“It … it not illness. Not that. Just—just tight loincloth, nothing worry.” He reached out to cover her and blow out the light but she stopped him. Gently.
“So sorry, it has begun. Please. Give me the knife.”
As always his knife was in the sheath on his belt. As always. With his clothes, behind him. “No, please, Hinodeh, no knife, knife bad, no need knife. That—that mark nothing.”
Through his nightmare, he saw her shake her head, kindly, and repeat the request that had become a command. His limbs began trembling, his head to twitch uncontrollably, no way to stop them or the mumbling incoherent litany of French and Japanese that poured out, that begged and pleaded and explained that the little spot was a blemish, nothing more though he knew it was not nothing. It had begun. She was right. It had begun, it had begun. His stomach heaved. He just managed to stop himself vomiting, mumbling on and on.
She did not interrupt, worse, only lay patiently, waiting for the fit to pass. Then there would be a resolution.
He said brokenly, “Listen, Hinodeh, please no knife. Please. Cannot … That … it nothing. Soon go away. Look me, look!” Desperately he pointed at himself. “Nothing, nowhere. That little, soon go. No knife. We live. No afraid. Happy. Yes?”
He saw a shadow cross her face, again her fingers touched the abrasion, again the same sweetly monotonous “It has begun.”
He fixed a smile and did not know it was grotesque, and as much as he cajoled and twisted and turned, she kept asking the same question, gently, politely, infuriating him more and more until he was near exploding. “It nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Understand?”
“Yes, I understand. But it has begun. Neh?”
He stared at her, his face mean, then his rage broke, and he shouted, “For Christ’s sake, yes! Yes, YES! Hai!”
Through a great silence, she said, “Thank you, Furansu-san. Then please, as you agree it has begun, as you have promised, please give me the knife.”
His eyes were bloodshot, the corners of his mouth flecked with foam, sweat pouring off him and he was near madness. His mouth opened and his mouth said with finality what he always knew he would say: “No knife. Kinjiru! It-is-forbidden! Cannot. Cannot. You too value. Forbidden. No knife.”
“You refuse?” Gently asked, no change in her.
“Hinodeh, you sun, my sun my moon. Cannot. Will not. Never never never. Forbidden. You stay. Please. Je t’aime.”
“Please, the knife.”
“No.”
A long sigh. Docilely she bowed to him, a light gone out in her, and fetched a damp towel and a dry one and knelt beside the bed. “Here, Sire.”
Scowling, sweat-stained, he watched her. “You agree?”
“Yes, I agree. If that is your wish.”
He caught her hand. She let it lie in his. “Truly agree?”
“If you wish it. Whatever you wish,” she said but sadly.
“No ask knife, ever again?”
“I agree. It is over, Furansu-san, if that is your wish.” Her voice was gentle, her face in repose, different yet the same, shadows of sadness there. “Please stop now. It is over. I promise I will not ask ever again, please excuse me.”
The weight came off him. He went weak with relief. “Oh, Hinodeh, je t’aime, thank you, thank you,” he said, his voice breaking, “but please no sad, no sad. Je t’aime, thank you.”
“Please do not thank me. It is your wish.”
“Please no sad, Hinodeh. I promise all be very good now. Wonderful. I promise.”
She nodded slowly. A sudden smile washed her face and all the sad away. “Yes, and I thank you, and yes, no more sad.”
She waited while he dried himself then removed the towels. His eyes followed her, feasting on her and his victory. She padded across the tatami to the other room and brought back their two saké flasks. With a sweet smile she said, “Drink from the flasks, better than cups. Mine hot, yours cold. Thank you for buying my contract. A ta santé.”
“A ta santé, je t’aime.”
“Ah, so ka! Je t’aime.” She drained the flask, choked a little, then laughed, wiped some off her chin. “That was good, so good. Come to bed.” Gaily she slid under the covers. “Come to bed, Furansu-san, you risk a chill.”
The grand-tasting drink cleansed his mouth and took away the death feeling he had had. Slowly he moved the coverlet off her, aching for her. “Please, no more dark. Please?”
“If you wish it. No more dark. Except to sleep, neh?”
So gratefully, he bowed his head to the futon, reborn, and thanked her and lay beside her, loving her, craving her monstrously. His fingers reached for her.
“Ah, Furansu-san, may I rest first, please?” she asked tenderly, as never before. “So much passion has tired me. May I rest a little, please? Later we … later, neh?”
His flaring disappointment that almost turned to fury was difficult to contain. In a moment, as kindly as he could, he said, “Of course.” No longer touching, he lay back.
“Thank you, Furansu-san,” she whispered tiredly. “Please, can you reach the lamp? Turn the flame down, I wish to sleep a little, only a little while.”
He obeyed and lay back, loins tormented with desire.
In the darkness, she was more content than she had been in years, content as in the days before her husband died and they lived in their little Yedo house with their son, the boy who was safe now, already with his grandparents, accepted, protected, and growing up samurai.
Bad of Furansu-san not to give me the knife as he promised. Despicable. But then he is gai-jin and not to be trusted. Never mind, I knew he would not keep his part of the bargain as I have kept mine—whatever Raiko promised. He lied when he signed, as she lied. Never mind, never mind. I was prepared for both of them, both liars.
Her smile broadened. The old herbalist did not lie. I tasted nothing, feel nothing, but death is coursing in my body and only a few minutes remain in this World of Tears.
For me and for the Beast too. It was his choice. He broke his promise. So the Unclean pays for cheating me. He will cheat no other lady. And goes to death unquenched!
He stirred, hearing her light, odd laughter. “What?”
“Nothing. Later we will laugh together. No more dark after tonight, Furansu-san. No more dark.”
* * *
Hiraga slammed his fist on the tatami, tired of waiting for Akimoto. He went out into the blustering night and trudged the paths through the garden to the door in the fence. Through it to Takeda’s house, missing the turning the first time. On the veranda he stopped. Snores came from within. “Akimoto, Takeda?” he called out softly, not wanting to open the shoji without warning, every one of them dangerous if surprised.
No answer. The snores continued. He slid the door aside noiselessly. Akimoto was slumped over the table, saké flasks and beer bottles strewn over the floor. No sign of Takeda. Angrily he shook Akimoto, cursing him. The young man came out of his stupor blearily, half awake. “What’s the matter?” The words were slurred, Hiraga’s face out of focus and swirling.
“Where’s Takeda? Wake up! Baka! Where is Takeda?”
“Don’ know, just we…just drinking …”
For a second Hiraga was transfixed, his whole world turned over, then he rushed out and through the garden to the fence and the cache.
His mind fogged. Then the plan they all knew, where the bombs would best be placed, surged at him. Panic lent speed to his feet. He peered under Takeda’s house but could see nothing, then he caught a whiff of gunpowder smoke and ducked down and crawled between the low, stone supports but the fuse was too well hidden, its smoke dissipated by the stiff currents of air. Out again and up into the room to shake Akimoto. “Get up, wake up!” When the youth drunkenly tried to shove him away, Hiraga struck him across the face, openhanded, then again. Pain tore him back to slurring consciousness.
“Takeda’s taken the bombs, he’s firing the Inn, there’s one below …” Hiraga dragged him roughly to his feet. Mumbling,
leaning on him, Akimoto staggered out and fell down the steps onto the garden path, the sound of the wind fierce. At that moment the bomb exploded.
The blast was small, enough to knock them over and blow a hole in the floor, most of the noise muffled by floor joists, and by the wind. But the spray of ignited oil was deadly. Flames gushed up and outwards.
“Go into the tunnel and wait there,” Hiraga croaked hoarsely, and ran. The shock of the blast and such near death blew Akimoto’s stupor away. He started to run but the wind gathered some embers and threw them at him. Frenzied, he beat at his clothes and backed off and by the time he looked at the house once more it was an inferno—dry rice husk tatamis, dry oiled-paper screens, dry wood floor and beams and thatched roof. As he watched, the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks that were swiftly sucked up and driven by the wind to swoop on to the next dwelling. The thatch caught. Fire bells began sounding—maids, servants, clients, courtesans, guards on the gate beginning to respond.
Hiraga was racing down the path to the south-most house. A few metres away the bomb went off. The blast was smaller than before but it sent him sprawling into the bushes, crashing his body against a decorative stone dragon, causing a cry of pain, the explosion powerful enough to collapse a whole corner of pilings and a corner of the house, causing the dwelling to lurch and tip drunkenly. A wall burst into flames.
He forced himself up and without hesitation leapt onto the veranda and crashed through the burning shoji wall, the sprayed oil already working its mayhem inside, smoke choking. His hands went to his face against the scorching heat and he held his breath against the smoke.
He saw Tyrer blown to one side, helplessly trying to grope to his hands and knees, suffocating, surrounded by flames that in an instant turned the oil-sprayed shoji wall behind him into a sheet of fire. Other flames gorged on oil-drenched walls and supports and roof and licked at the remains of the futon and down coverlet Tyrer lay on. The hem of his ripped sleeping kimono caught fire. Hiraga jumped forward, stamped out the flame and pulled him up. One look at Fujiko was enough. The bomb had cut her in half. Already she was hairless and turning to cinder.
Half blinded by the smoke, Hiraga dragged Tyrer out onto the path. At that second the blazing roof collapsed, sending them reeling away to fall in a heap, the resulting gusher of sparks and embers turned into a flame thrower by the wind, blowtorching other houses, fences, and the next Teahouse. Shouts and screams and fire warnings, already lines of people were dashing this way and that with water buckets or fetching buckets, most now wearing dampened face masks against smoke inhalation that were always ready in abundance.
Astonished to be still alive, coughing and gagging, Hiraga beat out a smoldering patch on the chest of his kimono, his short sword still in his belt, the long sword vanished. As far as he could tell Tyrer was unhurt but it was impossible to be sure for he was not truly conscious, chest heaving, gasping and vomiting from inhaling the smoke. Painfully Hiraga stood over him to collect his breath and his reason, looking around against new dangers. The nearby dwelling burst into flames, then the next, cutting their escape route.
Katsumata was right, he thought. With this wind the Yoshiwara’s doomed. And with it the Settlement.
On the edge of No Man’s Land the patrol of soldiers stood stock-still—with everyone else in Drunk Town who was sober—and stared over the fence toward the Yoshiwara. Two columns of flames and billowing smoke reached skywards amid distant shouts and bells brought closer by the wind. Faintly a third explosion sounded. A third fountain of flames. Smoke began to surround them. A few embers swirled past.
“Christalmighty,” the Sergeant said, moving out of the lee of the godown to see better, “was that a bomb?”
“Doan’ know, Sarge, could be a barrel of oil exploding, but we’d better get back, that bleeder’s heading our way an—”
The fire bomb that Takeda had planted against the far side of the godown detonated. Instinctively they all ducked. More smoke, fire crackling, bellowing from nearby Drunk Towners and cries for water buckets and “Fire! Fire! Hurry, for Christ’s sake—that’s the lamp-oil depot!”
Half-naked men dashed in and out of adjoining houses to save their valuables. Down the street Mrs. Fortheringill’s was emptying, inmates and customers raving and swearing, climbing into their clothes. More warning bells. Looting began.
And down at the South Gate, disciplined samurai streamed in, racing for the Yoshiwara with ladders and fire buckets, wet smoke masks over their faces. A few diverted to fight the godown fire, the remainder rushed onwards. Flames from the blazing godown roof, fanned by the wind, jumped the alley to attack the next line of hovels. They caught instantly.
From his hiding place in No Man’s Land, Takeda saw the soldiers in confusion and gloated with the success of the bombs, a large section of the Yoshiwara already ablaze. Time to make a run for it. Quickly he adjusted his face mask, the mask and the dirt and his soot-blackened, filthy kimono making him even more ominous.
In flickering alternations of night and light, he hurried for the well head, found the knapsack, stuck his arms through the straps and, as quickly as he dared, picked a precarious way through the dump. Warning cries behind him. He thought he had been spotted, but it was only about the building, as one wall caved in with a roar, showering more sparks and fire on scattering people and on neighboring property. Now the abundance of flames allowed him to see better. Elated, he began to run. Ahead was the village and safety.
“Hey, you!”
He did not understand the words but the shout jerked him to a stop. In front was another group of British soldiers with an officer who had come running from the village area to probe the danger and had stopped, startled. They blocked his escape.
“Must be a looter! Or arsonist! Hey, you!”
“My God, watch out, sir, it’s a samurai an’ he’s armed!”
“Cover me, Sergeant! You! You there, samurai, what’re you doing? What’s that you’re carrying?”
In panic Takeda saw the officer unbuttoning his holster, start towards him, soldiers unslinging their rifles and all the time the sound of the holocaust, flames chasing weird shadows. He whirled and ran. At once they gave chase.
On the other side of No Man’s Land the godown blaze was totally out of control, soldiers impotently striving to organize a fire-fighting party to protect abutting dwellings and streets. The fire gave enough light to help Takeda dart through the dump, avoiding most obstacles, the knapsack banging against his back. His breath was coming in gulps. With a sudden gush of hope he saw safety in the empty alley beside the burning building ahead. He raced for it, easily outstripping the soldiers behind him.
“Stop or I shoot!” The words were meaningless to him but not the hostility. Onwards in his headlong dash, no need for evading action now, any moment safe. He had forgotten the light that helped him, aided them, etching him clearly against the flames.
“Stop him, Sergeant! Wound him, don’t kill him!”
“Right, sir … Wait, God Almighty, it’s … isn’t he the bugger Sir William’s after, Nakama, that bloody assassin!”
“Damn my eyes, you’re right, that’s him. Quick, Sergeant, cut him down, wound him!”
The Sergeant aimed. His target was escaping down the alley. He squeezed the trigger. “Got him,” he shouted gleefully, and charged. “Come on, lads!”
The bullet sent Takeda sprawling. It had smashed through the knapsack into his upper back, piercing a lung, to come out from his chest cleanly, not a fatal wound if a man was lucky. But Takeda knew none of that, only that he felt destroyed and he lay in the dirt, howling with shock but without pain, one arm useless and dangling, the roar of the nearby fire drowning his cries. Terror dragged him to his knees, the heat from approaching fire ghastly, safety only a few paces ahead down the alley. He crawled forward. Then through his tears he heard the shouts of soldiers close behind him. No escape!
His reflexes took command. Using his good hand as a prop, he was driven to his
feet and with a mighty shriek, he hurled himself into the flames. The leading young soldier skidded to a stop, scrambled back to safety, hands held up against the inferno, the structure due to fall any moment.
“Sod it!” the soldier said, and glared at the flames that sizzled, consuming his prey, the stench of burning flesh making him gag. “Another second an’ I’da had the bugger, sir, it were him all right, the bugger wot Sir William …”
That was the last thing the youth ever said. Katsumata’s bombs in the knapsack detonated violently, a piece of metal tore out the soldier’s throat, strewing the officer and other men like ninepins, breaking a few limbs. As if in echo, an oil drum exploded as violently, then another and another with cataclysmic effect. Plumes of flames and embers shot into the air to be seized and used ruthlessly by the gathering force of the wind, now self-generating in ferocity because of its heat.
The first of the village houses began to burn.
The shoya, his family and all villagers, already masked against smoke and prepared within moments of the first alarm, continued to work with well rehearsed but stoic speed to pack away valuables into the small, fire-proofed brick shelters that were in every garden.
Roofs all along the main street began to burn.
Less than an hour since the first bomb exploded, the Three Carp was no more, and most of the Yoshiwara burnt out. Only brick chimney stacks, stone house-supports, and brick, stone and earth fireproof shelters stood in heaps of ash and glowing embers. The odd cup or saké flask, most refired now, the glaze spoiled. Metal kitchen utensils. Gardens ruined, shrubs scorched, groups of dazed inhabitants huddled around. Miraculously the fires had missed two or three Inns but around them was stark emptiness, ash and embers, up to the charred encircling fence and the moat beyond.
On the other side of the moat was the village. It was blazing. Beyond the village, in the Settlement proper the roofs of three houses near Drunk Town were already alight. One of these was the Guardian, where Jamie McFay had his new office.
Nettlesmith and their clerks were hauling buckets for Jamie atop the ladder who used them to douse the roof flames, the next house well afire. Other men, Chinese servants, and Maureen bravely darted in and out of the front door, carrying armfuls of papers, printing dies, and whatever was most important. Burning wooden roof tiles cascaded around them. Billowing smoke from Drunk Town, causing them to cough and heave, hampered them. Above, Jamie was losing the battle. A gust shoved flames at him. He almost fell off the ladder, then shinnied down, defeated. “It’s hopeless,” he panted, his face black-smudged, hair singed.
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