Linnear 02 - The Miko (23 page)

Nicholas and Akutagawa-san strode side by side, the one in the simple black gi of the student, the other the pearlescent gray cotton kimono edged in earth brown of the jonin sensei. At their backs, the stone walls and green tiled roofs of the Tenshin Shoden Katori ryu sprang into light as the slowly rising sun broke the plane of the horizon.

Oblique strokes of new sunlight broke through the branches, picking out pinecones and brown needles with the delicacy of a master’s brushstroke.

Akutagawa-san was still in shadow when he said, “The mistake we all make before we enter here is the notion of civilization. History, ethics, the very concept of law itself depend for their existence on this one crucial underpinning.”

Akutagawa-san’s long, melancholy face with its wide lips, rather sharp nose, and Mandarinesque eyes, was even more serious than usual. Among the studentswho, in the tradition of students the world over, had created nicknames for their sensei in order to regain at least a semblance of the control that the ryu took from themhe was known as “the smileless man.” Perhaps it was not so unusual then for these two to have recognized in one another an aspect of themselves and be thus drawn together.

Both in their own way were outcasts in a ryu of outcasts, for the legend of the ninja had it that they had evolved from the hinin, the basest level of Japanese society. And, as in many levels of Japanese society, legend often became history. Whether or not those origins were true now seemed irrelevant, since existing ninja had taken that legend and turned it to their advantage, using it to further their mystique among people already steeped in mysticism.

Akutagawa-san was half Chinese, it was rumored among the boys, the initiates always curious about why he was allowed to be a part of such a secret society within a society. Their question was answered when they found out the origins of aka-i-ninjutsu were to be found in China.

“The fact is,” Nicholas remembered Akutagawa-san saying, emerging into the light, “there is no such thing as civilization. It is a concept the Chinese confectedor, if you prefer the Western mode, the Greekssimply in order to give a certain moral credence to their attempts at dominion over the other peoples of the world.”

Nicholas shook his head. “I don’t understand. What about all the minute aspects of Japanese life that set us apart from everyone else: the complexity of the tea ceremony, the arts of ukiyo-e, ikebana, haiku, the concepts of honor, filial duty, bushido, giri. All the things we are.”

Akutagawa-san looked in that young open face and sighed. He had had a son once who had died in Manchuria at the hands of the Russians. Every year he made a pilgrimage to China to be closer. To what or to whom he had never been sure. But now he thought he knew.

“What you speak of, Nicholas…‘all these things are an accretion of a culture. They have no relation to the word civilization save what today’s conditioning superimposes on them.”

They moved out along the hillside, the thrush keeping a stuttering pace, expecting perhaps that his breakfast might be strewn in the wake of these mighty shadows.

“If a society were truly civilized,” Akutagawa-san continued, “there would be no need for the samurai; and it would surely not abide warriors such as we. There would simply be no need, do you see? But the concept of civilization is like that of Communism. Pure in the mind, it nevertheless cannot exist in reality. It is too absolute a concept for man. Like the theory of relativity it is best thought of, food for contemplation, for a civilized man would

harbor no warlike tendencies. He would not spy on another, he would not be an adulterer, a slanderer, a destroyer.”

Akutagawa-san put his hand on Nicholas’ arm to stop him. Together they stared out at the partially hidden valley, the tops of trees protruding through the sinuously winding mist like the stones on a Go board.

“For most people, Nicholas, this is what life consists of: the clear and the hidden, the knowable and the arcane. But for us here, it is different. When we set the concept of civilization aside, we free ourselves.

“And in plunging into the mist, we learn to ride the wind, to walk on water, to hide where there is no hiding place, to see where there is no light and hear when our ears are bound. You will learn that one breath may sustain you for hours, and you will learn how to deal with your enemies.

“None of this is to be taken lightly. You understand this, I know. Yet it must be repeated. For with the knowledge of how to take life comes the responsibility of a god. Control is the essence of it all. Without it there is only chaos, and given a chance, that kind of malignant anarchy will voraciously engulf our culture…all culture.”

Nicholas was silent, his body still and attuned in his attempt to understand all that Akutagawa-san was saying. Much of it seemed beyond his ken for the moment, larger than life and thus unknowable. But he stored it all in his memory, understanding that if he showed patience all would be made clear to him.

Akutagawa-san stared out at the ancient countryside, inhaling its sharp, clean odors as if they were the mingled perfumes of the country’s most accomplished courtesans.

“What you must understand nownow before it is too late, while you still have time to make the decisionis that aka-i-ninjutsu is just one form of an entire discipline. And as in all such disciplines, there are the negative aspects.” His head turned and his black stone eyes gripped Nicholas’. “In donning our mantle you may also become a target for these negative… forces.

“One of the reasons I am here is that I am sennin in a number of these. Have you heard of Kuji-kiri, the nine-hands cutting?”

Nicholas might have stopped breathing. Kuji-kiri was the discipline with which Saigo had defeated him in Kumamoto the year before, defiling him and taking Yukio away from him, then disappearing with her as if the two of them had never existed.

His lips were dry and he had to try twice before he could articulate it successfully. “Yes.” It was a harsh sibilant whisper. “I have… heard of it.”

Akutagawa-san nodded. He was careful not to look directly at Nicholas and thus be exposed to the inner struggle of emotions, causing his student loss of face.

“Fukashigi-san suspected as much. He believes you may need this, er, unorthodox training in order to survive. And survival is what is taught here at the Tenshin Shoden Katori ryu.”

Akutagawa-san’s head turned, hawklike, and his obsidian eyes struck Nicholas with the force of a physical contact. It was not a blow as such, but the electricity of the force behind it caused all of Nicholas’ muscles to tense, the reflex of a more primitive and physically aware creature.

Oddly, his mind was at peace, perfectly clear for the first time since he had returned from his journey across the Straits of Shimonoseki, his river Styx, to seek out Saigo in the underworld of Kan-aku na ninjutsu.

Akutagawa-san smiled slightly. “There are many Chinese origins here. But you know the Japanese. Everything must be altered, refined to fit their own cultured sensibilities.” This would be the only time that the sennin would ever speak this way to Nicholas or to anyone, a sign that he recognized their kinship: their mixed heritage.

“You now know the dangers, the risks. Fukashigi-san was quite adamant about giving you these caveats.”

“And you were not,” Nicholas said, responding to an ephemeral shading in the sennin’s tone.

“Do not think that I am not careful. Fukashigi-san and I think alike in many aspects. However, I did not believe you required these warnings.”

“You were correct.” Nicholas took a deep breath. “I want you to teach me, sensei. I am not frightened of the Kuji-kiri.”

“No,” Akutagawa-san said almost sadly, “but in time you will learn to be.” He reached out and took Nicholas” hand. “Now come.” His voice altered. “Let darkness and death be your middle names forevermore.”

They went off the hillside. Soon the mist had swallowed them completely.

The monsters had needed designations. They were never with Alix Logan at the same time but rather spelled each other in twelve-hour shifts. The beefy one was on duty during the days and Bristol thought of him as Red. The other one, the thin, wiry, nocturnal monster with the long neck and beak of a nose, he dubbed Blue.

The first question he had asked himself when he had come upon them was: had they been in the car?

It had been many months since that dark night filled with rain and an evil wind that bent the high, thin palms of Key West almost to the ground. He had been doing forty-five on the highway when they came up on him very fast with their lights out.

He felt the fierce jolt forward, said, “What the hell!” to no one in particular and felt grateful for his seatbelt. They were close, and knowing that instinctively his eyes would move to his rear-view mirror after the ram, they turned on their blights.

In that moment of utter dazzle, they moved in for the kill. He knew in that flash just how clever they were, knew also from his years of experience that there would not be time to regain control of the situation: he was not James Bond and this was no movie. So he did the only thing he could. He concentrated on his own survival.

In the brief instant before they struck again, he unlocked the driver’s side door and opened it a crack. He unsnapped his seatbelt. He was no longer concerned with what they would do or how they would do it, he only knew that if he did not center all his concern on himself now, they would surely kill him.

When the second ram came, it was at just the right angle. They had hesitated long enough so that both cars were racing around a bend to the right. Beyond the low fence on the left, the land shot down in a sheer drop of perhaps seventy-five feet. The ground was not particularly hard. In fact, the recent rains had made a rather springy mat of it but there was very little purchase. It was a dangerous stretch, particularly in this storm, and every ten feet or so along the side of the road large signs dotted with ruby red reflector buttons flew by.

It was as if an enormous creature had taken a bite out of the car. The back end slewed right around and the wheel flew out of his hands. He let it go, working on keeping his equilibrium. Centrifugal force and the colliding momentums of the vehicles were working against him, and the darkness of the night only added to the sense of intense disorientation.

His hand flew to the partially open door and he had to will himself to stay put through the horrendous sounds of grinding and squealing metal, the frightening, out-of-control movement, and the sure knowledge that he was heading over the edge and down.

If he left the car before it went over, there’d be no point. The other car’s headlights would pick him up and they’d run him over while he was helpless.

But now the front end of the car had slammed into the low railing, the shriek of more metal tearing, flinging itself upward, bursting apart, and he lurched forward, having to brace the heels of his hands against the padded dash, remembering to flex his elbows slightly to help cushion the force so that he wouldn’t break his arms in half.

Then the nose of the car was thrusting upward, the seat springs rocking crazily. Rain sleeted in the partially open window drenching him, blinding him, and for that instant he felt a rising panic, afraid that they were going to succeed after all.

The car bucked forward as if kicked from behind, the front end lowering, the wheels spinning for purchase and finding none. He had long ago taken his foot off both the gas and the brake pedals. He left the car in gear, though it might have been better to throw it into neutral. He did not want to leave any traces of how he was going about saving himself, to feed to the investigators who would surely come and do their thorough job if the sea didn’t claim his coffin.

He wanted to be dead.

Now he began to tumble, leaving behind the short verge beyond the slick road. He heard the tearing of clods of earth above the noise of the engine and the car’s back wheels skidded sickeningly, slewing him again so that his shoulder slammed against the door post and he sucked in his breath. Another inch or so forward and he would have tumbled out the unlocked door on his head. All the way down, a broken neck and sightless eyes staring impotently up at the white, peering faces of his murderers.

None of that for him. He held on, and now there was only an eerie kind of silence, rushing in the aftermath of all the frenzy and sound. Wind whistled through the partially opened window and then the car took its first unsteady bump on the side of the sheer cliff. One side hit heavier than the other, and that started the oscillation. Soon, he knew, it would get so greaton the fourth or fifth landing perhapsthat the vehicle would flip over and then he would have no chance at all.

He could see nothing that would help him. He was in the tunnel of the night, a steel coffin, and he knew he must rely totally on sensation, the feeling in his stomach, his hands, his legs, his heart.

It was now or never.

He drew his legs up so that he was kneeling on the seat, so that there was no possibility that his feet would get caught in the well. Quickly now he moved onto his back, feet first toward the swinging door.

Out he went. Watched dizzily, detachedly, the shock and pain turning him into an unconcerned spectator, as the tumbling car hit the churning water hood first and sank into the deep without a trace.

Bristol did not think much about that night now except to speculate on who it was who’d tried to kill him. At first he was certain that it had been Frank, Raphael Tomkin’s man. But that was before he had come upon the monsters. Now he was not so sure.

He had come down to Key West to find Alix Logan. Now that he had found that she was already covered, he wondered, Who were they, these monsters who never let her out of then-sight? Were they working for Tomkin? Were they all part of the cover-up of Tomkin’s murder of Angela Didion? There was no way Bristol could know that until he spoke to Alix Logan. Back in New York, Matty the Mouth had given him her name. Bristol had known there had been a witness to the murder and if he was going to nail Tomkin, he would have to find her. The contact had given him the name and the place for an unconscionably large amount of money. But it had been worth it. Now Bristol knew he was very close, and he had told Matty the Mouth to get out of town for a while. He owed the man that much.