by Kin Law
The brown robes parted way, to reveal a man black of hair and eye, with no other resemblance to Hikawa. Where Hikawa was tall, and dressed in the finest Okinawa fabrics, this man was short, slender, and patchwork in various severe styles. Hikawa had seen such a nabe, or hotpot, of clothing before: an airman.
Casually, this new arrival took a most offensive squat directly before Hikawa. To the samurai’s eye, the airman’s chin was now resting on top of his genitals. This rude person cocked his head slightly, proceeding to bark a series of harsh syllables. He seemed to be repeating something, then switching to another staccato of sounds, equally expectantly. Finally the airman emitted something Hikawa could understand.
“Hello? Hello? Nitwit, you best say something useful soon, else the good whores will all be bought up.”
“Pardon?” Hikawa answered, in the same tongue. This was Cantonese, the language of the Imperial Canton not far to the southwest of Ryukyu. Hikawa knew the dialect roughly, from the traders in Okinawa who brought in dried shitake and hairy grass. Ryukyu islanders still retained much of the Middle Kingdom heritage, down to the lion statues guarding their homes.
“He speaks!” The airman ejaculated a string of harsh profanities. Such was not uncommon to the dialect, and Hikawa let it pass unmolested. “It was tough going for a moment there. I had a hard time guessing where your hometown was.” He placed a certain emphasis on the word, to mean ‘origins.’
“This is your mother tongue,” Hikawa guessed, to an emphatic nod.
“At first I thought Japanese, from your sword, but the peasant rags reminded me of the Balinese, for a bit,” the airman rolled on.
“I don’t speak Japanese. Good, good. Those baldies over there, they’re only giving me a chit for the job, so you better hurry up and tell me what you want. They can’t tell the difference between two Orientals, anyway.”
“These are monks?” Hikawa ejaculated, for ‘baldy’ was slang for the Buddhist monkhood in Cantonese. Hikawa had assumed all the proper spiritual personages were ensconced in the monastery, meditating, and the scurrying kappa were merely civilian servants forced to endure some cleansing ritual. To think such undignified…
“Sure. They do things differently in Italy, but the noodles aren’t bad,” the airman continued. “The name is Wang, by the way. Wang Shi-Fong, or Peter Wang. On purpose, not unfortunate.”
Hikawa did not know how this was meant, but he introduced himself politely anyway.
“A proper samurai! I’ve never been to Ryukyu myself, but I hear it’s very… assorted.” Wang trailed off a bit. “Anyway, what’s your business at the Abbey?”
“Is it not obvious? I come to challenge the Templar Esteban Dio-sama to honorable battle. It is to be a real-sword challenge.”
Hikawa reeled, for as the words left his mouth Wang threw back his head in a huge guffaw.
“Boss, you crack me up!” Wang said, shocking the kappa behind him by nearly losing his squat and falling over.
“Wang-dono, you risk your neck,” Hikawa warned him, hand hovering quite close to his sword.
“Best not,” Wang warned amiably.
His eyes moved pointedly in their sockets, and Hikawa followed their indication to the fire-spear at Wang’s hip, pointedly but stealthily aimed into Hikawa’s chin. Hikawa was good, but no blade ever beat a bullet.
“Do not take life so seriously!” Wang said, sheathing his weapon so it was hidden once more. The kappas had taken no notice of the sudden tension, and were actually milling about impatiently. “The western devils do not understand your customs, friend! Hell, I doubt many Chinese would either. You have knelt for nothing, and your accent is horrendous. I will translate- a moment, please.”
Peter Wang went off to chatter busily at the monks, who seemed taken aback at the proposal. Still, Wang had performed his function, and after a moment’s fumble with a purse, Wang was taking leave of the kappa, heading out of the Abbey’s little court. He stopped to wave back at Hikawa.
“Boss, take care now! Don’t let the old man cut you with his chair!” Wang called back enigmatically.
Hikawa was about to respond, but the kappa held out hands to help him up. Assuming they were to lead him to Dio, the samurai stood by himself, stretching out the kinks in his legs as he did. One of the kappa offered him a skin of water, which he accepted, and then they were on their way into the red walls of the Abbey. Hikawa supposed it would be improper to ask for green tea, or his childhood favorite, pineapple juice.
“This is a beautiful place,” Hikawa remarked, though of course the monks did not understand. Nor could Hikawa’s meager skill at poetry do justice to the stands of violently green stone pine, olive, and fig stalwartly surviving the soot of a modern Rome, or the severe, majestic architecture surrounding him.
He did not expect to be led to the Coliseum he had seen arriving to the city, but perhaps one of the many beautifully sculpted courts or an inner sanctum. They would be appropriate places to die, should it be his fate. Duly, Hikawa was surprised when they arrived at a nondescript square mass of brick, its duty as a building only indicated by the presence of a door and some slits for windows.
There was no time for puzzlement, for the monks bid Hikawa enter.
Inside, the walls were plainly whitewashed and barely furnished, befitting a monastic existence. A single ornament of some gilded wood crowned a lobby about four tatami large, something like the kanji for ten. The ornament was everywhere in the Abbey, if he thought on it. Hikawa looked about, bemused; he had heard the Templar preferred a simple, ascetic life, but such extremes hardly befit a man of Esteban Dio’s reputation.
Where were the holy land relics, the spoils from the routs at home? At the least, some tarnished mail or chipped sword should stand monument.
As they entered deeper into the enigmatic building, further mysteries seemed to arise. The few rooms they passed were shut, but one some ways ahead revealed a motionless lump nestled in an iron frame bed. At last, the kappa halted before a door no different from any other, and bid Hikawa enter.
“Dio…” Hikawa was unsure of the honorific he should use. Surely this was an honored individual, but the man was Spanish, in an Italian monastery, about to be addressed by a man as barely Nipponese as could be found. Besides, depending on the outcome, the two about to meet might be the death of one another. He decided to skip the honorifics, and simply entered.
He was unsurprised by the furnishings- they were like the rest of the building. There was no trace of Dio’s illustrious career, merely the iron frame bed, an undecorated tea service, and a thick western-style book lying on an unvarnished bed stand. A window looked out onto a patch of green garden hung with grapes, disappointingly cut off by a solid brick wall. In the distance, the sound of some ratcheting machinery could be heard, and Hikawa half expected a buzzing horror to come steaming through, looking for a shortcut on its improbable wheels.
The wheelchair threw him, of course. So did Esteban Dio’s missing legs.
It was a week later before another airman could be diverted. Partly, the trouble arose because of the monks’ abject refusal to leave the Abbey, and thus abandon their monastic life. Messengers had to be found. From what Hikawa gathered, there seemed a general distaste for the airmen lifestyle, as well. The monks tended to stay away from the ports and towers as much as possible.
This time, it was a Japanese freighter captain, who had some sympathies for a fellow countryman. Hikawa was glad to discover Tanaka Umihiko to be not only well traveled, but familiar with Esteban Dio as well.
“I am saddened to hear the news. The Abbot Francesco informs me the accident occurred a year ago, as Dio-dono was working at the bottling plant,” Tanaka informed Hikawa in the Abbey garden.
After contributing the remains of his traveling funds with some hurried gestures, Hikawa had been allowed to stay in the Abbey, a few doors down from Dio’s room. The monks might be removed from society, but Hikawa’s lordly manner and bold, blatant squatting was universally u
nderstood. He tried not to think what might happen once the pull of his purse and the kappas’ patience ran out.
“Dio is a member of an illustrious order of knights Templar! What was he doing working?” The concept was as alien to the country daimyo as… well, as the rest of Italy.
“The Knights Templar have fallen. After the failed resurgence of the Inquisition, the primarily atheist elite have retaliated against centuries of persecution in Spain. Did you not think it strange Esteban Dio-sama was to be found outside his home country not on some assignment or assassination?”
“So this is the European Steam Age,” Hikawa could only say. The normally spacious Abbey suddenly felt close and confined around them.
“I know not where the other Templar have gone, but Dio-sama was forced to seek sanctuary here. Even in Italy, with the Vatican so close, a Templar would not be spared lest a new Inquisition be mustered. Our dirigibles and telegraphs carry information quickly.” Tanaka tensed, but he did not draw attention to himself.
“I doubt the bottling plant explosion was an accident- Dio-sama is fortunate to have escaped with his life. The Templar still had connections to this Abbey, which maintains the finest hospice in all of Rome. I suggest you leave him to his old age.”
“Thank you, Tanaka-dono.” Having little else to give, Hikawa gave the last of his finery to Tanaka, who would at least know their value. The monks readily parted with their ubiquitous brown robes, at least.
“Thank you. I would offer you passage out of Italy, but I know you will not take it. There is a look to you only someone who lives by the sword can understand, I think. But I warn you, the airmen are in an uproar- it seems the cataclysm of London and Paris is coming south. Best fly back to Nippon when you can.”
Hikawa ushered his countryman out of the Abbey, knowing the second he disappeared under the arch, Hikawa would be faced with a choice. He could not go back- his cousin, at the least, would never accept his return from exile. The prospect of eking out a living in the factories and plants did not appeal- what skill did Hikawa have in manual labor? Such things were peasant tasks, unfit for one such as he. Beside his sword, Hikawa had little else.
As to the mysterious cataclysm, Hikawa had heard of no such thing. He could only assume it were some kind of natural disaster, preventing airship travel, like a storm. It was a fine thing- Hikawa had no fondness for vomiting.
The lonely samurai sat before the church of the Virgin, in the Northeast of the Abbey under the shadow of a canvas factory.
He was learning a little Italian from one of the kappa, enough to mark the places he wished to go.
The smell of dirigible chemicals blocked out the incense of the church, but there was a fine basil garden outside of it, with a bush of hops directly beside. The kappa were quite adept at cooking and brewing, once Hikawa got hungry enough to taste the fruits of their labors.
His sword- yes, Hikawa still had his sword. He took it out of its sheath, admiring the heft, and the weight. The hamon, or wave in the blade, reminded him of the high cliffs of Okinawa. The wazikashi was inset with jade and pearl, and its guard was a shisa, guardian lion of Ryukyu, which made a male-female pair with the short tanto at his side. It was priceless- a Takatora original, a century old, and a family heirloom. Here, he doubted it would fetch him more than a week’s keep in linguini.
“I am samurai,” Hikawa reminded himself. “I believe in the perfect cut. I came to honor the old ways, and to challenge a worthy opponent.”
Esteban Dio had been a legend, even in the backwaters of Ryukyu. Dirigible traffic had been bringing news of the legendary swordsman’s routs since Hikawa was a boy. For a young lordling in the tropical islands, the conflicts of the faithful were gibberish; what he saw in the scraps of periodicals and propaganda leaflets was a quest. It was the gods versus the devils, of Momotaro ousting the oni, of Izanagi escaping the wights of the underworld, of good versus evil. Above all the Nippon in him answered the flash of the sword, the fleeting romance of the sakura tree and the eventuality of his becoming samurai.
As he became older, such fanciful visions of the warrior class faded to obscurity. The steam age samurai was a civil servant more than a warrior- what battles there were to be fought were matters of delegation.
He had pikemen and cavalry and lesser samurai to keep the peace, and in Ryukyu, there were fewer chances to use them than anywhere else in the country. Occasionally he would turn away countrymen who urged the nation to westernize, but the radicals had been dismissed as unpatriotic fools decades earlier, and were easy to shame in the face of a wealthy, advanced Nippon. More often there were the veiled enemies turning Hikawa’s sword in the tearooms and geisha parlors, shadowed alliances made, matters of importance conducted in secret. Who was Momotaro, or Izanagi? Who were the oni? It was very difficult to tell.
Hikawa was tired of it, so very tired of it. If he could choose, he wouldn’t choose to go back.
Slowly, the early spring sun sank like a gigantic slab of pizza beneath the high, cabled cliffs of factories, and the plaster of Roman frescoes in the west of the Abbey. With the darkness, Hikawa had his decision, as well.
He had never gotten used to keeping his geta on indoors, and his feet clicked unpleasantly on the tile. In the yet warm interior of the rectory, darkness was a welcome messenger of the cool night to come. Hikawa clicked down the hallway, arriving at Esteban Dio’s chamber just as the last rays faded and candlelight was required.
He knocked, gently, and when there was no answer he entered the chamber, where Dio’s soft snoring was the only sound to be heard.
Dio had fallen asleep in his chair, blanket thrown over his lower body. From the door, by Hikawa’s weak candle, Dio simply looked like an old man, grizzled and white. Not even the scar through his eye lightened the air of world-weariness settled round his shoulders.
Hikawa sat down on the only other seat, and when Dio awoke, spoke in halting Italian, the words seized from a kappa during Tanaka’s brief stay.
“Tell…me… of your… battle,” Hikawa said haltingly. It was enough to convey the message.
There was yet a twinkle in the old man’s eye, and perhaps in the entire Abbey, those two in the room were the only people capable of understanding it. It was a look legible only to those who lived by the sword.
When the cataclysm arrived, Hikawa and Dio were right in the thick of it. As was their custom, the pair were visiting the Vatican, playing chess in Saint Peter’s Square. The steamworking of Rome soared, seeming to belittle the Basilica and squash the palazzos beneath, but it was still a lovely place to spend a brisk afternoon. Dio was winning.
“I should like to think I was well enough known to require airborne pursuit,” Dio remarked as he slipped his knight in for check. Above them, the dark, unnatural cloud was rolling in over the famous clearing. All about them, people were hurtling past in a correct instinct, to get away from the gleaming white target of the Vatican’s columns and rounded roofs. Souvenirs lay abandoned. Coffee cups were tossed to the ground. Photogram machines stood abandoned on their tripods, weeping memories.
Once, when Hikawa had first brought Esteban Dio to Vatican City, they had had a conversation about the irreverence of it all. Hikawa’s Italian had progressed, but didn’t stack up to even Dio’s mediocre mastery; they settled on a mixture of Italian, French, and the great lingua franca, English.
Within the great, high walls all around the city within a city, the visitors who trooped daily through the ageless streets never seemed to understand the sacred majesty of those silent chapels and severe graveyards.
Even Hikawa, a man from the far Orient, understood the tranquil beauty of a place barred to steam engines or dirigible traffic by stoic Swiss Guard. It had boasted the same basilicas and palazzos for generations, impervious to Roman progress. There were many serious pilgrims, but for most part the place represented a sort of abstract authority rather than any true spiritualism. The odd duo had more than once observed knots of foreign visitors thrott
le the streets with the artifice of contrived awe.
“Does it bother you?” Hikawa asked.
“Should it? Their faith is not my faith. Besides, my God resides in the Kingdom of Heaven, not petty idolatry. Does it bother you?”
“My faith is in my sword. Should I wish to cut a thing perfectly, I believe it can be done.”
“As it once was mine. No cut is perfect. You may cut a head of lettuce a million times and only make a wonderful salad.”
“But it would not be a wasted million.”
It was a subject the two conversed about endlessly, and this day was no different. Dio and Hikawa sat at their chess, the board propped on a crate Hikawa had appropriated from a nearby café. Though a young, whole Esteban Dio might have leaped to his feet, gathering the assembled pilgrims in an orderly retreat, old Dio’s cumbersome chair and scattered effects made for an undignified exodus. Hikawa had little enough command of Italian. However, the two were still seasoned warriors, and they did not panic easily.
“Dio-sama, I do not think those dirigibles are after your illustrious person,” Hikawa said. “They bear the mark of the antipasto.”
“The flag, Hikawa, the Italian flag,” Dio corrected calmly. “Let us make a tactical retreat.”
By this time the square was mostly empty, leaving a rather sad obelisk in the center of the rosa dei venti. Not four tatami from the stone, a sudden dark patch was advancing steadily across the square- a shadow from some massive object hanging far over their heads. Slowly but surely, a gargantuan cloud was drifting across the sky, hounded by circling dirigibles.
“Cowards,” Dio mentioned casually.
In exchange for being allowed to stay on at the Abbey, Hikawa had taken on the duty of personal caregiver for the esteemed Esteban Dio. It seemed an odd arrangement, until Hikawa realized Esteban Dio esteemed nobody but Esteban Dio. Hikawa was accustomed to such extremes of self-confidence, having grown up with a father and uncles who were samurai.