It had begun long before she noticed, at too high a note to register. It modulated itself in a variety of fashions, arriving at an audible pitch by slow stages, and still experimenting, like a child with a tiny flute. Only in retrospect did the bikuni realize she had been hearing something for longer than she was aware.
The shrill, strange sound was such a curiosity that the nun began to seek it out. It echoed from the looming walls and confused her. As she strode about in idle fascination, it became evident that the whistling notes originated somewhere around the stagnant inlet off to the side of the river. There were numerous lurking-places around this pool, river flotsam and boulders strewn about. Yet she found nothing hiding. Her wary investigation led her to the conclusion that the sound rose from the tiny bay itself, as though the water sang.
During this minor quest, the note lowered more and more, though never ceasing to be shrill. It wavered more than it had, until syllables could be picked out. It was an inhuman voice, but still a voice, struggling to communicate. One syllable was “neh” and the next sounded something like “ryo” followed by a drawn out, awkward “yiu” and finally “meh” before starting anew. The bikuni had earlier been so intensely caught up in thoughts, and before that in the encounter with Lord Wada’s wives, that she had been rendered somewhat mind-weary or slow-witted. She had been much too overwhelmed by everything and for this reason took a while to see the obvious. She had interpreted “neh” as “grass” and “ryo” as meaning “dragon.” But “dragon’s grass” was utter nonsense.
But the wailing lament was actually a beckoning cry of “Nero-yu-me,” her own Buddhist name. When this dawned on her, she wondered if something were trying to beguile her by its peculiar whining, befuddling her thoughts. But she was beguiled by nothing other than her own musings. Curiosity continued to outweigh any fear of what might be found.
At length she saw the very point of origin for the cry. There were two tiny nostrils at the surface of the water. The possessor of those nostrils was incongruously large. “Neroyume,” it said more clearly, as though getting the feel of speech through its nose.
The face was that of a giant salamander, its wide, clamped mouth almost a smile. The creature was as long as a human body, but the limbs were minute. Fragments of broken ice floated about so that she could not quite see the whole body. She squatted and looked more closely, causing the salamander to cease its whistling cry and sink into the muck, away from view. A large bubble rose afterward, drifted the longest while, then popped.
The bikuni reached out and took an edge of broken ice, pulling a large sheet onto the bank. She saw the salamander’s dark gray skin, wrinkled and undulating along the sides. Neither she nor it moved for a long time. She remained squatting as near the water as was practical, holding up the front of her amigasa so that her vision was not shaded. Finally the salamander raised its head again, its nostrils barely breaking the surface. The water was stirred and cloudy, so that the creature was scarcely more than a shadow of gray within gray. Its tiny eyes blinked beneath the surface. It watched the bikuni warily—or shyly.
Its frilled sides rippled as it moved to one side, neither further from or nearer to the bikuni. Its almost human, miniature hands opened and closed on nothing. The long, thick body ended in a stubby tail, slightly coiled.
This creature was known in many places as “the boneless man” and was dreaded, but without reason. The bikuni knew it was not a monster. It was an ordinary though rare animal. In Kai, the province of waterfalls, where such creatures were more common than elsewhere, it was called samushii on account of its noise, which was sad and strange.
The reedy voice emitting from the nostrils was less and less difficult to understand, though it took concentration, as when listening to an especially odd country dialect. It said, “You are fearful to … the spirits of the gorge.”
“Am I?” she said.
“As I am an ordinary beast and unaffected … they have elected me … to say to you, ‘Your sword … disturbs us with its holy emanations. We don’t mind … its being haunted by its maker the smith; but the blessing of the Mikado … which it bears … is more painful than … sunlight in our eyes.’ I hope,” the salamander added, “that you are not offended. For myself … I am not bothered by your weapon’s emanations.”
“I am not offended,” said the bikuni. “I will try not to disturb the spirits of this gorge, since you ask politely. But popular authority would say those spirits are evil.”
The salamander, mastering its long unpracticed speech a bit better, said, “They do not mean to suggest … that their intentions tend always to be good ones. But repulsive creatures, too, prefer a modicum of peace. They will be relieved by your agreement. In exchange for your good favor … I am asked to make a prognostication … in your behalf.”
“I did not know,” said the bikuni, “that the samushii could tell fortunes.”
“I am special among my kind,” said the samushii in its painfully high voice. “Perhaps it comes from living … among spirits.”
“If those spirits are harmful, as they readily admit, perhaps this renders your prognostications dangerous.”
“If I may say so,” said the salamander, “I have never caused the least harm … to anyone. I cannot state so boldly whether my vision has ever … helped; for everything I see, I see through water. It is small recompense to you, therefore, that I make an observation … in exchange for your sword remaining sheathed while in the gorge. The spirits merely want to avoid … a debt.”
“Then foretell what you can,” said the bikuni.
“My prognostications … are not exactly fortunes. They are things others cannot see about themselves. In you, I see this: You have hurtful karma attached to your person … brought from previous lives. For this reason you … have always been unlucky or at least reluctant in love.”
“Love prophecies are the cheapest kind,” said the bikuni, amused by the fortune-telling amphibian’s common approach.
“The aura you project … is dangerous even … for lovers who come too close.”
The bikuni stood abruptly. She said, “Perhaps I don’t require you to tell me more.” Though her tone was not angry, it was strict.
“My … apology,” said the salamander, beginning to squirm backward in the pond.
“Wait!” said the bikuni. She sounded undecided. She said, “I have indeed been the death of at least one pair of lovers. The fate you would have me think is mine is subtle and horrific. Is there any way around it?”
The whole length of the salamander floated near the surface. The speaking nostrils reappeared. The salamander resembled, all in view, a corpse in an advanced state of decay, slimy patches of white scum exuding from the gray. It said, “You may break the chain of events when you become … lucky in love. It may happen in this life … or another; a salamander cannot know. Until then, you are the dew of Kwannon’s mercy. You extinguish earthly passion. More than this … I do not know.”
The huge, slow, primordial creature began to swim away. With heavy step, the bikuni started back to Kanno.
A big man, powerful, competent and implacable, driven or condemned by bitter ambition ironically harmonized with despair and resignation, Ittosai Kumasaku dug another shallow grave into which a fragment of his soul lay down. He set the wooden shovel to one side and wiped his forehead. His arm, injured by Heinosuke, was tightly bound and caused no pain. The atmosphere was chill, but his labors kept him heated. Near his three horses was a pile of frozen corpses. He approached the pile and took up a twisted body at random, dragged it across dirty snow, and shoved it into the fresh-made hole. Then he stood above the grave, gazing at the corpse of an old woman. He’d found her that morning beneath snow, behind a house near the village edge. He recognized her as the hag who had come day after day to pray before the grave of a son or nephew or some such; he couldn’t remember what she’d said their relationship was, but he remembered telling her which grave held the chubby vassal. She put that slopp
y marker up with the name of Chojiro written so badly that it looked like Tubudu or something equally absurd.
Ittosai had been burying the dead in Kuro’s graveyard for months, and had become hardened to it. He felt less shame than in the beginning, and no pity. Yet the stiffened hag struck him as especially forlorn, lying in that hole. He climbed down with her, lifted her out, and hauled her toward the grave she had often prayed before. A rustic lantern had recently appeared on that grave, and Ittosai propped the old woman against it. Taking up his pick, and then his shovel, Ittosai began to dig a grave behind the one covering the old woman’s last relative.
There was no sense of compassion in his conscious mind. He did not attempt to resolve the wherefores of his act. He felt only that he had to dig other graves in any case, and might as well place the hag near a relative as not. His chiseled expression never revealed the least emotion.
It was hard work, since the upper level of the ground was frozen and a lower layer consisted of thick clay, which came loose in heavy chunks. He rested often, not from weariness so much as disinterest, and for having nothing better to do except go hunt up additional bodies once this batch was interred. Villagers shunned him, naturally enough, though now and then one or another would point him in the direction of some hidden body. His task was easier in cold weather, despite hardened ground, for his discoveries never smelled, even if days had passed since death had occurred.
One of his three horses, the oldest and lately the boniest, blew and stamped with dissatisfaction. Ittosai set down his digging implements and wandered off into the woods a moment. There was a shed, hastily constructed a few months before, and filled with fodder. He went inside and grabbed a large but extremely light bag. The mildewed bag was made of straw and that straw was more edible than the bag’s contents of dry leaves from early autumn. He took this bag to where his three horses stood unhobbled, and he burst it open. The oldest mare received the rice-straw container, for it was as close as she would get to good feed, and she needed strength.
Ittosai had no dealings with the villagers, who were short of feed for their own animals, and who he was too proud to approach. It would be intolerable if they treated him as an outcaste and not a samurai; he would feel obliged to kill them, though it was not his duty. He also, alas, had no access to supplies from Sato Castle, though a fraction of the feed kept there would be a boon.
Although he had planned ahead—building the shed for tools and fodder and storing additional fodder in the stable of one of the abandoned samurai homesteads on which he squatted—it was poor food in all, and his animals suffered. His own meals were dreary as well, but that mattered less to him. Soon, he supposed he must give up pride, if only for a while. He would be menacing and severe to avoid being insulted, and pry supplies from villagers. They would despise him without letting it show, but he would at least pay them for the feed, using the antique coins received from Priest Kuro for Ittosai’s retainership.
As his horses ate, Ittosai sat with them. He always had his gold with him, trusting no hiding place. He removed it from his kimono and shook the bag. As he gazed at it, the first hint of emotion played across his features. The look was one of contempt, not avarice. Whether his contempt was for the gold, or himself for keeping it, was hard to judge.
The coins were minted in the continental Celestial Kingdoms, for the Dragonfly Isles of Naipon had not made its own coins before a century ago, until which time the country depended on imported coins or unminted metals. The old coins had become rare in the last decade, trade in the first place being usually in goods or rice, and native coins usurping those from the Celestial Kingdoms of Ho. Ittosai wondered at Kuro’s hoard, but didn’t wonder much; curiosity conflicted with his duty.
Much as he despised the truth of the matter, gold alone created opportunities for position, and a good arm merely held what gold obtained. Ittosai hoped there was going to be enough of himself left to seek advancement someday. By the time he had accumulated funds sufficient to offer “gifts” to influential men, and served out his unpleasant retainership to Kuro, perhaps the bitter ambition would be bitterness alone.
Tucking the gold back in his clothing, Ittosai stood from his rest, patting his mares, whispering to them, and apologizing for the meagerness of their meal. The bony mare shook all over, as though crawling with flies, but there were none. She had gotten senile, though as Ittosai counted the years, they were not sufficient to account for the beast’s rapid decline. Life had been too hard on all of them, including himself.
When he started toward his task once more, Ittosai saw, in a deep shadow of the surrounding forest, an amorphous shape about eight feet tall and quite wide. In his stomach, Ittosai was startled, but revealed no sign of it.
The shadow appeared to shrink. The vision had been an illusion, a play of light or something. For the only thing to step out of the forest was a diminutive monk. Joining Ittosai, the stranger introduced himself. “I am Kasha, a propogator of the Kwannon Sutra.” His ugly face produced an amicable grin. He said, “I see you collect dead bodies. A good trade! I approve.”
Ittosai’s face became flushed with anger. He suppressed it at once. He was a giant against the monk’s height and could have bashed him into a tree without effort. Ittosai Kumasaku continued his endless struggle to keep hostility from seeping out, or any other feeling. Even in the face of such an outstanding insult, he would not be baited.
“What do you seek, bonze,” his deep voice boomed.
“My old friend Kuro,” he said matter-of-factly. “You smell like him.”
To Ittosai, this seemed another insult. “Do not anger me, bonze. I may take exception.”
“You think I’m poking fun? Not at all! You happen to smell like my old friend.” Monk Kasha tapped his nose twice, then sniffed. “I happen to know the odor of my friends. Surely you have seen him lately?”
“I am his one retainer. You can get no other information from me.” Ittosai picked up his shovel and began to cover a corpse already in a hole. Dirt and clay struck a horrific visage, then hid the arms. Monk Kasha looked on with genuine interest.
“That horse,” said Kasha, “is sick.”
“I know it,” said Ittosai, not looking up from his task. “It’s not your business.”
“You should kill it,” said Kasha.
“It’s not your business.”
“She would make a fine corpse.”
Ittosai dropped the shovel. His hand reached toward his sword. Emotions battled inside, and he didn’t quite touch the hilt. “You would make a better one,” he said, taking up the shovel anew.
“You think so?” asked Kasha, as though he had never considered it. “Well, maybe so. It would be interesting to find out. I’m very old, you know.”
“You don’t look old,” said Ittosai, breathing deeply, striving to master himself, to shake off feelings of hatred for the little monk. His feelings were not entirely explained by the monk’s flippant remarks; and the awakening turmoil caused Ittosai a sense of mild alarm.
“Older than you think,” insisted Kasha. “Older than your master Kuro. Older than these trees. Old.”
“The trees are older,” said Ittosai, having no idea why he even bothered to argue. He said, “You’re addled.”
“Maybe so. But you’re in danger. You’d make a nice corpse, it’s true, but I thought I should warn you, if only because I empathize with your job.”
“How am I in danger?” asked Ittosai, his tone conveying no genuine interest, his shovel slow at its work.
“Yuki-onna lurks near,” the monk said. “She is furious that you hurt someone who was admired by her friend.”
Ittosai shoved more dirt onto the pile and patted it with the flat of the shovel. He turned and looked down on the little man. Kasha backed away from Ittosai’s expression, leery if not afraid.
“Don’t believe me, then,” said Kasha. “Do as you please about it. But Yuki-onna is near.” He tapped his nose. “I smell her, too.”
; “How have I hurt Yuki-onna’s friend?”
“A friend of Yuki-onna’s friend,” Kasha corrected, touching his chin pensively. “It’s hard to quite explain. Did you blind a young man last night or this morning? I can’t be sure you did it; I’m not all-seeing. It seems to be part of why she’s angry with you.”
“Thank you for your warning,” said Ittosai, registering neither belief nor disbelief, but only weariness with monk Kasha’s uninvited presence. His disdain began to pass, and the monk ceased to matter to Ittosai Kumasaku, as so many things in life had ceased to matter.
“I’ll be off,” said Kasha. “Following the scent, so to speak. Goodbye. Take my advice about that horse. Cruel to let her suffer.”
When the homely monk with his teasing attitude had gone, Ittosai’s vexation warmed within, a hidden ember waiting to be fanned into destructive conflagration. He went across the tamped, dirty snow and stood among the horses, the last of the only friends he had ever believed in. His deep voice was gentle as he talked to them, the monolog largely meaningless. He stroked their flanks and the sides of their faces while they snuffled and blew and returned his affection. “Wait here, my girls,” he said, and took the reins of the oldest mare to lead her into the woods, beyond the shed, to an area where the snow was not yet marred.
Sunlight found passage through evergreens, lighting the place. The bony horse moved slowly, her every joint stiff and pained. Ittosai dropped the reins and wrapped his left arm under the old mare’s head and playfully held one of her ears. She relaxed her chin upon his shoulder. “You’re my girl,” he whispered, drawing his shortsword. “You’re my beauty.” Where the mare could not see, he touched the point of steel to her chest, but there did not seem to be enough strength in his arm to break the skin.
Thousand Shrine Warrior Page 26