Human for a Day (9781101552391) (22 page)

“My name's R.J. I own the joint.” He nodded to the bar. “It's a kind of oasis, you know? A place where humans can go to be around their own kind and relax.”

Gilmore struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice as he spoke. “That's all very interesting, but I don't see—”

R.J. interrupted. “We humans look after each other here in Ruination Row.” His gaze flicked to me, then returned to Gilmore. “Looks to me like you're forcing this man to accompany you. That doesn't sit well with me, demon, and it doesn't sit well with my friends.”

The other men and women gathered on the sidewalk shot Gilmore dark looks as they murmured their agreement.

Gilmore looked at R.J. for a moment before throwing back his head and laughing.

“You think this man is
human
? That's hysterical! This is Matthew Richter. The zombie detective?”

R.J. looked at me again, more closely this time. “Heard of him. Can't say I know him.” He inspected me a moment longer before adding, “Skin looks like that of a living man.” He reached out, gently pinched a bit of my cheek between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it around a bit. “Feels real,” he said and he pulled his hand away.

Gilmore frowned. “Take a look at his clothes,” he said.

“So the man's a mess,” R.J. said. “That doesn't make him a zombie.”

I was beginning to worry. The last distraction I'd tried to arrange hadn't worked out so well, and the last thing I wanted was for R.J. and his friends to be transformed into silver statues. I needed to find a way to end this—fast. If only I'd still been a zombie, none of this would have . . .

Then I realized I'd been going about this all wrong. I'd been thinking of being human as a weakness. Instead, I should have viewed it as a strength.

I carry all sorts of weapons on my person, and some of them have sharp edges. While Gilmore's attention was on R.J., I reached into one of my pockets and found a switchblade. I clicked it open and ran my index finger along the edge of the blade. Then I removed my hand and held it up for everyone to see.

Gilmore goggled as he looked at the line of blood trickling from the wound on my finger.

I smiled at him. “Like you told me, I didn't say a word.”

Gilmore spun toward R.J. and raised the Argentum Perditor, but he was too late to avoid getting a face full of aluminum. Demons are tougher than humans, but not tougher than half a dozen. R.J.'s friends moved in and started working on Gilmore, punching and kicking, and it didn't take long before the demon was lying on the ground, moaning in pain, his arms and legs bent at awkward angles, his face swollen, bruised, and bloody.

When my fellow humans stepped back, I bent down and pried the Argentum Perditor out of Gilmore's hand and tucked it into my pocket. I wiped the blood from my finger on Gilmore's shirt before straightening. Then I turned to R.J.

“Thanks for the help,” I said. I offered my hand to shake, and R.J. grinned as he took it. The man's grip was strong and warm, and it felt good to shake another man's hand—another
living
man's—and really feel it.

“No problem,” he said. “All the Darkfolk can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but demons really annoy me.” He gave Gilmore a last half-hearted kick the ribs, and the demon moaned loudly. R.J. turned back to me. “You want to come on in and have a drink? It's on the house.”

I was tempted. It had been several years since I'd tasted anything, and a drink sounded damn good right then. But I had somewhere very important to be.

“I'll have to take a raincheck,” I said. “But I want to thank you all one last time. Lately, I've been worrying that Nekropolis isn't the best place for a human to live, but now . . .” I smiled. “Now I think it's not so bad.”

R.J. smiled. “Not so long as we watch out for each other.”

We shook hands one last time, and I headed west once more, while R.J. and his friends returned to their bar. We left Gilmore lying on the sidewalk, moaning and trying to find the strength to get to his feet. I knew the demon would recover, and eventually he'd come looking for me, determined to make me pay for what I'd done to him, but right then, I didn't care. All that mattered to me was getting home, putting my arms around the woman I love, and for the first time since I'd met her, knowing what it felt like to touch her.

Eugie Foster

 

 

 

 

T
he bell at Dojoji temple pealed at noon to mark the day's peak. Its voice was silver and light, water kissed by the sun. It matched the tolling in Alan's head, the same tone, the same cadence, even the same tempo—each reverberating note sounding in tandem with the phantom bell haunting him. For the first time in almost a year, ever since he'd started hearing the incessant ringing, he felt hope.

 

Ryoseki looked up from his meditations to find Soryo Kuro and Soryo Yusai standing before him, their heads bowed.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sensei,” Kuro said. “There has been some commotion in the
shōro
. One of our visitors is demanding to purchase the temple bell, and even though we have explained to him that this is impossible, he refuses to desist.”

The old priest did not seem surprised by this, although no one had ever made such an outrageous request before.

“I will take care of it,” he said.

 

Alan jittered from one foot to the other, pacing around the belfry's stone perimeter, wishing he could light up. He didn't care what his doctor said, the patch did nothing for his nicotine cravings. He checked his watch again. Where had those priests gone to anyway?

At the end of his circuit around the
shōro
, Alan startled. The old man in the saffron robes seemed to materialize out of nowhere, standing placidly and gazing up at the huge bronze bell as though he were as solid a fixture as the stone Buddha statue in the courtyard.

The man bowed, un-stonelike. “I did not mean to startle you. I am Ryoseki, Dojoji's
jūshoku
.”

“
JÅ«shoku
. That's head priest, right? Finally, someone in charge.” Alan reached for the pack of Dunhills in his suit jacket only to stop mid-motion with a scowl. “I want to buy this bell. I don't care how much it costs. And don't give me some crap about not needing material goods. Your temple does charity work. Think of what you could do with an extra million or two for homeless orphans or blind puppies or whatever cause you like. And I'm talking U.S. dollars, not yen.”

“That is a very generous offer. May I inquire what you will do with our bell once you are in possession of it?”

“I don't know yet.”

“I see.” Ryoseki contemplated the bell's ornate rim where a pattern of curlicues was stamped into the metal. “You are American, yes? Will you be wanting to relocate it overseas? It is quite heavy. Many tons.”

Alan frowned. He hadn't thought that far ahead, which was unlike him. He never made an acquisition bid without thorough research and a prospectus plan and strategy. But this bell was different, more important than abstract numbers and profit margins, essential to have no matter the cost.

“And the
shōro
will need to be disassembled,” the priest continued. “Or did you wish to purchase that as well?”

“You think I'm joking?” Alan yanked the sterling silver case from his pocket and extracted an embossed business card. “My name is Alan Brandt. Maybe you've heard of me? I have the means to buy what I want, and I want this bell.”

Ryoseki accepted the card and its inked pedigree—CEO, EMBA, CFA—with a polite nod. “Did I do something to indicate that I was not treating your request with the utmost sincerity? That was not my intention. I merely wished to know if you had already considered the practical aspects of this transaction or if I could offer any suggestions.”

“Don't you want to know why I want it?”

“I would be glad to hear your motivations.”

Alan studied the other man's face. Was he mocking him? He was an astute reader of expressions. He had to be in his line of work. But the priest's cordial facade gave away nothing.

“For the last year, I've had a bell ringing in my head at noon and midnight,” Alan said, “every single day, without fail. You'd think twice a day wouldn't be that bad, but I can't concentrate, can't sleep, can't do anything but count down the minutes until the next time it rings. I've seen neurologists, otologists, neurotologists, and psychiatrists, been scanned, probed, and psychoanalyzed. They can't find anything. My board is on the verge of ousting me with a ‘no confidence' vote, and I can't blame them. I'm utterly distracted. And it's getting louder.”

“Yet though you are tormented by the tolling of a bell,” Ryoseki said, “you wish to possess ours.”

“That's right. Because when it rang at noon, it sounded exactly like the one in my head. I don't know what it means, but it's important.”

“So it is.” The priest turned on his heel.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“If you are to purchase Dojoji's bell, you will require documentation and an official receipt, will you not?”

“Uh, yeah—”

“Well, come along then.”

Bemused, Alan followed the priest down a little path to a cottage on the temple grounds. The front door opened to a tidy room with western furniture: a wooden desk and a pair of chairs. A display case filled with books and a modest Buddha figure seated in lotus position, more bookend than icon, took up the remainder of the space.

“Please have a seat,” Ryoseki said. “Would you like some tea?”

Alan nodded, stifling another urge to reach for his cigarettes. This was territory he knew, the Japanese custom of small talk and socializing before getting down to business. Annoying but unavoidable.

The priest set a small kettle on an electric plate and spooned fragrant leaves into the water. “You know, if you wish to smoke, I don't mind.”

Alan immediately pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He took a long drag, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. Exhaling, he felt tension dissipate in the plume of blue smoke.

“God, I needed that.”

The lines around Ryoseki's eyes crinkled. “I thought so.”

“Hey, I noticed your English is really good,” Alan said.

“Thank you. I spent several years studying overseas when I was a boy.” The priest took a sip of tea, his expression lost in a whorl of steam. “This isn't your first time to Japan, either.”

“My company partners with many Japanese holdings, but I've never been outside Tokyo before.”

“Yet you have come all the way to Wakayama Prefecture to our humble temple. Are you familiar with the tale of Kiyohime? It is Dojoji's most famous legend.”

Alan blinked, his stock banter thrown off by the abrupt subject change. “Er, no.”

The priest set his cup down. “Kiyohime was the only daughter of a powerful
daimyo
, a military lord high in the shogun's regard. The
daimyo
was also a religious man. So when a traveling soryo named Tomozo and his young novice, Anchin, were caught in a torrential storm, it was to the
daimyo
'
s
house they went to shelter for the night.

“The
daimyo
commanded that a large feast be laid, and afterwards asked the priests to give a sermon from the Lotus Sutra. Soryo Tomozo was an old man with a fondness for beer, and he was a bit lazy to boot. Surfeited on fine food and drink, he found the lord's request burdensome and commanded his novice to conduct it in his stead.

“Now Anchin was an earnest young man, elated to be entrusted with this duty. His sermon was fervent and full of passion, so much so that it roused a matching fervor in the lady Kiyohime. The two young people discussed scripture until the fire burned low and everyone else had gone to sleep. And in the manner of such things, they fell in love.

“Imprudent things were done. Impetuous things were said. And when morning came, they parted with a promise. Anchin pledged that he would return for Kiyohime. And Kiyohime vowed that she would love no other.”

Alan took a last pull from his cigarette and absently lit another. He'd been prepared to have to feign interest in the old man's natterings, but found himself uncharacteristically drawn in.

“Tomozo and Anchin resumed their travels,” Ryoseki continued, “and Anchin confided in his mentor confessing what had transpired between himself and Kiyohime. As etiquette forbade Anchin to visit alone, he begged Tomozo to accompany him again to the
daimyo
'
s
residence.

“With reservations, Tomozo agreed, but he also reminded Anchin of the other promises he had made, the ones to the temple and to Buddha. Did he intend to recant those in the name of love? Anchin was an honorable man, and he did not want to come before Kiyohime in disgrace, so he promised Tomozo that he would fulfill his spiritual obligations as well.

“Weeks passed as Anchin readied himself to take his temple vows, but on the eve of his ordination, he received tragic news. Believing herself scorned and in despair, Kiyohime took her father's
kaiken
and slit her own throat. She left behind a poem:

“Anchin was overcome by guilt and grief. He would not eat, would not sleep. He would only pray and meditate. Tomozo worried about his young charge and convinced him to participate in a ritual to renew and cleanse the spirit.