Death on an Autumn River (24 page)

But there remained the fact of the dead girl.  Akitada was puzzled by what Harima had said.  It did not add up.  He said, “If she was still in training, why were the other girls jealous of her?”

“Sometimes the owner of a house shows favor to a particular girl and allows her privileges others don’t enjoy.  Akogi was fourteen or fifteen and being groomed for a special presentation.”

“A presentation?”

Harima’s lips quirked a little at Akitada’s puzzlement.  “Some man pays a great deal of money to be the first one.  There’s a kind of celebration with special gowns and musical entertainments.”

Akitada shuddered.  He was repelled by the whole flesh trade that tempted men with foolish and expensive perversions.  And surely the desire to initiate a mere child was a perversion of the sexual act.  Fourteen or fifteen!  The child had no choice in the matter, and that made it repulsive.

They sat in silence for a while.  Chickens clucked, the wind rustled in the bamboo, and the honey-sweet smell of the melon slices lingered in the air.  Harima’s head was bent, her hands clenched tightly.  It occurred to him that she, too, had once been used in the same way.  It was his belief that most of the women in the trade became corrupted by it.  Their only aim was to enrich themselves and thus triumph over their past servitude.  Harima had not followed that path.  He respected her for it.

Furuda returned while he was searching for words to express his regard and sympathy to her.  Akitada saw her face light up and the joy in Furuda’s when their eyes met, and felt a pang of envy.  His own marriage was again stable, and he was very fond of Tamako, but neither of them was demonstrative.  And neither was so completely absorbed by the other.  He had his work, and Tamako had a child and her household to tend.  These two people had only each other.

Furuda slipped off the empty willow basket he had carried slung over his shoulders, and came to greet Akitada with the same warmth Harima had shown him.

“What a happy day, Your Honor,” he said, bowing several times.  “I’ve been worrying how to let you know that you’ve given us back our lives.  We’re doing very well now, Harima and
I
, and it’s all thanks to your lordship.”  With a wide smile, he gestured to the garden and to his empty willow basket.  I get more orders than I can fill.  Everything I took this morning is sold and they are begging for more.”  He dug a handful of coins from his heavy sleeve, showed them to Akitada and then passed them to Harima, who cried out with pleasure.

“Oh, Furuda, that will pay for firewood this winter. 
How wonderful!”
  She hurried off with their wealth. 

Furuda looked after her fondly and said, “She handles the money.  I’ve got no head for it.  I’d waste it on useless things.  How smart she is! 
Firewood, of course.
  We nearly froze to death last winter.”  He shook his head in wonder at Harima’s management of their affairs.

Akitada’s eyes moistened.  It took so very little to make these two happy:  a bit of simple food and some warmth during the coldest part of the year.  He said, “Husband and wife share the labors.  It is right that it should be so. You work very hard at growing food and selling it.”

Furuda shook his head.  “She won’t marry me.  No wonder.  I’m nothing and she is a choja.  It’s truly a miracle she stays with me.  I wake up sometimes at night and fear that she is gone.  That’s a terrible feeling.”

Such confidences were beginning to make Akitada uncomfortable.  To change the subject, he asked to see the new garden.  Furuda led him eagerly to the new section, pointing out the different kinds of cabbage plants striving toward the sun, all looking healthy.

Squinting at the sky, he said happily, “The weather is changing.  We’re getting rain.  I won’t have to carry the water up from the river tomorrow.”

Akitada had not noticed the change in the light.  The sun had withdrawn behind clouds that were moving in rapidly.  The breeze had strengthened and turned colder.  It would mean an uncomfortable day for him, but he said nothing.  Instead, he admired eggplants, deep purple among the leaves, and lengthening cucumbers, the sweet potatoes and turnips in the mature part of the garden.  Their season would soon be over, and Furuda would only have the cabbages left.  Perhaps the two old people would manage to get through the winter, but it seemed doubtful.  “What will you do, when the snows come?” he asked.

“I’ll find another job.  If the restaurants don’t need me, perhaps one of the great houses could use some help.  I’m not proud.  I’ll clean their privies.  It will be good for my garden.”  He stopped and looked abashed.  “I beg your pardon for mentioning such a dirty thing.”

Akitada laughed.  “I suppose even great houses use their privies.  Speaking of great houses, do you happen to know anything about the River Mansion?”

“Oh, yes.  That’s the very large house on the river.”  He pointed toward the east. 
“Not a chance there for me.
  The majordomo doesn’t like local help.  They bring all their servants from the capital.”

“Oh?  Who owns it?”

“I’m not sure.  They say it belongs to the great chancellor, but he never comes here.  He has a splendid palace in Uji.”

“Yes, but I’m told someone lives there, a woman perhaps, and that there are parties with many guests.”

Furuda nodded.  “Sometimes there are parties.  But the guests come from the capital in boats.  One time the place where I worked was asked to send food.  I was one of the waiters who carried all the dishes.  Grilled sea bream in black sauce, pickled vegetables, grilled eels, pike wrapped in persimmon leaves, even blowfish. 
A huge feast.
  That was when I met the majordomo.  They took everything from us at the gate and sent us back.”

“Very odd.
  What about the local brothels?  Do they send courtesans?”

“Harima would know more, but yes, I think sometimes they send for the choja and perhaps others.”

Akitada turned to look at the pitiful hut.  The vines that covered it still bore a few flowers, but soon they would die.  It did not offer much protection against winter storms, yet Harima had found more peace and protection here than she had had in her past life of luxury.

For him there was no peace, at least not yet.  He must return to Naniwa and finish his assignment.  Now that he knew Otomo was a part of the conspiracy, he would force the truth out of him.  It was time, he and Tora got home to his family.

He glanced up at the sky.  The clouds were still gathering and moving quickly eastward.  He should hurry back to Naniwa.  Tora would report either today or tomorrow.  But he was strangely reluctant to leave Eguchi.  Whatever had happened to the girl Akogi, he had come this far, and he would make one more call before putting her from his mind.

Hanae would not stop screaming, and Tora jerked into partial wakefulness:  he lay on strange and uncomfortable bedding and the screaming continued.

Opening his eyes on darkness, he made out the chinks of a door.  The smell and touch of his rough bedding registered.  He was in the Hostel of the Flying Cranes, and there was a real woman screaming outside his door.

He cursed and scrambled up.  At the door, he remembered the demon and hesitated with his hand on the bar, but another blood-curdling scream overcame his fear.  He lifted the bar, flung the door open, and looked out at the moonlit night.

The screams came from the shack near the back fence.  He could just make out a shadowy figure struggling with a smaller one.  The smaller one was a woman. 
Some brute trying to rape her?
  With a shout Tora rushed to the rescue.

The man was big.  He let go of the female, who scurried away, and turned to Tora with a welcoming smile.  The smile was unexpected, and Tora almost stopped, but it was already too late.  Dark figures rose up beside him, behind him, surrounding him as if they had sprung from the earth.  His last thought was that he had walked into a whole gathering of demons.  A short, sharp pain to the back of his head wiped out any other reflections.

*

He came half-awake to swaying and bobbing motions.  He was wet, and there were strange noises, scraping of wood, splashing of water, rhythmic breathing.  The back of his head hurt abominably, and he turned it a little.  Nausea rose. He retched, then vomited and vomited again.  This woke him completely.  Still retching, he tried to sit up and failed because he was trussed up tightly, his feet tied together and his arms caught under loops of rope that passed around his chest.  Above him was a dark and hazy sky.  It was dawn or dusk—he did not know which— and when he moved his sore head a little, he made out the backs of four men rowing.  They were in a boat, and all around was gray mist and black water.

It made no sense.

The boat hit a larger wave, rose up and plunged back down, and Tora’s head bounced against the bottom of the boat with such force that he passed out again.

He came round next because he was being manhandled into an upright position.  He heard grunts and curses and felt rough hands on his body.  Someone above him shouted, “Hurry up, you lazy bastards.”

He was still tied up but instinctively kicked out against the men who had hold of him.  There were more curses and ringing slap to his head that made him see stars where there should not have been any, and then the bonds tightened around his chest, the hands fell away, and he rose up into the air, pulled by a rope attached to his back.  It was daylight.  As he swung, he saw first the side of a ship and then the open water and men in a boat below.  And when he looked up, there were, against the pale sky, the outlines of dark heads peering down at him.  Like a pendulum, he swung and
rose,
sometimes out over the angry waves below him, sometimes painfully against the rough timbers of the ship’s bow.

They dragged him over the side and let him drop.  He vomited again and was kicked in the chest.  Some time passed in a haze of misery.  His face was raw from
  scraping
against the ship, his head hurt like blazes, and he was dizzy.  The kick to his chest might have broken a rib, he thought.  There was an excruciating stab of pain whenever the ship rolled or he took a deep breath.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on taking shallow breaths and waited, feeling wretched.  And always, there was the question:  Why was he here?  What did they want with him?

Ship’s noises.
 
Men running about, shouting.
Things like “Pull hard,”  “Make fast,”  “Heave”.  Bare legs and feet scampered past his bleary eyes.  He heard rattling, creaking, heavy breathing, curses, and a wet flapping sound.  The wooden boards he lay on shifted, rose, and fell, and the rolling of the ship made him sick again.

After several more bouts of vomiting, he found that the rushing about had stopped.  He turned his head to look.  He was lying amidships near the railing.  Across from him was a roofed cabin, and above two huge dark sails rose into the blue sky.  Ropes fastened these to the front, back, and sides of the ship.  The flapping sound came from these sails.  Up ahead, four men stood in line, pushing long oars.  As he looked at them, one began a rhythmic chant,
hai
,
hai
,
hai
,
hai
, with every stroke of the long oar.  The others joined in one by one.  The ship moved less sluggishly and with more purpose.

They were on their way.  The ship was taking him away from land, from help, from any chance of being rescued or escaping.  Already, the huge sails were filling as they caught a breeze.

He struggled into a more upright position and twisted his body to look back.  A fierce pain in his side made him gasp and close his eyes.  When the pain ebbed a little, he peered through the railing.  He was not in a good place for seeing the land, and he dared not twist any more.  As it was, he saw a sliver of the coast
with  some
houses, and a ship or two.  It was not enough to know where he was, but he guessed the houses belonged to Kawajiri or a neighboring village. 

He had been knocked out and abducted by the men on this ship.  If there was any mercy in his situation, it was the fact that they were much too busy to bother with him.  But this was a temporary relief.  In the moments of the ship’s departure, as the men had been running about on deck, he had seen a writhing dragon tattooed on one of the sturdy thighs.

It seemed a lot of trouble to go to for revenge.

Tora was reasonably sure he was on board a pirate ship.  Dragon Tattoo would see to it that he could not talk himself out of his present dilemma by offering to become a pirate.  He searched his mind for the man’s name. 
Toji?
  No, Tojo.  At least that was the name the bastard had given at the hostel. 

Tora scooted his bound body slowly and painfully against the side of the ship and leaned against the boards. 

Nausea returned and dizziness joined it.  Not seasickness, he thought, but the knock on his head.  The back of his skull hurt badly enough to signal a crack.  And there was blood, too.  He could smell it.  It had soaked into the back of shirt and jacket and stiffened.  The rest of him was wet.  They must have dragged him through water to get him into the boat.

They had taken his sword.  No surprise there, but he had liked that weapon. It was short, but it had fit his hand perfectly, and its weight had been light enough for some clever wrist work.  He mourned his sword for a while, breathed carefully, and watched the sailors at their work.  Most seemed his own age, with some youngsters mixed in.  Altogether, he counted eighteen men and boys, plus the helmsman.  There might be more in the cabin and below deck, but he doubted it.  The ship was quite large and had two masts with huge square sails.  The helmsman at the rudder, issuing orders was probably the captain.