Enzan: The Far Mountain (13 page)

As he swung the poker, I swarmed in. I grabbed his jaw with my right hand and squeezed. It wasn’t meant to do anything other than distract him. People don’t like having their heads touched; it makes them flinch involuntarily. He did, and I used the split-second gap in his focus to reach out with my left hand to cover the hand that held the poker. I spun him around and did a short, abbreviated version of the joint lock and throw called
shiho nage
. There are a couple of ways to do it, and I knew if I changed the angle of the lock just slightly, I could shatter his elbow joint. But I didn’t do that because he would scream, and I didn’t want an alarm raised. Instead, I locked him, twisting shoulder and elbow and wrist joints into angles bad for him, and yanked the poker away from him.

It was simple, really. I’ve been taking more dangerous things out of people’s hands for years. His eyes widened in surprise—I could see the gold and red of the fire in them—but then I spun him and couldn’t see his eyes anymore. I reached around his thick neck. He tried to get his chin down to fight the chokehold I was putting him in, but I had been doing this for years as well. He was big and strong, but in the end, it’s not about strength. It’s about getting the placement of your arms just right and exerting enough pressure on the arteries. Cut the flow of blood to the brain and it takes about three seconds for a total blackout. He grunted with effort and I held on. Then I heard the telltale sigh. He sagged into my arms. I gave him a final few seconds of squeeze for insurance and then went to work with the duct tape again.

The stairway was carpeted and I made no sound going up. There was a broad landing that served as a small sitting room at the head of the stairs. A bar of light showed from under a closed door. In the gloom I could see another small fireplace set in the wide stone chimney that rose up through the center of the building. Above me snow sifted down on a wide skylight, the whisper of flakes no more audible than my footsteps.

They didn’t put up much of a fight. It was hard to recover, I suppose, from the surprise, from the effort of focusing on something other than sex. Lim was the quickest. He made a lunging dash for a pile of clothes, but I got there before he did. Found the gun hidden there and pointed it at him. He sat back on the floor, silent, his hands up, passive. I didn’t buy it for a second. I glanced over at the bed, backing away to keep them all covered. The other man lay there, his eyes unfocused with whatever drug he was taking. He sprawled naked and uncaring, everything about him limp and spent.

I remember the sheets were deep red satin. It made the contrast with flesh that much more vivid. Chie Miyazaki rose up on her knees to face me. The short robe hung open. She didn’t seem to care about the black automatic I was holding. She gave me a knowing smile. She seemed to be having difficulty focusing, to be lost in some private space.
Just as well
. The room smelled of perfume and the musk of sex. A small video camera was on a tripod at the foot of the bed.

“What now?” she said playfully. She glanced over at the man on the floor. “Lim?”

“I’ve come to take you away,” I told her. It sounded lame, even to me.

“Mmm,” she said. “Yes.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll play.” She thrust her chest forward and the robe fell back, her small breasts pointing at me. She reached up and rubbed her nipples, eyeing me slyly.

“You’ll play?” I asked.

“There’s always a new part to the game, isn’t there?” She sounded pleased.

“What game?” My voice was tense but it didn’t seem to register with her. She was still caught in some fog. She sank back on the bed, rolling to one side so she could see Lim on the floor. She cast a playful glance over her shoulder at me. I could see the line of her waist, the round swell of her hips, the legs slender and pale against the sheets.

“Lim,” she said reproachfully, “he’s new, isn’t he?”

“What game?” I repeated.

She closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. “Fuck your way to freedom,” she said. She lay back on the bed and watched me from the distant dream she was caught in.

“He’s not here to play the game,” Lim said.

Chie rolled over to look at him. “No?”

“He’s here to take you away,” Lim continued. He sat cross-legged and calm, but I knew what he was doing. He was watching me, gauging angles and distances, watching to see how distracting Chie’s nakedness would be, waiting for a gap in my focus. It’s what I would have been doing.

Chie frowned. “But I don’t want to go away.” She swiveled her head in my direction and smiled playfully. “I like this game.”

“He’s taking you to your family,” Lim warned, and her eyes widened as she sat up in alarm.

“Come on,” I said, gesturing with the pistol at the man half-conscious on the bed. He rolled himself off the mattress and stood, blinking and wobbly. I walked him over to the same side of the room where Lim was sitting. I wanted them both together so I could cover them more easily with the gun. I made him sit and he slumped down with a grunt. Chie had gone quiet and I focused all my attention on the two men on the floor. I was trying to figure out how I was going to tie them up. Lim first, I decided. There was a sound behind me and I turned to get a fleeting image of Chie Miyazaki, about to brain me with a table lamp.

I had walked right onto the sword.

Chapter 13

Mori’s Journal

The demonstration did not go as expected. Little did over the next few days.

It began with a strange break in routine. We were summoned by Takano without warning and filed into the temple reception hall in silence, our minds racing. What could it mean? With the old man, every day was filled with a certain amount of tension. But that was simply the stress of daily life in the dojo—the way you felt from seeing the disgusted expression on his hard face, the rush of panic he could induce merely by focusing in on you with those implacable eyes. It was even more terrible than the training itself, the relentless grind and crunch of bodies colliding. But all these things were part of our normal existence. To be called away from training in the middle of the day, however, was unheard of, and with Takano things unheard of were rarely pleasant.

But we kept our heads down and our mouths closed. Only our eyes darted from place to place, like wary animals searching for the glimpse of some unseen danger. We moved as ordered, and as we filed into the temple hall the only things to be heard were the rasp of calloused feet on the bare wood floor and the quiet swish of cloth. I knelt right next to you and listened for the faint hiss of breath that would tell me your wounds had still not completely healed in the months since the old man’s beating. But you were silent; perhaps you were finally recovered.

Looking back, of course, I realize your silence was not simply the result of a type of proud discipline. You certainly had that quality, and we had all watched you as every day after that evening in the snow you set your face like stone and pushed through the training despite what it must have cost you. But this day you were focused on something other than the ache of old wounds. I was close enough to see, and I had been watching you long enough to notice the subtle change in you as you knelt before the visitors.

The temple’s reception hall was broad and high, with wooden walls grown dark from a thousand years of candle soot. The wide planks of the floor had been polished to a dull sheen by the passage of untold numbers of feet. At the head of the room, Takano sat with the temple’s abbot and four guests. Two were clearly female servants, who were busy assisting with the serving of tea. The sole male guest was young and hard-mouthed, unremarkable except for a settled expression of dissatisfaction with the world. But the young woman with him! A delicate thing with wide eyes set in a heart-shaped face. She sat to one side and slightly behind the young man, who largely ignored her. When a servant carefully poured tea into cups on a small lacquered tray, the striking young woman in the dark traveling kimono took it and set it on the low table, bowing toward the young man. He reached for the cup without acknowledging her, focused on the conversation he was pursuing with Takano.

Did your eyes grow slightly wide when you first saw her? Perhaps there was some dilation of your pupils. Takano had schooled us in reading body language, and we all knew an involuntary reaction like this is often a symptom of sexual attraction. But after all these years I do not recall what it was I saw. I only know the certainty of what the signs told me.

You were smitten.

It seems odd to state the idea with such certainty. Can a connection like this be formed in a heartbeat? What strange stirrings flashed between you two?

This, too, is beyond my knowledge. And in my life, I regret to say it has been outside of my own experience. I think back to this event, mystified. Saddened. But also sure you were touched deeply.

We sat in a row before them and bowed to our sensei, the abbot, and the guests. The old monk was squat and jolly. He bowed back to us, seemingly overjoyed at the rare opportunity to have us in his temple. Takano gave us a bow that was a slight incline of his torso, no more. The young man eyed us with obvious disappointment.

“These are the trainees you spoke of?” He sniffed. “Takano-san, they fail to impress. I can smell the mud and manure on them.”

In truth, we had been training hard. Our uniforms were damp with sweat, smudged and worn. But we loved that old abbot and would never have dreamed of trailing dirt into his reception room. The young man was being rude and I sensed the trainees around me tensing at the insult.

Takano stiffened as well, but he was always stiff. If the jab from the young man had offended him, he gave no overt sign of it. “The smells of the north country are different from Tokyo, Miyazaki-san,” he conceded. He smiled cruelly. “And I am not raising flowers here.”

“I hope not,” the young man named Miyazaki countered. “We went to some trouble to visit you here, you know.” He craned his neck, swiveling his head around to take in the surroundings. “We would never have come so far otherwise. After all, what would be here to see? Mundane architecture …”

“The gardens are beautiful later in the spring,” the abbot offered. “It is a shame it is so early in the season.”

Miyazaki rode over him, directing his words at Takano. “And I’m sure the monks are equally undistinguished. Little learning and even less piety.” If Miyazaki saw the hurt he caused as it was reflected in the abbot’s eyes, he did not acknowledge it. And Takano said nothing. But I saw the young woman’s brow furrow in displeasure.

“We are a small, humble temple, it is so,” the abbot said, almost to himself. His usually cheery expression changed. Then a spark of indignation: “and yet we serve the Lord Buddha.” He sat back and said nothing more, his tea growing cold as his hands worked his prayer beads. The young woman beside Miyazaki said nothing, but looked at the abbot sadly, her wide eyes filled with apology.

“I heard your training hall preserved some of the old ways, Takano-san.” Miyazaki’s wide mouth stretched out in a skeptical grimace. “I thought it worth a small effort to see if the rumors were true.”

“They are true enough,” the old man growled.

Miyazaki brushed some invisible dust off his sleeve. “I hope so.” His head moved to look at the young woman beside him. “I would not want to disappoint my new bride.” The woman gave a small, forced smile, but remained silent. Miyazaki turned back to Takano. “When can we see the training?”

It was an incredibly rude demand to make of a teacher of Takano’s prominence, but the old man didn’t react to the provocation. For those of us watching, it was a fascinating exchange. In our world, Takano was the demanding one, the rude one. Now this visitor from Tokyo was treating him with similar arrogance and disdain. But Takano seemed to meekly accept the treatment. It was astounding.

“In three days’ time,” Takano said. He saw the scowl of displeasure deepen on Miyazaki’s face and, as the young man drew breath to protest, Takano gave a tight smile. “We would not want to disappoint you, Miyazaki-san. A demonstration worthy of such guests will take some time to arrange.” He bowed to the Miyazaki, then to the abbot, and rose. We bowed as well, and followed him out of the room in silent wonder.

The visitors from Tokyo turned the placid economy of the temple upside down. Rumors flew: the monks said Miyazaki was the scion of an old and wealthy family—descendants of the zaibatsu, the influential financiers who had dominated the business life of Japan before the war’s end. In the fifteen years since the emperor’s surrender and the dawn of a new Japan in 1945, the Miyazaki had plotted and worked and curried favor, eventually rehabilitating themselves and once more occupying board seats on some of the most prestigious financial organizations in the country. And the recent brilliantly arranged marriage of this young man had served to demonstrate just how far back into favor the Miyazaki family had climbed.

It was not simply that she was beautiful—although she was. We all saw that. The way she moved, her quiet and unhurried grace, spoke of the type of training and mastery of etiquette that was made possible only by an upbringing in the most prestigious of families.

Miyazaki Chika-hime, the young woman who had silently commiserated with the abbot, was a princess, a daughter of royalty, and a member of a cadet line of the Imperial House itself.

The negotiations that must have taken place, the elaborate and convoluted series of statements and regrets, the promises implied and otherwise that must have been part of the marriage proposal would have been truly astounding. I was young and naïve then, but even so I sensed that the political and financial deal that must have accompanied the betrothal was a dense, knotted tangle of actions. And when I thought of that grim-faced upstart from Tokyo and compared him to the beauty of his new wife, I did not know whether to be outraged by the marriage or simply amazed at the audacity of the Miyazaki clan and their ability to pull it off.

But here they were, newly married and traveling the country as a prelude to their new life together. And if the husband appreciated his good fortune, it did not show. If anything, he seemed to resent his situation, as if the marriage his family had worked so hard to arrange served to simply underscore how unworthy he was to consort with a woman of such a lineage and such beauty.

Takano called me to him later that day as the light faded and night approached, damp and cold. He was sitting alone, staring out into a small garden: grey rocks, raked soil, and a few gnarled bonsai. I knelt and bowed, but he sat for another long minute before turning and acknowledging my presence.

“Our guest wants a demonstration, Mori.” His voice was almost dreamy. I said nothing and, indeed, it seemed to me at the time he was not really speaking to me at all. His eyes had a curious lack of focus; they were seeing something, but it was not me. His mouth twisted in a grimace and he rocked slightly from side to side. Then he brought me into focus.

“I am told he is an enthusiastic kendoka,” Takano told me, referring to the modern version of swordsmanship. “He has a brutal reputation in the dojo around Tokyo.” He gave a dismissive grunt. “Kendo. As if that comes anywhere close to what I am teaching you here.”

Takano smiled at me then. “He will not merely want a demonstration, Mori. No. He is the arrogant spawn of a jumped-up line of clerks. Money and power have led them to expect whatever they want they can have. And he wants to be a bugeisha, Mori. He thinks he is one of us.” Again, the odd smile. “Well, we will certainly oblige him. He will ask for a match to try his sword against one of ours. So be it.” The tight line of his mouth curved upward at the ends, a smile of sorts, but terrible for all that.

“So … you will prepare the demonstration.” Takano rattled off a series of details about how he wanted the event structured. Then he sat back, satisfied.

But there was one detail I needed clarification on. “Am I to fight with him, Sensei?”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes. But before that, a warm-up match, I think.” His gaze drifted off to the side and he stared once more into the garden.

“Sensei?”

He did not turn to look at me. “Did you see him today, gawking at her?” He cackled to himself. “That idiot. Well, she will need a guide as they tour the area over the next few days. Yamashita will do quite nicely, I think.”

I sat in silence, puzzled. Then Takano continued. “It was a miracle his nostrils didn’t flare as he drank in her scent.” His voice was dripping with disgust. “I think a day or so in close proximity to her will drive him completely over the edge …”

He turned to face me. “Miyazaki will have two matches, Mori. First Yamashita, but we will keep that our little secret, neh? He’s a peasant, but a brutal fighter from what I hear. So we will pit him against Yamashita first. I do not think his wounds have completely healed.” Takano’s face took on an expression of warped glee. “Even if he were to prevail, the fight will take a toll on Yamashita and he will be forced to leave. But I think it likely he will lose. This woman will distract him. And think of the humiliation as he is defeated in front of her and the entire dojo.” He closed his eyes, settling back in satisfaction, completely enthralled by the vision he was conjuring. “The rest will be simple. Miyazaki will be tired. We will have had the opportunity to watch his technique. So … when Yamashita has failed, I will send you in to redeem the honor of our training hall.” His eyes lost their focus again as he turned inward. “Yes. That should do quite nicely.”

I bowed low, aghast and eager to hide that fact from him. I scurried away from that dark place, lest the madness in that room be contagious.