The Devouring God

by James Kendley

  Takuda at first didn’t intend to answer, but it wasn’t Mori’s fault that he was in the dark. Takuda himself couldn’t have explained how he knew what he knew. “Counselor Endo is unarmed. He doesn’t need weapons.” He felt Mori’s incredulous, challenging stare, but he didn’t take his eyes off the black windows of the sedan in front of them.

  Mori hissed: “The priest can’t do anything now. He’s helpless in there. We have to hold Endo and Ogawa back. We have to give him more time.”

  Takuda said, “He’ll have exactly the time he has, no more, no less. Let’s hear what Counselor Endo has to say for himself.”

  The left rear passenger door opened, the far side from the loading dock. Endo’s head rose above the car’s roof as he stepped out onto the pavement. “Mere steel cannot shield me from your disappointment at my arrival, I know, but I hope putting a little distance between us may help you temper your reactions.” He raised his empty hands as he strolled around the car toward Takuda and Mori. “A little time to think, a little time for dispassionate discourse.”

  “We’ve had lots of time to think,” Mori said. “Be careful. Another step means war.”

  Endo grinned. He was dressed for the warehouse district, but not for a Fukuoka summer: a black turtleneck sweater with a short, squarish black leather coat and cheap, boxy shoes. It was insane to wear such an outfit in southern Japan at any time of year, but in August, it was suicidal.

  “Are you masquerading as KGB or Stasi, with those Eastern Bloc shoes?” Mori’s tone was harsh and challenging. “You’ll pass out from heatstroke in ten minutes.”

  “I won’t pass out,” Endo said, “and I doubt I’ll even be here ten minutes.”

  “He won’t pass out,” Takuda said. “You need a pulse to get heatstroke.”

  Endo laughed aloud. Mori stared at each of them in turn.

  “Please,” Takuda said, “empty the car. Let’s see who you’ve brought today.”

  Endo bowed. “I regret that I cannot comply. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  Mori started forward, but Takuda checked him with a raised hand. “If you want surprises, keep approaching without telling us what you want,” Takuda told Endo.

  “What I want is simple.” Endo beamed. “I want harmony and wholeness. I want a shining accord between us and a new understanding of how we may cooperate to deliver our entire nation from ignorance, oppression, and mortal danger.”

  “You want the stone knife.”

  Endo bowed. “At your earliest opportunity, please.”

  Takuda said, “Now that you’re getting it back, will you tell us where it came from?”

  Endo spread his hands and widened his eyes as if mystified and amazed. “Who could say where such a thing came from? Across frozen seas of endless time or something like that, I would imagine. From the markings, I assume it’s older than human language and perhaps the progenitor of bone script, but since you are said to bear the same markings on your ample and well-­muscled frame, could the same be said of you? Really, since you and the artifact share a common language, I should be asking you these questions.” He leaned forward, eager for new knowledge. “What is it? Where is it from? Are your shared markings the equivalent of an origin label? Not Made in Japan?” He laughed, pleased with himself.

  “Not Made in Japan,” Takuda said. “That’s very clever. So how did it come here?”

  Endo tried on a serious frown. “Shall I tell you an illustrative story?”

  “Will this illustrative story tell me how the Kurodama came here?” Takuda asked.

  Endo raised an eyebrow, which was no kind of answer. “Pacific islanders used to expand habitable territory by releasing piglets on snake-­infested islands. When the rains came, the snakes were forced out of their hiding places, and the piglets gobbled them up. When the settlers returned, the pigs were fat, and new islands were ready for habitation.” Endo smiled as if pleased with the explanation.

  “So the Kurodama was sent to help clear land for conquest, but it got out of control. Somehow your predecessors managed to contain it to an island in the bay,” Takuda said, “until we were in place. You could test-­drive it a little once we were here to retrieve it.”

  Endo looked at his watch, perhaps only admiring it. “Think of the artifact’s recent excursions as a sort of performance review.” He looked up brightly. “I’m not allowed to say which of the functional components involved were being assessed.”

  “But this isn’t the first time it got loose,” Mori chimed in. “The cannibalism of the airman’s liver. The butchery of the Mongol invaders when their fleet was destroyed by the Divine Wind.”

  Endo made a dismissive gesture. “You underestimate the creative exploration of the Japanese ­people at play.” He rocked back on his heels. “Perhaps it’s just as well that you have remained ignorant. If you knew a fraction of what I know about the artifact, you would have dumped it into the South China Sea as soon as you got your hands on it—­which would have caused an entirely different set of problems.” He nodded as if to himself. “Best just hand it over.”

  Takuda said, “Is your sales force still losing its edge?”

  “I’m losing my patience. Let’s have it.” Endo started toward the landing dock.

  Mori buttonhooked behind Takuda as if to intercept Endo, but Takuda stopped him with an open palm. Mori tried to brush it way or move past it, but Takuda didn’t let him do it. With a fraction of his strength, it was like controlling a kitten.

  As Endo neared the concrete slab, Takuda said, “You shouldn’t just walk in there. I really don’t advise it.”

  “What, will the priest say sutras at me?” Endo leapt up onto the loading dock, more than a meter straight up. No normal man could manage that jump flat-­footed. Takuda and Mori stepped back.

  Endo grinned at them. “I hope your hungry priest is burning the right kind of incense.”

  “Your mockery and impiety don’t serve you here,” Takuda said.

  “They don’t serve me anywhere,” Endo retorted. “I serve them.” He indicated the warehouse door with a nod. “Step aside, and I’ll have a word with your priest.”

  On impulse, Takuda stepped aside. Mori’s mouth dropped open.

  Endo bowed graciously and reached for the vertical bar that served as the handle on the giant warehouse door. He hesitated with his fingers centimeters away from it and then drew back his hand in a knuckle-­popping fist. “Is your Reverend Suzuki alone in there?”

  Takuda grinned, trying to mimic the counselor’s frequent display of large, yellow teeth. He doubted the imitation was convincing. “Slide open the door and find out,” he said. He pulled the struggling Mori farther from the counselor and the door. He had never seen Endo hesitate, never seen him afraid. He didn’t know what Endo would do if he were truly frightened.

  Endo backed away from the door. He reached toward Takuda and Mori quickly, without turning his head, and laid a finger on Takuda’s wrist. “Please tell me what he’s doing in there,” he whispered.

  Takuda and Mori looked down at Endo’s finger on Takuda’s wrist, then they looked at each other. Mori raised his eyebrows to show that he didn’t understand the significance either. Takuda shrugged. “He’s eating it,” he told Endo.

  Endo turned his head by degrees. “You can’t mean that he is physically eating the artifact,” he said. “Not with his mouth.”

  “Exactly what I mean,” Takuda said. “He’s using an antique laundry-­pole sword to shave bits off it, and he’s swallowing those bits one by one. He was having a hard time of it, but he’s gone quiet.” Takuda reached for the door handle, careful to keep Mori at arm’s length from the counselor. “Allow me.”

  Endo shrank from the door as Takuda grasped the handle, ready to throw it open.

  The door flew open on its own, ripping the handle from Takuda’s grasp. It slammed into the st
anchion at the end of its track and hung shuddering and booming on its pulleys.

  Suzuki stepped pale and skeletal from the gloom. Both hands were still bandaged with strips of his priestly sash. The blood in the silk had gone brown. In his right hand hung the remains of the sword, less than half its original length, broken off clean, the remaining steel marred and hazed with deep scratches from shaving down the stone.

  “Reverend Suzuki, how nice to see you again,” Endo said. “I hope that blunt little blade isn’t meant for me.”

  Suzuki turned his sunken eyes toward his own hand as if just noticing the remains of the sword. It hit the concrete with a dull clunk as if contact with the curved jewel had somehow ruined its temper. It rolled to Mori’s feet, losing chips and flakes of lacquer from its hilt guard as it spun on the concrete. Mori picked it up, frowning deeply as he examined it.

  “Thank you, Reverend Suzuki. I hope you’ll release the artifact in your possession just as easily. I’ve brought someone to collect it from you.” Endo motioned toward the car, and the driver’s door popped open.

  It was Hiroyasu Ogawa. Takuda felt a sharp phantom twinge in his neck and a dull throbbing in his thigh, and he looked away. He had to.

  Ogawa scampered up the concrete steps past Endo. He held out a broomstick with a cloth satchel hanging from its end. Takuda opened his mouth to tell Ogawa that simply not touching the Kurodama wouldn’t protect him from its effects, but Endo motioned him to silence with a conspiratorial wink and a finger raised to his lips: shhh.

  It was so brazen and horrible that it actually worked. Takuda found himself on standby, waiting to see what would happen.

  Sweet Lord Buddha, am I experimenting with the Kurodama, too? But when he looked at Suzuki, he knew he didn’t have to worry about the Kurodama. He’s taken care of it. Somehow, he’s done it.

  It showed in Suzuki’s face. He was grim and gaunt, with no softness in his sunken, blazing eyes. Ogawa held the sack up to him like a child begging for treats. Suzuki towered over Ogawa. Then he smiled. Takuda thought at first Suzuki had something in his mouth, but those were his teeth, gray and metallic, like pencil lead. He looked quickly at Mori, Ogawa, and Endo in turn, but they looked at Suzuki expectantly, with no hint on their faces that he looked strange at all. He joined them, waiting to hear what Suzuki would say.

  “You’re awake now,” Suzuki said. “I was a bit worried about you the other night. How are you feeling?”

  Ogawa glanced at Endo for guidance.

  “The artifact if you please, Reverend Suzuki,” Endo said with a tolerant smile.

  “Ah,” Suzuki said. He reached into his robes and withdrew a grayish, ovoid lozenge of stone. He dropped it into the waiting bag. Ogawa peered into the satchel and made a dismissive farting sound with his lips. He dumped the stone lozenge onto the loading dock. The soft stone cracked in half when it hit the concrete. Takuda recognized it as the same stone he had carried in two pieces, the stone that had tried to steal his soul and his sanity, but it was dead now, dried out, lifeless.

  “Reverend Suzuki,” Endo said, his voice so smooth and pleasant that Takuda couldn’t mistake the effort, “this just won’t do. This isn’t the artifact that you and your friends stole from the Zenkoku Sales branch office. I really must insist that you give it back, or I’ll be forced to involve local law enforcement.”

  Suzuki smiled even more widely. It made Takuda’s skin crawl. “Counselor,” he said, “I’ve complied with your request.” He gestured at the shards at Ogawa’s feet. “That’s all that’s left. I ate the rest.”

  Endo’s smile did not waver. “You’re lying.”

  Suzuki shrugged, an oddly normal behavior from a man with steel teeth, Takuda thought.

  The counselor sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. If you won’t cooperate with me, perhaps you will have to answer to the head of your heretical sect.” He motioned Ogawa toward the car.

  Suzuki stood stiff and unsmiling as Ogawa scampered off. Takuda watched Suzuki for some clue as to what the Kurodama had done to him. Mori hefted the shortened sword, looking between Takuda and Suzuki as if awaiting instructions. The counselor studied his fingernails and did not seem entirely displeased with what he saw.

  Ogawa pulled a heavy man in robes from the backseat. The man’s hands were manacled to a heavy belt around his waist, and he wore a silken hood. Ogawa led the hooded figure to the loading dock, cajoling and cursing the whole way, all but dragging him up the concrete steps.

  Ogawa left the hooded man standing unsteadily in the center of the loading dock. Endo smirked and motioned for Ogawa to turn the hooded figure toward Suzuki. As Ogawa did so, Takuda noticed the figure’s priestly sash. It looked identical to Suzuki’s.

  “Priest,” Takuda said to Suzuki, “go back inside. We’ll deal with this.”

  Endo laughed aloud. “Please don’t send him away. I’ve been waiting for this.”

  The silken hood moved with the bound priest’s labored breath, in and out, in and out.

  “Here’s someone who can explain why you must return the artifact,” Endo said, and he motioned for Ogawa to remove the hood.

  The hood came off, revealing the livid face of an old man, elaborately gagged and blinking in the shade of the loading dock awning. His eyes adjusted after a few blinks, and then they locked on Suzuki. They narrowed to slits of rage and pain.

  As Ogawa began to remove the manacles, the counselor made a grandiose gesture that included Mori, Suzuki, and Takuda. “I believe you have met all these heretics at different stages of their careers. Heretics, I present to you Abbot Suzuki.”

  The younger Suzuki’s lips were pale, almost blue. They twitched upward in a tight little grimace that was almost a smile. He whispered, “Hello, Father.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Thursday Afternoon

  “Heretics. Blasphemers. Liars.” The abbot spat out the words like angry little nuggets as he looked at Mori, Takuda, and Ogawa in turn. His eyes lit on Suzuki. “Traitor,” he hissed.

  Suzuki stood very still, but Takuda saw something pulsing beneath the surface of the man himself. It was not vision as such. Takuda now saw as if with some primordial organ that predated the evolution of the eye, that or some sense wholly unrelated to his physical body. The pulsing he saw was a consuming fire raging inside Suzuki. It was the hunger. Suzuki’s hunger was a force in itself, like molten lava straining against the crust that held it in place.

  The force straining for release from the abbot was of a different sort altogether. It was a hideous spark of fear and resentment and misery that burned deep in the man’s heart. The abbot growled as Ogawa loosened his bonds. Takuda wanted to reach out and squeeze the spark out of the old man, just as he had wanted to shake the anger and the bitterness out of Mori over the last few days. There had been no hideous spark in Mori, though, no palpable substance to squeeze out of him. With the abbot, Takuda could feel it waiting to be squeezed, waiting to be snuffed out. Just looking at the old man made Takuda’s palms itch.

  Ogawa finally finished removing the old man’s manacles and belt. Without warning, the old man slapped his son across the face. It was a stinging, resounding slap, and even the counselor seemed abashed in the silence that followed.

  Ogawa giggled.

  Suzuki hadn’t flinched. He stood just as before.

  “I hate you,” the abbot said. “You are a disgrace, the greatest disappointment of my life.”

  “That’s surprising,” Suzuki said. His sunken cheek hadn’t even gone pink from the slap. If anything, it seemed more pallid than before. “You’ve had so many disappointments that I can’t imagine myself being the greatest. The failure of the temple, for example, and the extinction of our sect in its home valley. Surely those were harder blows.”

  “Those were your doing.”

  “Perhaps, but in the end, I believe your master drove us to ruin,” Suzuki s
aid, indicating the counselor with a courteous gesture. “And if all that was not enough, I would imagine that the disappearance of my mother was a greater disappointment than my existence could have been.”

  “Your mother! The horrible devil of a woman!” The abbot turned away from his son. “If she’s alive, imagine what a shark-­skinned old hag she must be! She looked so young for so long, never changing a hair, but I’ll bet all her sly, mischievous ways finally caught up to her. No, she was a liar and a thief, but you were a complete waste of my time. Fooling around just to make us all late, slacking off for the sake of slacking off, betraying for the sake of betrayal. You were a disgrace, an embarrassment.”

  Suzuki bowed without irony. “And yet you are the greatest traitor of all.”

  The abbot turned. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. My mother didn’t run off just to see the big city. She loved the order, and she loved her boys. But she sensed the evil in you, and she knew you would feed her to the river.” Suzuki’s eyes flashed with the dull fire very near the surface now. “You call me a traitor, but you are the greatest traitor I’ve ever even heard of. You only failed to deliver your wife to the Kappa of the Naga River because she was too quick for you, but you delivered your sect and your sons directly to enemies of the Lotus Sutra. The only way in which you failed to betray your family was in abandoning your youngest son. I kept the order alive long enough to kill the Kappa.”

  The abbot looked up at his son. His rage had cooled to something sweet and venomous. Takuda wanted to squeeze it out like toothpaste.

  “You know,” the abbot said, “our order is still going, safe and sound and secret. We still fight the fight you abandoned in your misspent youth.” He smiled. “Your brothers are all with me. Your brothers are worthy. You, I left behind. You aren’t good enough.” The abbot turned away again, leaving the silent priest looking down at him.

  Counselor Endo cleared his throat delicately.

  “Well, this family reunion isn’t as heartwarming as one could have hoped, but I think it might still serve its purpose. You see, the artifact must be returned to its proper place. The workings of a great mechanism depend on this single cog. It provides the livelihoods of many citizens in this great nation. Of course, no single man may stand in the way of that process.”