Gloria Oliver (3 page)

“If you try to leave this craft, I will cut you in half before you can hit the water.”

Toshi would have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t thought the samurai would cut him down for it. His body felt so numb and slow, he doubted he could even save himself if the boat suddenly tipped over, let alone try to escape. He felt the samurai’s green gaze staring at him again. He tried his best not to let his own gaze cross its path.

“Take the oar and row us out toward the middle of the bay.” The samurai waved his hand to the back of the boat.

He crawled where he’d been told to and stared at the long, angled oar waiting there. Watching to make sure his hands got around the oar, since he couldn’t feel them, he wove it back and forth to get the craft moving.

As the small boat inched away from the docks to deeper water, he glanced back at the city that had for so long been his home. His gaze grew moist as he stared at the dark mass, no hint showing in the darkness of the bustle and life that had made it so dear to him over the years. And now he was being torn from it.

The fog grew in intensity. It cut off his view of the city. In a way, it made it seem as if the city had never existed.

After a time, the skiff picked up speed. Toshi became ever more grateful for the work the demon had given him, as it loosened the numbness from his body. The heat of the work was exhilarating compared to the unearthly coldness that had gripped him before. He stared at the samurai’s armored back, seeing nothing but fog and sea beyond. When he was feeling more like himself, he worked up the courage to speak.

“Sir, might I ask where we are going?”

The samurai didn’t react to his question, but remained fixed, facing the prow of the boat.

Toshi continued rowing and didn’t speak again. He still had no idea as to their destination when his arms began to tire.

“Stop here.” The samurai made a chopping motion with his hand.

He stopped rowing, staring at the samurai in surprise, able to see nothing but the swirling fog around them. Keeping his gaze locked on the samurai, he waited to see what he would be asked to do next. An unwanted chill cut through him as he tried his best not to guess at what it might be.

His attention was drawn to the water as bubbles formed on its surface. The bubbles grew to a writhing mass, a soft glow coming from beneath them. The fog slithered away as if afraid of what was happening in the water. Toshi watched the spot of light beneath the bubbles get larger and brighter.

His knuckles turned white as he gripped his oar in apprehension. The knocking of his heart in his chest was the only sound he could hear as an eerily glowing rod broke through the surface of the frothing sea.

The rod rose higher. A crossbeam broke the surface beneath it, long strands of seaweed strung across its length. A tattered square sail followed, a gold-colored replica of the crest he had seen on the samurai’s armor on it.

While terror welled within at the sight rising before him, he found his gaze inexorably drawn to the samurai. The warrior slowly turned to face him and stared at him with his burning green eyes.

Toshi shook his head in helpless denial as the samurai stood up and pointed toward the still-rising ship.

“No! This is not my karma,” he declared. “I won’t go to a cursed ship!”

The samurai stared at him impassively, the green light issuing from the demon-mask’s eyes brighter than it had been before. “Row.”

He shook his head again, forgetting whom he was denying while in the grip of his welling fear. He let go of the boat’s oar as if it had burned him. His gaze darted around, looking for a way to escape, and he saw his only option was to dive into the sea.

He turned, determined to leave the boat. Something solid struck the back of his leg at the knee, folding it under him. As he struggled not to fall over, he saw the samurai’s lacquered scabbard flash ahead of him just before it slammed into his stomach. He fell hard onto the deck.

Panic drove him to ignore the flaring pain in his leg and stomach, even as he fought to throw himself overboard. He’d reached the side of the boat when his cotton tunic was wrenched from behind and he was yanked back with it. He tried desperately to pull away, his fists flying; but a shot of unearthly cold wove down his spine, draining his resistance as fleshless fingers wrapped around the back of his neck.

He screamed.

His terror and desperation multiplied as the cold spread through him. Still screaming, he tried to pry the bony fingers from his neck, but his hands were slapped away. Soon he could no longer move. With a soundless cry of fear, he shut his eyes, not wanting to see what awaited him.

The flat-bottomed ship had come fully to the surface. Indistinct shapes moving within it silently brought out long poles with hooks and snared the small boat. As the skiff was secured to the side of the larger vessel, a number of fleshless hands reached down into it.

Toshi fought as he felt half a dozen hands attach to his body and pull him upward. The samurai’s hand left the back of his neck. In panic, he snapped his eyes open to see why the demon had deserted him. He gazed straight into the face of a grinning skull. Empty eye sockets stared into his eyes, a reddish glow flaring for a moment in their depths. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound ever reached past his lips. The fleshless face came closer. The creature’s eyes flared with bright red light. He tried to squirm away, but it was all in vain. His heart threatened to burst from horror before that fleshless grin.

An arm was thrust between them. Sudden hope flared within him even as his frightened gaze shifted to seek the samurai’s masked face. He didn’t feel the samurai’s hand as it latched onto his. His numbed body was turned around, and he glimpsed the rest of those who were on board. His mind wouldn’t count them; it didn’t want to see them. It shrieked in disbelief as he stared at the white gleaming skeletons before him.

They stood upright and wore clothes he would have seen on men on any common street. Some wore short pants and sleeveless shirts. Others only wore
fudoshi
—a long cloth coiled around the body that covered the genitals like a loincloth—and short vests.

Half-supporting, half-dragging him, the samurai took him toward a door set in the wall of the raised deck housing the tiller. His mind was as numbed by terror as his body was by cold; he didn’t resist as he was taken into the small hallway beyond.

Ignoring the ladder going below, the samurai pulled him forward, stopping before the second doorway on the right. Throwing the door open, the samurai thrust him inside. Unable in his paralysis to break his fall, he slammed into the glowing floor. The door was closed and bolted behind him.

The pain of the fall a very faint perception, Toshi gave in to his fear and despair. He scooted to a corner and hugged his knees to his chest, his wide eyes staring at the glow in the room that permeated everything.

Toshi sat bolt upright, realizing that at some point during the night he’d fallen asleep. He glanced quickly about him, dislodging a thick blanket from his shoulders. He was on a ship—a haunted ship. A chill coursed through him as he recalled all that had gone on before.

He grabbed the fallen blanket, not sure where it had come from, and wrapped it about him. The thought repeated over and over in his mind that normal walls didn’t glow like a million fireflies. The cold air in the room made him shiver.

“Would you like some tea?”

He whipped around, entangling himself in the blanket, looking for the source of the voice. He stared in surprise at a well-dressed woman sitting at the far corner of the room, serving tea. The cut and style of her light-green kimono and her lavishly coiffured black-haired wig with its silver bells told him she was geisha, an entertainer. Yet, unlike any geisha he had ever heard tell of, this one wore a Noh mask over her face.

The delicate traditional theater mask of white-painted wood was of a handsome young maiden with large almond-shaped eyes, rounded nose and thin, smiling red lips, but its illusion was dispelled as he noticed the woman’s hands and neck were as fleshless as a hundred-year-old corpse.

“Who … who are you? What … what do you want from me?” He inched away from the geisha, his voice cracking as he spoke.

The woman looked up at him, soft blue light showing through the narrow, round eye-slits of the mask.

With surprising grace and beauty in spite of her lack of flesh, the geisha bowed to him and introduced herself.

“I am Akiuji Miko. Entertainer for his lordship Asaka Ietsugu.”

Feeling awkward at the unexpected show of formality, he made himself return the bow.

“My … my name is Chizuson Toshiro,” he said, his mind thinking about how in the rules of the foreigners his surname would have come last, not first. “Though most people just call me Toshi. I was an apprentice mapmaker to Hirojima Shun.” He licked his lips, apprehension filling him to the core.

The geisha said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Chizuson-san.”

He glanced away and said nothing, in no way feeling the same. He was also surprised she’d added the honorific to his name. Why would a demon give him such a courtesy?

“Won’t you have tea? If you’re hungry, I’ve some rice cakes as well.” Her voice was kind.

He stared at the floor and said nothing.

“Won’t you do me this small courtesy? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to serve tea.”

Delicately, Miko lifted a steaming cup and held it out toward him. “Please, Toshi-san?”

His stomach rumbled as the green tea’s aroma drifted toward him. His cold hands and feet insisted a little hot tea would do no harm. He wondered why she’d decided to use his given name instead of his surname. That was normally a habit of people who knew each other well.

“Hai.”

Keeping his blanket snug about his shoulders, he rose hesitantly to his feet and advanced to the small table set in front of the geisha. Making sure the table stayed between them, he sat down.

Without comment, Miko placed the cup on the table before him.

Waiting until her fleshless hands were well away from it, he took the steaming cup. Thrilled by the warmth flowing from it into his hands, he just held it, his eagerness for the drink itself gone for the moment.

When he finally drank, he closed his eyes, grateful for the warmth spreading inside him. He quickly placed the emptied cup on the table, inwardly hoping for more but not daring to ask.

Miko lifted a plate full of seaweed wrapped rice cakes from a tray beside her and put it before him.

“Won’t you have some?” She then proceeded to refill his cup.

Studying the rice cakes and figuring they looked safe enough, he reached out for one of them and took a small, hesitant bite. Finding that it tasted as it should, he gobbled it down and reached for another. Before he realized what he’d done, he’d eaten them all.

“Toshi-san, how old are you?”

He almost smiled, content now that he was full, until he glanced up at his unusual hostess and remembered where he was. “I’m almost sixteen.” He wondered why a demon would want to know, but he wasn’t about to ask.

Miko held his attention as her head tilted slightly to the side, making the small bells in her hair ring. By the way her shoulders were gently shaking, he got the impression the geisha was laughing behind her white mask.

“All young boys are always in such a hurry to grow up, to go out into the world and meet their destinies.” Miko’s broad green sleeve rose up to cover the smiling mask’s mouth.

He felt his cheeks grow hot. Yes, it was true he was only fifteen, but he would be sixteen—a man—soon enough. What difference did a few months make? Especially to demons!

He stared at his teacup, stung by the geisha’s silent laughter. Unhappy about this, he said the first thing that came to mind in an effort to distract her.

“Why do you wear a mask?” He noted with satisfaction that the geisha lowered her sleeve away from her mouth.

“I wear it out of politeness,” she said. “You see, I have no wish to make you afraid of me. My features are less handsome than I would desire and don’t complement my profession very well at this time.”

“Then, you and your lord look just like the crew?” The question had left his lips before he’d given it proper consideration.

“Yes, we do,” she answered. “Asaka-sama thought it would be less of a shock to you if we minimized our current states in your presence.”

Asaka-sama, or Lord Asaka—the honorific said it all. Asaka was their master, and he looked just like the rest. A small chill crawled down Toshi’s back. He tensed as he gathered the courage to ask the only thing he really wanted to know.

“Why am I here?”

Miko’s masked face turned away from him, the bells in her hair ringing softly as she moved. “Lord Asaka needs a navigator, one who can read the more detailed maps of the gaijin.” She turned to face him again. “It’s partially because of the knowledge we lack that we have come to be as we are. It is our hope that with you we’ll now be able to complete what we must. To follow the way and regain our honor.”

He stared at the geisha. He had no reason to disbelieve her, though who could honestly ever trust a demon. Yet, this couldn’t be all they wanted from him. And since when did demons follow Bushido—the samurai code of conduct?

“You mustn’t judge Asaka-sama harshly, Toshi-san. I know all of this is a major change for you,” she said, “but Asaka-sama wouldn’t have done it had our need not been so great. You’ll be safe with us. No harm shall come to you.”

He turned away to hide his expression of confused suspicion, his hand rising subconsciously to brush back his mussed hair. He never felt the leather band that held his hair in a ponytail loosen and fall on the floor. His long black hair spilled over his shoulders. Only too vividly, his mind recalled the demon mask with its glowing green eyes and the deep voice booming from behind it. He recalled his first view of the crew, and that white skull with the menacing red glowing eyes staring at him. That he would be safe and unharmed here was not something he was in any way willing to believe.