but still smelling of them. The packed-dirt floor was spotted with manure, and stall doors opened onto piles of dirty straw. A ladder at the end led up to a loft. Iwata climbed it, ignoring the twinges of protest from his knees. The loft where he should have slept was half-full of baled straw. It had been swept away from a neat square of floor, where Daigo and Hiroshi must have laid their mats. Iwata retrieved all three bags and tossed Daigo’s down the ladder to him.

  By the time he reached the floor, Hiroshi was striding into the barn, his walk steady and purposeful despite the lines of weariness etched around his eyes. Neither of them had slept, then. Iwata silently handed Hiroshi his bag. He took it without a word. Iwata brushed past him, moving toward the door. He didn’t want to talk to Hiroshi, didn’t want to hear his voice.

  But Hiroshi spoke anyway. “The man who’s taking us will be on the beach soon. We’ll have to help him row. We should reach the island before dark if we all work equally.”

  The watery sunlight was weak, but as the others followed him, Daigo screwed up his eyes against the light. His haggardness wasn’t entirely due to the shock of finding the corpse, then. As they trudged toward the beach, Iwata saw a group of village men carrying a long bundle wrapped in cloth on their shoulders.

  A man waited on the beach. Daigo waved his arm, forcing his voice into cheerfulness. “Master Fumihiro, good morning!”

  Iwata nodded to him. He hadn’t believed the fisherman would show up. The man had courage—or perhaps he was just desperate for whatever sum Hiroshi had offered. Fumihiro was Iwata’s age, stocky and powerful, his cheeks rough with stubble, his mouth pressed into a grim line.

  “I had to come.” The fisherman shifted uneasily. “Someone should tell that ship’s captain that his man was killed. Can’t have his family thinking he ran away, if he has one.”

  Iwata raked his fingers through his salt-crusted hair and nodded grudging respect to the fisherman. Fumihiro and Hiroshi started down to where the boats lay in a row, like fish set out to dry. Daigo trailed after, dragging furrows in the sand with his feet. The white dog attached itself to Iwata’s heels again.

  Daigo rubbed his unshaven chin, a smile ghosting over his ashen face. “That girl has taken a liking to you.”

  “What girl?” Iwata growled.

  “Her.” Daigo pointed to the dog. “She’s a girl.”

  “Oh” was all Iwata could think to reply.

  Together they turned the fishing boat over and launched it into the water. It was cold, swirling around Iwata’s ankles, soaking the hem of his kimono.

  The boat had been built for two men. But they could fit, two to each bench, pressed together like rice balls packed into a box.

  Iwata was lowering himself onto the bench opposite Hiroshi when Daigo said, “My lord, the dog.”

  She stood in the surf, the water wetting her belly. As they all turned to look, she barked once, a high yap brimming with dismay.

  Daigo glanced warily at Iwata. “My lord, perhaps we should—”

  “Bring it,” Iwata snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  The boat tilted as Daigo climbed out. He waded to the dog, which leaped into his hands before he could grab her. He handed her to Iwa
ta, who accepted her reluctantly. The dog wiggled furiously, tongue lapping at the air in an attempt to reach Iwata’s face. He managed to lower her to the bottom of the boat. When he straightened back up, he saw that Daigo had settled onto the bench beside Fumihiro. Iwata would have to sit beside Hiroshi.

  His former lover turned away from him, showing the scar that marred the right side of his face. He seemed absorbed in gazing at the sea. The dog wedged herself between Iwata’s feet and Hiroshi’s.

  Iwata’s shoulder—the one injured by the fox so long ago—pressed against Hiroshi’s. It ached very faintly, somewhere deep in the muscle. He shifted, trying to find someplace to rest his hand. They were crammed so close together that the only comfortable spot to put it was Hiroshi’s thigh. Hiroshi was at a loss as well, if the way he twisted his body was any indication. A lock of his loose hair brushed Iwata’s cheek.

  Iwata sighed with relief when Fumihiro wrestled the oars up from the bottom of the boat and handed one to each of them, saying, “We usually only use two, but we’ll move quicker with four. We’ll be on the open sea for a time, between here and Kakuo.”

  “Can you navigate without the sun?” Daigo gestured to the low clouds.

  Fumihiro grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “A real sailor doesn’t need the sun. I’ll get us there.”

  They plunged their oars into the water and began to row. As the yellowish strip of beach began to recede, Iwata felt a small, unfamiliar sensation in his stomach: doubt. He hoped that Fumihiro wasn’t exaggerating his abilities.

  IT HAD been a long time since Iwata had been on the sea. The relentless smell of salt made his eyes sting and his throat swell. The water, while seeming still and glassy, moved constantly, waves small but strong enough to keep the little boat perpetually rocking as if the sea was trying to lull them to sleep. But it only succeeded in twisting Iwata’s stomach. Daigo was even worse off. He’d vomited over the side twice and now hunched, miserable, his face gray, next to Fumihiro. Daigo had balanced his oar on his knees so his slack fingers wouldn’t lose it in the water.

  Hiroshi seemingly had no trouble adjusting to the ocean beneath his feet. Had he been on a boat sometime in these past years, or did he simply take to the water as seamlessly as he did everything else he tried? He sat easily next to Iwata, his back straight, smoothly following every instruction Fumihiro gave. Iwata gritted his teeth and willed his stomach into stillness.

  Iwata hadn’t rowed a boat since he’d left his hometown, decades before. He was as fit as any soldier, but after an hour his back burned with lines of fire that had etched themselves around his shoulder blades. Every stroke sent spikes of pain down through his bent wrists to his elbows. Sweat beaded on his neck and trickled into his collar. Despite the thick cloud cover, the day was growing warm. Within two hours they’d all stripped to the waist, even Daigo. Iwata gazed out over the water he churned with the oar. Hiroshi’s sweat-slick skin touched his with every movement.

  The faint white spot the sun made above the clouds was directly overhead when Iwata noticed the fog.

  It was the first change he’d seen in hours. He’d grown so used to the stillness that when something moved on the horizon, he noticed it immediately. He kept rowing but squinted over the oar, keeping his eyes on the motion.

  A tendril of opaque white crept over the water, uncoiling itself like a sea creature’s tentacle. Fog. They weren’t heading into it, but as Iwata watched, it came nearer, swelling into a white mist that covered the water, billowing higher than the boat.

  Beside him, Hiroshi tensed. “A storm?”

  “Fog. The weather on the sea can be strange.” Fumihiro smiled, but his voice sounded brittle. His gaze fixed on the fog, which was rapidly growing into a solid wall of white.

  The fisherman was nervous, and that set Iwata on edge. He pulled up his oar long enough to shrug back into his kimono. As he pulled on his right sleeve, his gaze snagged Hiroshi’s. Hiroshi nodded silently; he sensed it too.

  Daigo lifted his head a little. “Is something wrong?”

  “That fog,” Hiroshi said quietly. “We’re rowing parallel to it, but it’s still going to engulf us. It’s moving toward us.”

  Iwata nodded. He was keenly aware of his sheathed swords pressing into his side. He could free them in an instant. Hiroshi could easily do the same with his own weapons.

  The fog floated closer. Fumihiro’s arms slowed, then stopped. He laid the dripping oar across his knees. Hiroshi and Iwata did the same. Cold seawater dripped onto the dog, which sat up, whimpering, the hair on her back rising.

  Fumihiro shot her an anxious glance. “Shut her up!”

  “Quiet,” Iwata hissed, but in answer, her whines turned to a growl. Hiroshi scooped up the dog and deposited her on Iwata’s lap. She quieted, though she watched the fog intently, her ears twitching.

  Even Daigo was sitting up now as they drifted, warily eying the fog as it crept closer. There was no sound but the hiss of the waves around the boat. In the stillness Iwata felt the steady beat of his heart. He thought for a few moments that he could hear Hiroshi’s as well, nearly in accordance with his own. As the fog finally enshrouded them, Iwata’s fingers went numb with cold. His bones were chilled to the marrow, nerves so cold they burned under his skin. He shivered convulsively and realized Hiroshi was doing the same.

  The sea and sky vanished, blotted out by endless, depthless white. Beyond the lip of the boat, Iwata could see nothing at all. The boat tilted sickeningly as Fumihiro rose, spreading his feet wide to keep from tipping them over.

  “What is it?” Daigo leaned his forehand in his hand. His brief rally to examine the fog seemed to have drained him.

  Fumihiro sank down to the bench. “Two creatures cause weather like this: umibozu and funa-yurei.”

  “Which do we prefer to meet?” Hiroshi smiled wryly.

  “Neither. Whichever it is, pray to the gods it doesn’t notice us.” Fumihiro bowed his shoulders as if he could make himself small enough to hide.

  “I never had much use for the gods,” Iwata growled. “I won’t start begging them for help now.”

  For a few minutes, they drifted. The white dog twisted and wriggled, trying to look in all directions at once. Iwata absently put a steadying hand on her flank. She sniffed the air, whining.

  “Look.” Hiroshi broke the silence. One hand held the oar across his lap, the other rested on the hilt of his sword. They all followed his gaze, even Daigo.

  A light had appeared in the fog. It was a faint yellowish spot that bobbed up and down, vanishing and reappearing in the mist. Iwata frowned, trying to figure out what it could be.

  Hiroshi identified it first. “A lantern, on a boat!”

  Fumihiro’s face had gone white. He looked suddenly very old. “Not just any lantern on any boat.”

  Iwata’s uneasiness exploded into anger. “Well, which demon is it? The umibozu or—”

  “The funa-yurei,” Fumihiro whispered. “It’s the funa-yurei.”

  Iwata lifted the white dog off his knees and tucked her beneath the bench. Surprisingly, she stayed. He laid his oar in the bottom of the boat. Finally he unknotted the cord that tied the silk wrapping around his katana and dropped it by the oar, where it rapidly darkened with water. The sword slipped from its sheath easily, eagerly, as if it had been waiting for his need. He drew the wakizashi, shorter than the katana but every bit as deadly, and laid both weapons across his knees. Even in the dimness, light rippled down their folded blades. Their weight was a comfort, had always been, since the prince had given him his first blade nearly forty years before. Hiroshi watched him thoughtfully, then brought out his own weapons. Iwata noted that they were the same swords he’d used to attack the fox eight years before.

  Fumihiro shook his head. “Your swords are no good, not against them!”

  Hiroshi stared at the weaving lantern. “I’ve chased this thing for the better part of a decade. I won’t let these funa-yurei stop me now.”

  Daigo sat up long e
nough to unsheathe his own sword—an elegant katana that was certainly a gift from his father. “Nor will I,” he croaked. “I won’t let….” He pressed a hand to his mouth.

  Iwata said nothing. A sudden certainty had seized him. “They know we’re here.”

  Hiroshi’s tone sharpened with apprehension. “Are you in pain?”

  “No. I just… know.”

  Hiroshi accepted this with a nod. “Nephew, change seats with me.”

  Iwata saw what he intended. If they had to stand and fight, this way their weight would be evenly distributed, keeping the boat from tipping. For the first time he thought of the dark yawning depths beneath their feet. He repressed a shudder.

  Fumihiro gave a strangled squeak. Out of the fog emerged the funa-yurei. Hiroshi and Iwata rose in unison. The boat shuddered but did not tilt. The hair on Iwata’s neck and arms tingled.

  The funa-yurei traveled in a simple fishing boat much like Fumihiro’s. But their boat was decrepit, the boards weathered gray and laced with cracks. In a few places, the wood had broken off, leaving long deadly splinters jutting from the side. Yet the funa-yurei didn’t sink.

  There were five in all. From a distance they could have been taken for men—but strange men, for they wore white robes that flapped about their wrists, though there was no wind. White. The color of death. And as the boat drew nearer, gliding silently in the fog, Iwata saw that the white robes were shrouds, torn and hanging raggedly from their shoulders. Above the shrouds floated eerily white faces. No, not faces… skulls. Skulls with gaping black holes devoid of eyes, yellowed teeth obscenely large in their fleshless faces. The hands that hung unnaturally still at their sides were also skeletal, held together without muscle or skin. Iwata had seen men stripped to nothing but bones and sinew lying on battlefields, attended by flies and vultures. But these creatures had been picked clean long ago, washed of any lingering scraps of flesh.

  “Drowned sailors,” Iwata guessed.

  “Never found,” Fumihiro whispered. “Never properly cremated.”

  Iwata’s grip tightened on his katana. His arm quivered, tense as the string on a bow. He hadn’t fought in a long time, since before the prince fell ill. He glanced at Hiroshi, who scowled grimly. His former lover was a skilled fighter, and if he threw half the anger he seemed to hold for Iwata against the funa-yurei, the creatures couldn’t win.