Kage (3 page)

jumbo. I’m no longer so sure. When you spend hours, days,

years with a thing, surely a connection of some kind is shaped.

The wrapped cloth of the
katana
’s handle, the nubby ray skin

beneath, no longer feel like things that are external to me: they

fit.
They fill the void of my curved fingers as if my hands were

shaped to hold the weapon.

1

John Donohue

It’s a tool of sorts, of course; a means to an end. But there’s

more to it than that. Maybe I’ve been in the
dojo
so long that

things Japanese have become part of me; form and function,

beauty and utility, merged into one. The swordsman’s art is a

curious alchemy: a synthesis of steel and spirit where the out-

come is more than the sum of its parts.

The old timers tell stories of swords that were finely wrought

and yet cruel:
setsuninto
, killing swords. They were weapons

whose inmost essence drove their owners mad. Other blades

were as cruelly beautiful, but imbued with a spirit that inclined

to do good. They sang in their scabbards to warn of danger;

they were bright and clear and miraculous things and, in the

right hands, could be
katsujinken
, life-giving swords.

In the right hands… how to tell and who is to judge? I’ve

made decisions in my life and done things I am not proud of.

And yet they seemed necessary. Like a pebble tossed in a pool

of still water, each action sent waves in many directions. Some

I anticipated. Many I did not. And I wonder.

In the half-light of each starting day, I lay in silence, alert to

the swords in the rack. Hopeful. Fearful.

In the silence of dawn, will the blades moan to me or will

they sing?

2

1

Coyote

The
coyote
picked his way quietly over rough ground,

climbing up the slope to a spot where he could watch and wait.

The border smuggler, the
coyote
named Hector, settled down

and listened to the faint rustling of the desert night. There was

movement all around him; things hunted in the darkness, skit-

tering and squealing, unseen. After a time he heard a differ-

ent noise—the sound of men as they scraped their way over

the canyon lip. Their voices were soft murmurs pulled apart

by the night breeze. Hector strained to hear what was being

said, but could not. The intruders paused at the canyon rim as

if getting their bearings. They shone green lights on the dirt,

tracing the tracks of the men Hector had sent off into the gully

to the rendezvous. Hector watched calmly and waited for the

small knot of men to head up the gully as well. If he felt any-

thing at that moment, it was chagrin that the people he had

led might be caught. But, they knew the risk. He himself didn’t

sense a threat, and was confident that without the burden of

his human cargo he would melt away and leave these pursu-

ers behind. But instead of following the trail leading up the

gully, they swung their lights around in measured arcs, looking

for additional sign. Hector’s eyes narrowed as a faint concern

began to flicker in his chest. The lights steadied, focused on a

new track.

Hector’s.

He realized with a shock of cold certainty that he was wrong

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John Donohue

about the danger. The pursuers that he had vaguely sensed dur-

ing the night journey across the border had not been intent

on intercepting the men he was delivering. They weren’t the

Border Patrol. They weren’t even interested in the identity or

purpose of the men he was smuggling into the US. They had,

instead, been following him to learn the secret of the route

he had made through the desert. It was a basic foundation of

his trade:
control the route and you can control the business,
he

thought. He slipped out of the shadow of the rock outcropping

he was crouched beneath and began to make his way away from

this new source of danger. He moved cautiously, tense with

concern that he make no sound. He knew that once a specific

trail was known, a guide like himself became merely a liability.

And on the border, liabilities were inevitably abandoned to the

rocks and sun. Their remains gleamed, bone-white with the

passing of years, a reminder to travelers of the danger of the

territory through which they passed.

Hector had been a border smuggler for more than five

years. He knew all about the dangers. If the desert was harsh,

the competing gangs that struggled to control the border’s busi-

ness were even more so. Hector had learned to trust few people,

hug the darkness like a friend, and to choose the more difficult

and out of the way crossings for his business. A
coyote
had many

things to fear.

The Americans were the least of Hector’s problems. No

matter what their publicity claimed, the Americans could not

close the border. The long line between Mexico and the United

States was an abstraction on a map. It was an illusion bent by

topography and cracked in the desert sun. On the ground,

lines on a map had little meaning. The Border Patrol rocked

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Kage

along rutted tracks near the most likely points of access. They

scanned the horizon for movement, safe in their trucks, the

murmur of the radio a faint under-current in the wash of the

air conditioning. Hector the
coyote
had learned the lessons well

from his uncles and cousins who had gone before him into this

business: go where the
gringo
did not wish to go. Go at night.

Move quickly, but don’t rush. Plan.

And watch your back. Hector was careful to keep a low

profile in the border towns. He maintained respectful relations

with the various gang leaders in the area, paid the protection

money demanded of him, and relied on a small network of

family members to assist in the growing business of smuggling

“special” items across the border. They were efficient, discrete,

and successful. That was why, when the strangers from the cap-

ital had come looking for experienced guides, Hector’s
people

were chosen.

Like most things, there was a hierarchy of services in the

coyote’s
world. Anyone could try to cross the border, and any

number of eager young men, armed with broken down sneak-

ers and makeshift canteens crafted from old bleach bottles,

would offer to serve as guides. The true
coyote
watched them

silently through squinted eyes, the skin on their faces taut and

etched by the hot breath of the desert. They said nothing and

let the young men go. More often than not, their careers were

short-lived; the desert, or the gangs, or the Border Patrol people

saw to that end. Amateurs were a sad feature of most profes-

sions, but not a significant drain on business in this one. In the

coyote’s
world, success was survival.

The stakes grew exponentially once the
coyote
moved beyond

smuggling
campesinos
desperate to work backbreaking days on

American farms and construction sites. There were other things

5

John Donohue

to smuggle, and if the risk was greater, so too was the reward.

These were deals that were not cut on a dusty roadside by the

rear of an old pickup truck. The men you met were not hungry

and weighed down by their past and lumpy bundles of pos-

sessions formed into packs with garbage bags and old twine.

These deals were made by quietly assured men, whose eyes were

as fathomless and glittery as vipers. The parties met in the dim

shelter of bars after each side had carefully weighed the compe-

tence of their intermediaries, had listened to the rumors on the

street, and after each side had scouted out an alternate means

of exit.

Hector’s
people would watch the late model SUV’s churn a

cloud of dust down the street. When they reached the rendez-

vous, young men with dark glasses jumped out and scanned the

rooflines. They dressed for the city, yet their shiny boots were

immediately coated with the powdery dust of the desert. The

wind pushed, hot and fitful, at paper trash in the street. You

could hear sounds coming from a distant alley, where stringy

dogs snarled and fought each other for the gristle and bone

remains of something unidentifiable. People scuttled toward

doorways, nervously eyeing the men from the SUV—quick,

tight sideways glances, before they shut themselves behind the

safety of thick doors. The young men didn’t seem to react to

anything in particular, but took it all in. They watched the pat-

tern of activity, sensitive only to the ripple of the unexpected.

At a signal, their principal would emerge from the vehicle and

the
coyote
’s people would follow him into the dark room.

In these situations, respectful greetings were always the first

item of business. Drinks offered. The conversations were for-

mal, reserved, and terse with an odd combination of respect

and tension. The deals themselves were models of simplicity.

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Kage

Something needed to cross the border. Sometimes it was an

object. Other times it was people. The
coyotes
never asked what

the packages contained or who the people were. They weren’t

interested in details beyond the professional assessment of the

logistics of transport. A target date for departure was made.

Another was established for delivery. The
coyotes
always insisted

on some flexibility with the dates for security purposes, but

they knew the value of dependability as well. A pickup point

was proposed, debated, established. The price for services was

negotiated. Payment arrangements were made.

Hector had developed a reputation as the man to come to

for particularly sensitive transport jobs. Even the
viejos
, the old

timers, admitted that he had a knack for moving through the

roughest terrain, of scouting out routes that consistently evaded

the American interdiction patrols. He used these routes spar-

ingly, saving them for the most lucrative jobs. The men from

the capital paid well for this work, and the high price guaran-

teed Hector’s continuing enthusiasm as well as his silence. But

just below the surface of these deals there lurked something

more sinister: the potential for violence or betrayal. The chance

that it could blow up in your face, or that the price for failure

would be higher than you could bear.

Most times, Hector convinced himself that he was too good

to fal victim to these undercurrents. He was young and crafty

and therefore successful. He was sure that one day he would

be a legend on the border. But the old women would watch

him silently from a distance and murmur darkly. In life, they

knew, there was beauty, and merit, and skil . Al these things

faded. And the only thing left to you was
suerte
, luck. It was the

most fickle of powers, alighting on one man for a time and then

deserting him for no apparent reason. They watched Hector, the

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John Donohue

coyote
, marveling at his success. But then they crossed themselves

and gestured against the evil eye.
The day wil come,
their looks

said silently.
Even for you, Hector, the day wil come when luck will

betray you, disappearing like water spil ed in the desert sun.

This latest crossing had been an important one—the

arrangements had been meticulous and the deal was cut with

great formality between Hector and the men from the capital.

They were men of great seriousness, and he treated their need

for special arrangements with respect. The three men he was to

take across the border were young and fit, dark eyed, but not

Mexicanos
. It was imperative, Hector’s clients insisted, that there

be no contact with the Border Police. If a crossing were not

possible, he was to bring them back rather than risk their arrest.

They provided Hector with a cel phone and a number to call

once he reached the rendezvous point on the other side of the

border. His instructions were to use the cel to make a cal once

they were across, leave the three men at the location specified,

smash the phone and bury the parts, and not look back.

Hector had taken in the instructions without comment,

content in the details and the payment. His knowledge of

different routes was a valuable commodity. There were vari-

ous families and gangs vying for control of the most lucrative

smuggling routes. Hector went to great pains to avoid observa-

tion from rivals, to hoard this knowledge, and to use his most

secure routes only for special jobs. His discretion was rewarded

with jobs such as this one. His secret trails were as secure as