Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony

by Piers Anthony

  Wooden swords. Fat lot of good they would do against thugs armed with guns. And that must be a wooden sword Master Fuji was wearing too, not a real one. He was virtually unarmed. "Move aside, old man," Football snapped arrogantly, or something like that in Portuguese; his peremptory tone raised my hackles. I never did much like bullies, and these ones were worse than most.

  Master Fuji looked small and frail before these brutes, but he stood his ground, answering softly but firmly. He would not permit a search without a warrant, or whatever the formality was, and of course the Death Squad hadn't bothered with that. I appreciated his courage, but knew it was useless; they would simply shove him aside and proceed, quite possibly ransacking the premises and terrorizing the students while they were at it.

  Yet the students continued their ritual postures as though oblivious to the threat to their instructor. They surely knew he was in danger, or at least embarrassment; were they disciplined, or were they afraid? Some example for the field of martial arts! I flexed my muscles, planning combat strategy, but I knew it was hopeless. There were eight thugs, and all were armed; in one second those pistols would be in their hands and blasting away.

  Football spoke again, to his men, and they spread out to circle the Master. The old man spread his hands, shaking his head. "No!" he cried. "I forbid it!"

  Football's left hand thrust out, shoving the Master back. He staggered. Now the other thugs closed in for a bit of sport. They encircled him completely, vulpine smiles on their faces, reaching slowly for their guns. They wanted him to see what they were doing, to make him cry out and try to resist or get away. A frantic rabbit was always more sport than a passive one.

  Now, in the Orient it used to be a crime punishable by death for a visitor to draw a weapon in the host's house. Such an action was never taken lightly; to draw was to challenge to the death. An offender could be forced to commit seppuku, ritual suicide, even when he was in the right.

  This was Brazil, not the Orient, but a martial arts dojo is really an extension of the Orient. I knew the Master would have to act, or be shamed before his students, and therefore he would at the very least get beaten up, and perhaps die. I had to get out there and fight my own battle.

  Yet this thought and this resolve were only halfway through my brain, and my body had not yet responded, when the Master exploded into the most phenomenal action I have ever seen. It was so rapid and so devastating that at first I could not believe what I saw. Only later was I able to work it out, re-creating what had happened.

  Here, then, is that re-creation. The Master was ringed by the eight Death Squad thugs. Football was in front of him, the others stepping in from all sides as their hands went for their guns. Master Fuji drew his long sword from the scabbard—and lo! it was, after all, razor-sharp steel, not wood—with his left hand. He brought it up high to clear the scabbard, the hand reversed on the hilt-seemingly an impossible grip for combat. But then he brought it down and back, and stabbed the man directly behind him through the gut, piercing the liver.

  Then he drew the sword out, clapped the hilt into his right hand, angled it up past his own head and whipped the blade across the two thugs farthest to his right. The first, standing upright, was slashed deeply across the chest, so that the blood and muscle blossomed out. The second, leaning forward, had his throat slit. The katana, having a blade as well as a point, and being slightly curved so as to facilitate slicing, was well adapted to this motion.

  The thugs had not yet quite realized what had happened. Seeing is not the same as believing, not in the first instant. Not when a rabbit metamorphoses into a tiger. They were still reaching in leisurely fashion for their guns. Except for one man, the third from the Master's right, who had drawn and was just leveling his weapon. Master Fuji swung back, slicing open the skull of that man. The thug's brains slopped out from that terrible forehead gash, tumbling across his face as he fell.

  Again the Master reversed his stroke, gripping the sword in the classical two-handed Japanese way. With a kesagake movement he opened the abdomens of the two on his left. Their entrails spewed out like garbage from burst bags, and they too collapsed, dropping their guns.

  Only two remained standing at this stage. Both had their guns out, and both had now caught on to what was happening. But the sword reversed course again and severed Football's right arm, sending it flying through the air still holding the pistol. Amazed but not stupid, he turned to run, but collapsed as his blood pressure dropped, for his stump was spurting wildly. Unless he received prompt medical attention, he was likely to die from loss of blood, and such attention seemed unlikely.

  The last man managed to get off one shot. It missed Master Fuji, who took care of him with a terrible do-giri stroke that almost cut him in two at the level of the nipples.

  Then the Master returned his katana to its scabbard without looking; the guard on the handle made a faint click as it struck home. The whole action had taken five seconds.

  I stumbled out, unable to abort my attempt to participate though the action was over. I must have been gaping, for the Master faced me with a little smile. "Also Iado, 8th Dan," he said, completing his self-introduction.

  Oh. Iado was true sword fighting—steel, not wood—and 8th Dan would be one of the highest grades in the world. No doubt about that! It was the art of the quick draw, the swordsman's equivalent to the old western American cowboy gunslinger's draw. Since the action was brief, it did not require much stamina; even an old man could be devastating, as we had just seen.

  Master Fuji spoke to Oba, who was looking a bit faint. In response she took me by the hand and guided me through the classroom to a back hall, while the students came to clean up the mess. We would not be bothered any more by the Death Squad assassins!

  My mind numbed, I suffered myself to be led. Oba took me to a private room in back, and closed the door behind us. Then she turned and collapsed into my arms, sobbing.

  I held her, well appreciating her emotion. To see eight people so suddenly slaughtered—it horrified me too. I had looked upon the Master as a basically harmless retiree, a devotee of a martial art that never had had much impact...

  I became strongly aware of Oba's lithe body, trembling in my arms. I felt a pang of guilt for thinking of sexual qualities in this moment of relief and horror. Yet there is a relation between opposites, whether it be male and female, or shock and acceptance, or horror and love. My emotion had been roused, and so had hers, and that extremely negative outward impression yet was a mutual experience that drew us together. I don't know whether that makes sense; I'm not much of a philosopher.

  At any rate, I kissed her, and she kissed me back, fiercely. My hands slid down along her silken hair to cup her firm buttocks—and I drew back, unwilling to let her shock at the bloodshed set her up for a seduction. I am, at the root, an amorous man, but there are limits.

  She stood alone, a lovely nymph. How I wished I could talk with her!

  Oba suddenly remembered something, her mood changing in that mercurial way women have. She rummaged in her handbag and brought out a little wooden item, handing it to me with a smile.

  I accepted, turning it over in my hand. It was a carving of a human hand, the fingers closed, thumb sticking up between the first two like a fouled-up fist. "What is it?"

  "Figa," she said brightly.

  "Figure?"

  "Figa." And she strung it on a thin chain and hung it around my neck, a necklace.

  "I don't understand..."

  So she explained, by gestures, making a little play of it. There were several confusions, but gradually I came to understand. The Figa was a good-luck charm, an amulet against the evil eye. (Oba made the fiercest, cutest evil eye expression I ever saw.) It symbolized passion and fertility, warded off envy and jealousy, and kept evil spirits at bay. It must never be lost, for then all the bad luck it had warded off would come crashing down on the owner's head. It had to be bought and given as a present; anyone who bought his own Figa would find it value
less, just an inert object causing neither good nor harm.

  It was a cute figurine, and a cute notion by a cute girl. "Thank you, Oba," I said. And now my curiosity about her was aroused. Yet how could I question her, with this language barrier? Well, why not? Maybe she would comprehend a little. "Just who are you, Oba?" I inquired. "A working girl? Secretary? Won't you be missed from your job? Oh—or are you a seamstress? I saw the cloth in your room. No wonder you dress so nicely. Or do you have some connection with the voodoo, umbanda, or whatever?" Her black eyes glowed, and I thought she understood. And she began to dance.

  It was beautiful. She had the lithe, slender dancer's body, with muscular legs and perfect coordination, and she moved with such grace I was entranced. "So you are a professional dancer," I murmured. "I should have known."

  But she continued, and it was evident that she had more on her mind than showing off her form. Her gestures were stylized, repetitive, not like the voodoo dance, but like pantomime. That was it! She was telling a story!

  I watched, and gradually it came clear. Nuances of gesture and expression, and occasional spoken words, brought to life the story of the gods of voodoo.

  In the beginning there was chaos, a being without definition, incomprehensible to the mortal mind. He was composed of three spirits, one of whom created the heavens and the earth and all living things, including man in his own image. But the man was vain, so the god tried to destroy him. Yet the man was immortal, and survived though all the earth was blackened by the scourge of the god's lightning. Still, after that, he stayed out of sight.

  The gods—the three aspects of the One God—then had mercy on the earth, and re-created life on it. The aspect Olofi (Oba pronounced his name for me) was put in charge of this chore, while the others went away to continue creation elsewhere in the universe. Olofi, mindful of the bad example set by the first man, gave the second man eleven vital commandments: not to steal, kill (except for food and self-defense), eat human flesh, make war, covet, curse, ask too much, or fear death (but not to commit suicide); and to honor his father and mother, respect the god's laws, and teach these commandments to his children.

  Poetic license, I thought: how could the first man honor his father and mother? He had none, by definition. But I was struck by the similarity to the Ten Commandments that our Judeo/Christian/Mohammedan God had handed down to the people following Moses: Thou Shalt Not Kill, Thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me, and so on. Was there really much difference between voodoo and conventional religion?

  The dance/pantomime continued: the first man was Oxala. (The first man? I had supposed from Ester's discourse that Oxala was a god. Maybe the line between mortal and immortal was fuzzy, at least in the beginning.) Olofi gave him a wife named Oddsomething-or-other; it wasn't clear to my American/English-oriented mind. Anyway—and I swear I don't know exactly how she conveyed this information, unless I was picking up her mental projection, telepathy, or had it by intuitive osmosis—Oxala was represented as the original White Knight. I mean he was a tall, handsome white man, in a white cloak and white armor, on a strutting white horse. His wife Odd-etc. was a black woman, fair (if that is the appropriate word) and voluptuous with the huge breasts of maternity. The two mated—and wasn't that a spectacle, in this lone-dancer pantomime!—and Odd's tummy swelled grotesquely in rapid pregnancy. Then her pelvis moved forward, and she came almost into a squat, opening her legs wide. In America we think all babies must be born from a supine mother lying in a hospital bed, drugged to alleviate pain. But elsewhere in the world many babies drop into this world from the upright womb, gravity assisting the undrugged effort. I saw it all, such was the power of her suggestion.

  She birthed a son, named Ag-something, and a daughter Yemanja. "Yemanja!" I exclaimed, interrupting my own morbid fascination with the dancer's pangs of parturition. "Goddess of the Moon, my patron—" But why should I be surprised? Oba was telling me her identity, as I had asked: not who she was in mundane life, but her goddess-genealogy. I already knew the river goddess was the daughter of the sea-goddess Yemanja; that was why she was here, helping to abate the curse of Exu. Now I knew that Yemanja was the daughter of the first man and woman in the voodoo pantheon.

  But there was more. Yemanja was a beautiful woman whose skin was yellow. She married her brother Ag (so that's incest; and whom do you think Cain, the son of Adam, married, if not one of his sisters?) and they had a son Or-something—Orangutan? I could not keep track of all these complex names; that would have to do! When Orangutan grew up he had no sister to marry (sibling incest seemed to be the rule with these gods; better than descending to the common folk for mates, no doubt) so fell in love with his mother. Now this was a scandal, even among gods. Ag became ill with envy and disgust and died, and Yemanja resisted. But Orangutan was handsome, talented, strong, persistent and, it developed, ruthless. He raped her. (Hoo-boy, what a dance Oba danced!) Yemanja cursed him, and he also died. But she was already pregnant with his seed. She climbed to the top of a high mountain and killed herself.

  But even this was not the end. In fact, it was the beginning. She died in one sense, but not in another, for she was immortal. This ambivalence was also typical of this pantheon. Thus the world faced the consequence of her suicide at the same time as it knew her as the continuing goddess of waters; no contradiction. The dead goddess's abdomen burst asunder, releasing the waters of the universal deluge that drowned the world. Was there a Noah's Ark in voodoo mythology? The dance didn't say. Fourteen new gods were birthed in that torrent. And the first true man and true woman—Adam and Eve in my framework—formed from Yemanja's bones.

  Among these posthumous gods were Xango, Oshun and Oba. Now at last I had it straight!

  And she told me about Oba herself, who I gathered is known in the Catholic framework as Our Lady of Mount Carmel. She was both sister and wife to Xango, but the god of fire and thunder had a fiery and boisterous nature and a roving eye. Oba was afraid he would take up with one of her more glamorous sisters, such as Oya. So Oba went to another sister, Oshun, to seek advice, not realizing that Oshun herself, goddess of love, was one of Xango's interests.

  "Well now," Oshun told her mischievously. "I know an excellent magic spell to keep him home. All you have to do is cut off one of your pretty little ears, cook it up in a pot of okra soup—that's his favorite, you know—and serve it to him."

  "But—" Oba protested, appalled, touching her ear. She didn't even think to ask how her sister was so familiar with Xango's tastes.

  "Don't worry; he always comes home ravenous. He'll eat it."

  "But will it have an effect on our love life?"

  "It certainly will! Guaranteed." And Oshun smiled with anticipation. So naive, dutiful Oba stiffened her shapely spine, lifted a sharp knife, and courageously cut off her left ear. She staunched the flow of blood, clenched her teeth against the pain, and made the ear/okra soup.

  When Xango came home that evening, Oba put the soup before him. He sat down to eat, dipped a spoonful, then paused, looking at her. "Why are you wearing that stupid white handkerchief over your head?" he demanded.

  "Please eat your soup before it clots—uh, before it gets cold," she said evasively. "Why shouldn't I wear a kerchief if I want to? It isn't as if you ever take me out anywhere where I need a hat."

  Sore point! He couldn't take her out, for then she would find out about the women he made time with during the day. "But why a blood-colored rose over the ear?" he asked.

  Uh-oh! She must be bleeding again, and it was soaking through the kerchief. "I have my reasons," she murmured.

  Xango would have pursued the matter, but he really didn't care very much what his dull wife wore, and he was hungry. So he muttered something about feminine vanity, and ate a spoonful of the soup. And reacted. "What'd you put in this stuff?" he demanded. "Tastes meaty—almost like human flesh."

  "You know it is forbidden by the Third Commandment!" Oba replied, affecting shock. But it did upset her, for she was tricking him into a
fundamental violation. If he ever found out! Her knees felt weak, her stomach knotted. Still, his unwavering love, guaranteed by the spell, would make it all worthwhile.

  "You're acting awful funny today," he muttered. But he settled down to eat, for he had a hot date with none other than Oshun, and he didn't want to be late. He slurped it all down in short order, including the ear. "That last pod of okra tastes more like an ox's hoof," he complained. "Next time pick it fresher, and wash the dirt off it."

  Oba nodded dumbly, wondering how long it would take the spell to act. Xango spruced up his hair and departed, paying her no further attention.

  "Sister, you'd better put out tonight," Xango said to the goddess of love when he reached her. "My wife's been acting strangely. I think she's suspicious."

  "I know she's suspicious," Oshun said as he nibbled on her perfect neck. "But I played a really cute trick on her today."

  "What are you talking about?" the god of thunder rumbled as he took hold of her classic left breast.

  "I told her she could put a spell on you by feeding you her ear." And Oshun laughed, sending remarkable ripples through that breast.

  But Xango tensed, crushing instead of squeezing. "You what?"

  "The little dummy may even have believed it," Oshun continued, shifting to alleviate the pressure. "Even though she's no romantic expert, she really ought to know that it isn't a girl's ear a man wants to eat." And she drew his head down toward her marvelous body.

  Xango was lusty but not stupid. "Her ear!" he ejaculated. He jerked away.

  "Hey, where are you going?" Oshun cried. She wanted him coming, not going. But instead of bringing him closer to her with the good laugh she had anticipated, she had only succeeded in sending him stomping out. All she had for her effort was a hurting breast. "Maybe I should cut it off and make soup out of it," she muttered darkly, glancing down at herself.