Late Summer, Early Spring

by Patricia Correll

  The ghostly boat drove the fog before it in gentle swirls. Were the funa-yurei going to ram them? But the funa-yurei stopped inches from the fishing boat. Fumihiro was almost sobbing with terror. Daigo’s mouth hung open. Hiroshi’s gaze was precise, calculating. He must have already dismissed any awe he felt for these spirits and was planning the best mode of attack.

  The funa-yurei gazed back with their empty sockets. The jaw of the nearest moved slowly. Its voice creaked like an ancient hinge. An otherworldly echo clung to it—an echo Iwata had heard before in a voice that haunted his dreams.

  “Do you have a ladle?”

  It wasn’t what he’d expected. Iwata blinked in surprise but didn’t ease his grip on his weapons. Daigo half swallowed a startled laugh, but the question drew a whimper from Fumihiro.

  The funa-yurei waited. When the men didn’t reply, the creature repeated, “Do you have a ladle?”

  “I have a katana,” Iwata snarled.

  Fumihiro whispered, “If we did, they would take the ladle and use it to swamp our boat. But if you don’t….”

  Hiroshi’s eyes glittered in the murky light. “I won’t let these things keep me from the fox.”

  Iwata nodded toward them. “Then answer.”

  The jaw of the first funa-yurei creaked open again. Before it could speak, Hiroshi said, “No. We don’t have a ladle.”

  Fumihiro moaned. The mouths of the skulls dropped open, and the funa-yurei began to scream. It was a high-pitched, relentless howl that went on and on, drowning out all other sounds. Hiroshi lunged at the nearest creature, balancing one sandaled foot on the lip of the fishing boat, launching himself into the funa-yurei’s craft. Something brushed Iwata’s leg—the little dog—but he only pushed her aside as he raised his swords, preparing to follow Hiroshi as soon as he was clear.

  Hiroshi’s jump should have carried him easily into their boat, into the creature that had spoken, breaking and scattering its yellowed bones like twigs. But the boat and the funa-yurei wavered like a landscape in the heat. Hiroshi fell through them. He hit the water with a splash that jarred Iwata’s heart.

  The ghostly funa-yurei reformed, looking as solid as they had before. Hiroshi was gone.

  The white dog began to bark.

  “Uncle?” Daigo gasped.

  Iwata held his stance. “Hiro!”

  Nothing. He sheathed both swords. Daigo and Fumihiro stared at him in bewilderment.

  “My lord—” Daigo began.

  Iwata ignored him. He grasped the edge of the boat and swung his body over the side, through the howling funa-yurei. For a moment, the mist filled his vision. An unnatural cold seized him, the same cold of the fox’s jaws. Then he hit the surface, and it was gone, replaced by the chill of the ocean. Salt water covered his face, stinging his eyes. Some long-forgotten knowledge asserted itself. Iwata kicked off his sandals and shrugged out of his clinging sleeves. He clawed his way to the surface and shook the water off his face, blinking. He’d surfaced a few feet from both boats. The dog’s white face peered over the edge at him.

  “Hiro!” he shouted. The fog swirled around him. He saw no sign of Hiroshi.

  The funa-yurei suddenly surged forward, ramming Fumihiro’s boat, the insubstantial prow half disappearing into the fishing boat. The fishing boat tilted, and the dog vanished as she was thrown to the bottom of it.

  “Hiro!” Iwata shouted again. His arm brushed something solid. He clutched something in his fingers: cloth, with something heavy attached. Iwata swam with one arm while he tried to reel in the cloth with the other. His breath burned in his lungs. Suddenly Hiroshi’s head was on his shoulder. His former lover coughed furiously.

  “Hiro,” he gasped. “Can you swim?”

  But Hiroshi was sputtering too hard to answer. Iwata wrapped an arm around his waist and managed to turn them both to face the fishing boat. If he could get them back to it—

  His hopeful thought was drowned out by a consuming roar. The water around them exploded as if some massive sea beast had surfaced nearby. Iwata felt himself lifted and just as quickly slammed back into the roiling water. The impact forced the breath from his lungs, but he managed to keep his grip on Hiroshi’s kimono. They both went under briefly, then surfaced together. He had no time to check on Hiroshi before another wave flung the boat into the air. The dog’s yelping threaded thinly through the ocean’s roar. Iwata glimpsed a wall of black water, white froth at its crest. In the froth he saw the gaping sockets and torn shrouds of the funa-yurei. There was no way the fishing boat could move before the wave crashed down. Iwata closed his eyes. He thought he heard the splintering of wood and a final squeal from the dog, but it was all lost when the wave descended upon them and broke, driving them under into the cold, ravenous sea.

  IWATA WAS cold. Not the bone-breaking cold of the fox or the funa-yurei, but a wet cold. Something sharp dug into his neck. His entire body was numb. Iwata took a deep breath and blinked. Pain encroached on his numbness, branching into his arms. He clenched his fists, and something gritted between his fingers. Sand. Slowly he sat up. Sand clung to his face, his beard, crunched between his teeth.

  Hiro. He looked around, ignoring the ache in his head. His right hand was still clenched around a fistful of cloth—Hiroshi’s robe. Hiroshi lay less than an arm’s length away, facedown in the sand.

  Iwata scrambled to his knees. His fingers were so stiff, he had to loosen their grip with the other hand. Frantically he turned Hiroshi over, his heart stuttering in his chest. Iwata couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He shoved aside Hiroshi’s robe, pressing his hand to his chest, feeling for a heartbeat.

  “Hiro!” he barked hoarsely. He leaned down to Hiroshi’s lips, listening for breath. He held his own, straining for the faintest sign of life. Words spilled unbidden from his lips. “Hiro, please. Please. Hiro—”

  Suddenly Hiroshi coughed, a violent, tearing sound. He jerked and spat warm water onto Iwata’s shoulder. Iwata grabbed his arm and pulled him into a sitting position. Hiroshi laid his head on Iwata’s shoulder, coughing convulsively. Iwata, shuddering with relief, raised his head and surveyed the beach. It stretched away to both sides, flat and brown. The sky was gray, the air around them filled with a thin whitish mist. Beyond the sand rose a solid wall of sea grass, yellowed and tall as a man. Behind them the sea shifted and hissed. Iwata noticed they were sprawled in ankle-deep surf. A chill wind skittered over his wet skin. Awkwardly he shrugged his free arm into his kimono sleeve. Somehow he still had his katana and wakizashi tucked into his sash. He noticed Hiroshi had lost both his weapons.

  “Sho,” Hiroshi grated.

  “Hiro.” Iwata peered into his pale face. “Can you stand? We can’t stay here.”

  “Where’s Daigo?” Hiroshi looked around.

  “I don’t know. Are you hurt?”

  Hiroshi paused, surveying his battered body. “My left wrist. I can’t move my fingers.”

  Iwata prodded his arm. It was limp. Beneath the skin he could feel a ragged jumble, like a pile of snapped twigs. Hiroshi hissed in pain.

  “Broken.” Iwata untied his sash, laying his swords across his knees. He knotted a makeshift sling around Hiroshi’s shoulder and gently maneuvered the injured arm into it.

  Hiroshi gazed at the beach, his mouth sinking into a grim line. “He’s not here. Neither is Fumihiro.”

  “Nor the dog.” Iwata sat back on his haunches. He pulled on his other sleeve. Without his sash, his kimono would flap open, but it didn’t matter. There was no one to see but Hiroshi, who had seen him naked before. “We have to get out of the water.”

  Hiroshi got to his feet, not resisting when Iwata took his good arm. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t even know where we are.” Iwata shook his head. The funa-yurei might have stranded them on Kakuo, or on another island, or possibly even the mainland. “We need to find shelter, assess our injuries, and dry out. Then we can look for Daigo.”

  Hiroshi opened his mouth, and for a moment Iwata though
t he was going to argue. But he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded instead.

  Their progress was frustratingly slow. They were both stiff and in pain; their sandals were gone, and once past the waterline, their feet sank into the cool, deep sand. Iwata steered Hiroshi gently toward the sea grass, looking for a path. Soon he found one. They hobbled past the sharp yellow blades that rose higher than their heads, blocking the view of the beach.

  At the end of the path, they found a wooden shack, weathered smooth by the sea air. Along one wall stood a row of racks. A wooden box sat by the door. The entire clearing stank of fish.

  “A hut to dry fish,” Iwata explained. “There are no boats on the beach. No one’s fished here in some time, but I thought there might still be a shack like this. If we’re lucky, they left a flint to make a fire for the smoking box here.”

  “How did you know this would be here?”

  “I grew up in a fishing village.”

  Hiroshi grimaced as he shifted his injured arm. “I didn’t know that.”

  The shack had no windows, but the low door let in a little light. Hiroshi leaned against the wall while Iwata rummaged on the single shelf. He found a waterskin and, half-fallen into the crack between shelf and wall, a pair of flints. The water tasted of leather and age, but they were too parched to care.

  Iwata went back to the beach for driftwood. There was just enough room in the shack for them to sit next to each other beside the fire Iwata managed to coax to life. Iwata tucked his sodden robe around himself. Hiroshi let him examine his broken wrist. It had swollen and turned a disquieting shade of purple.

  “It’s getting dark.” Hiroshi gazed past him at the fading rectangle of light beyond the door. “I wonder how long we drifted.”

  Iwata scowled at Hiroshi’s arm. “Anything else hurt?”

  “Everything. What about you?”

  Iwata shook his head. Bruises almost as vivid as Hiroshi’s wrist were blossoming on his forearms and a dozen other places as well. Hiroshi closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.

  “Where is my nephew?”

  “We’ll look in the morning.” A crushing wave of exhaustion had struck Iwata the moment he sat down. Salt crusted every inch of his body, but he was too drained to care. A gnawing hunger woke in the bottom of his stomach, but it was small and alone among his pain and weariness.

  For a while they sat in silence. Iwata wondered if Hiroshi was asleep. His own mind refused to be still: Daigo, Fumihiro, the stupid dog—where were they? On another barren beach? Or crushed beneath the dark water? And Hiroshi… if his injury wasn’t treated, he might never use his hand again. Or the wound might grow pulpy and soft, begin to rot. Iwata had seen it happen before.

  The murky light outside the door sank into darkness. The small fire threw convulsing shadows onto the walls. Hiroshi spoke. “I should slit my belly open right now for shame. But I can’t even do that, because I’ve lost my swords.”

  “Hiro—”

  “A fox murdered my sister, and I couldn’t protect her. After eight years I still haven’t avenged her death. And now her son….” Hiroshi’s tone was cold and hard.

  Iwata, sitting at his shoulder, was struck by the desire to pull Hiroshi into his arms, hold him close and tight as he had once when Hiroshi was grieving Kumomo. But Hiroshi wasn’t weeping now, and Iwata thought he’d push him away.

  “We’ll find your nephew, Hiro. He probably washed up on another beach.”

  The words sounded empty, even to him.

  Hiroshi barked a mirthless laugh. “Why would you care if he’s alive or not? All you want is the fox. To do what I couldn’t. For the prince.”

  Iwata’s mouth went dry. “What are you talking about?”

  “You knew I’d fail to avenge Momo. Prince Narita knew too, so he sent you to find me after his death. As long as you exact the prince’s revenge, you don’t care what happens.”

  “Prince Narita didn’t send me, Hiro! I came to find you. He had nothing to do with it.” Iwata sat up, galvanized by anger. Where had Hiroshi gotten such a stupid idea?

  In the firelight Hiroshi’s eyes were wells of blackness. “Don’t lie to me, Sho, not now! You came to avenge the prince’s consort, not my sister. You never cared about Momo, or me.”

  If there had been room, Iwata would have paced to the other side of the fire. Instead he tensed, clenching his fists. “That’s not true.”

  Hiroshi laughed again, a sound that made Iwata shudder. “When I left all those years ago, you told me you didn’t love me. I would have stayed if you did. But you didn’t. You didn’t lie to me then, so don’t do it now.”

  “I never said that.”

  “What?”

  “I never said I didn’t love you!” Iwata slammed one fist into the dirt floor. Pain radiated up his arm.

  “You told me to leave!”

  “Yes. But I never said I didn’t love you.”

  Hiroshi slumped back against the wall, all the anger draining from him. He was silent for some time. Iwata could hear nothing but the pulse of his own heart. He willed Hiroshi to understand. He had run out of words to explain.

  When Hiroshi finally spoke, his voice was so low Iwata had to lean forward to hear. “Then why?”

  “Kumomo needed you.”

  “Didn’t you need me?”

  “She was crying for vengeance. Could you have stayed with me, knowing that?”

  Hiroshi drew his knees to his chest, resting his good arm on them. “Yet my sister is unavenged, and my nephew is dead.”

  Iwata watched him warily. So much talking had drained him.

  “The night after Momo’s funeral, I followed the fox out of the palace town, into the woods beyond. I thought I wouldn’t sleep at all, that I would lie awake all night thinking of you. But I was so exhausted, I fell asleep immediately.”

  Iwata’s heart stuttered in his chest.

  “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”

  Hiroshi’s voice was ragged, his face hidden in the shadows, but Iwata felt his gaze, searching and desperate. The next moment Hiroshi pressed against him, his face buried in Iwata’s shoulder. Iwata wrapped his arms around Hiroshi, holding him more tightly than he’d ever held him in their brief months as lovers. He buried his face in Hiroshi’s hair and breathed deeply. Hiroshi’s breath was warm on Iwata’s skin; his heart beat steadily against Iwata’s chest. For the first time in years, Iwata’s restless mind stilled. Daigo, Fumihiro, the dog, the fox… for a time, Hiroshi’s embrace blocked it all out.

  DAWN WAS gray and pale, but when Iwata ducked outside the shack, he saw the sky was bright and cloudless. In the light Hiroshi’s wrist looked even worse, pulpy and purple.

  Iwata wiped sweat from Hiroshi’s pale face. “You stay here while I look around.”

  “No.” Hiroshi gripped his hand. He smiled wanly. “I won’t be separated from you again.”

  Iwata ripped a strip of cloth from his still damp under-robe and tied it around his waist to hold his kimono closed. They drank the rest of the fresh water in the shack. Iwata tucked the flint into his makeshift sash. Hiroshi winced in pain when he rose but insisted he was able to walk. Slowly they made their way back to the beach. It looked more inviting in the sunlight: pale yellow sand, sea the same vibrant blue as the sky. Iwata twined his fingers with Hiroshi’s. His good hand was dry and rough, callused in all the same places as Iwata’s.

  Their progress along the beach was slow. Though Hiroshi walked steadily, his face was drawn with pain. Iwata had his own aches, but he forced himself to stand straight as Hiroshi leaned more heavily on him. He kept his gaze on the tree line, watching for any hint of a trail that might lead to a village. The trees all looked the same, an impenetrable tangle of branches. Rocks began to litter the sand, huge jagged boulders scattered as if a giant had dropped them. The ones lying in the surf were pitted; their tide pools glittered in the sunlight.

  Gently Iwata steered Hiroshi around the rocks, but finally Hir
oshi shook his head. “Sho, I need to rest a moment.”

  Hiroshi sank down on one of the wide flat rocks. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. Iwata sat next to him. But after a few seconds, he was compelled to get up again. He should be resting too as he wasn’t in much better form than Hiroshi. But restlessness drove him to his feet. They needed to find out where they were.

  “Stay here.” He pushed Hiroshi’s tangled hair back from his face. “I’ll come back for you.”

  Hiroshi nodded without opening his eyes. Iwata left him sitting in the sun, his broken wrist cradled in his lap.

  Iwata slipped between the boulders, some as high as his chest. Ahead a cliff jutted out onto the beach, but sometime in the past, the cliff’s edge had crumbled, spilling rocks of all sizes across the sand and into the surf. Iwata waded into the water. His bruised legs ached as he climbed over the tail of the landslide, hooking his fingers into crevices worn by time and water. He barked his knee painfully on a rock and gritted his teeth. His sword dragged over the stone. At the top he froze, his fingers pressed into a wide crack.

  On the other side of the collapsed cliff, the beach continued as if it had never been interrupted. Lying on the sand like a giant carcass was a ship, its sides swollen. Its keel had dragged a deep trench in the sand before it listed on its side. The mast had pulled it over once it beached and now lay half-buried in the sand.

  The ship was silent. A gull shrieked as it landed on the upturned hull and leaped away again as if burned.

  The cargo ship. The one that had left the day before they did, bound for Kakuo. Iwata’s hope swelled—the ship had been bound for that island, so there was a good chance they had reached their destination. But the wreck was ominous. The silent hulk breathed damp and salt and something else, something still and empty. Iwata scrambled down the other side of the rock. He drew the katana the moment his feet hit the ground. He approached the ship cautiously, his pain and stiffness forgotten. His nerves hummed with tension, but the hand wielding his sword was steady.