The Fires of the Gods (5 page)

JIROKICHI, THE THIEF

T
here were five of them. All were in their teens, but strong and fast. Five against one.

Despite his age, Jirokichi was agile, but they cornered him. Somehow, in his hurry to escape the first two, he took a wrong turn down an alley, which brought him to the abandoned temple, and then there were suddenly five, and he took another wrong turn into the temple grounds, hoping to double back towards a busier part of the city.

But they worked together and herded him into the farthest corner, where he ended up boxed in by walls too tall to scale – though he was agile enough – and now they were walking towards him, slowly, with grins on their faces.

Stray dogs closing in on a rat.

‘Hey, Rat,’ said the one in front, a stringy youth who was their leader, ‘why so unfriendly? We just want to chat. We heard business was good lately.’

Business had been good. He had found gold and a finely carved and gilded Buddha figurine he hoped to sell at a great profit to an abbot of his acquaintance, but these five could not know about that. They were guessing.

They closed in around him, their eyes bright with excitement.

‘What do you want?’ he squeaked. He was small, deceptively frail looking, and when nervous, his voice rose to a piercing squeal.

‘Whatever you got, Rat,’ said the leader, still grinning. He was an ugly kid with a broken nose and a knife scar running from one ear to the corner of his mouth. His teeth were broken, too, and then Jirokichi saw that the fists he clenched had scarred knuckles – from beating up other victims.

Jirokichi shrunk away a little more until his back was against the wall. The boy next to the leader eyed him with a hungry look. ‘Let’s take his clothes off and see what he’s got.’ He fingered the knife in his belt. ‘Maybe we’ll cut off his jewels.’ They laughed.

Jirokichi was close to wetting his pants. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it to them. ‘I’ve got nothing. See for yourselves. You got the wrong fellow.’ They searched the jacket and tossed it aside. He started to undo the rope that held up his pants, but the leader’s arm shot out and grabbed Jirokichi’s wrist. He jerked him forward, against himself, until they were nose to nose. Jirokichi was short, and the other had to lean down over him. Jirokichi felt hands on his body, checking to see if anything was hidden in his pants. One of them twisted his genitals so viciously that he screamed. The leader dropped him, and he fell sobbing and moaning into the dirt.

‘Wasted our time,’ said one of the youths and kicked Jirokichi in the kidneys.

‘Maybe not,’ said the leader. ‘He left it at home. Up, you turd,’ he told Jirokichi.

Jirokichi stayed on the ground, rolled up in a ball and trembling. One of the youths grabbed him by an arm and jerked him upright. Another slapped his face with both hands until tears, snot, and blood dribbled down on Jirokichi’s bony chest.

‘Where’s your place?’ demanded the leader.

‘B–by the f–fox shrine.’

The leader slapped him only once this time. ‘What fox shrine, turd?’

‘Umajiro koji.’

‘Well? Are you going to take us there or not?’ the leader asked. Jirokichi moaned and nodded. He tried to take a step, but crumpled.

‘Wipe his face and put his jacket back on,’ snapped the leader, ‘Walk him between you. Arms around his shoulders. Like friends walking home a drunk.’

They did, and Jirokichi hung between two of them, legs bent and head drooping.

The leader seized Jirokichi’s topknot and jerked his face upward to show him a knife. Jirokichi blinked. ‘If you try to call for help, you’re dead. Understand?’

Jirokichi drooled a little, but nodded again. He accepted that he would probably die anyway.

Tora wore old clothes that were slightly too small and ripped in places where his muscular arms and chest showed to best advantage. His loose hair was tied up in a twisted rag, and he strode through the city with the bearing of a man who could handle himself in any situation.

He felt almost well again. His breathing had returned to normal, and the blisters on his hands had scabbed over. He planned to find the gang of young thieves. The money the bastards had stolen from him had been a small fortune, and the fact that he had been attacked in such a brazen manner in a decent neighborhood rankled.

His destination was the warren of poor tenements that adjoined the Western Market and the deserted ruins and barren fields where the capital’s criminals lived like animals in their burrows. Not even the armed constables of the city’s police went there willingly. He did not really think he would find the culprit and get his winnings back, but at least he could get information about youth gangs for the police, and that might teach the young bastards a lesson.

When he reached the outskirts, where shacks and warehouses were interspersed with large open areas, he kept a sharp eye on the people he saw. They were poor laborers and their families and outcasts, scrabbling through the garbage of ordinary people to make a living. Not all were criminals, but frequently a father, brother, or son provided for the family with ill-gotten income and was caught, and so all of them hated the police and officials.
That was the main reason Tora was dressed in rags. He hoped to be taken for a tough, a street fighter they wouldn’t dare jump in some dark alley.

Even so, he still met some hostile looks from the men. Outside one of the plank huts, a skinny girl with a small child tied to her back gave him a gap-toothed smile and sang out, ‘What’s your hurry, handsome? Why don’t you stay awhile?’ Tora quickly turned the corner and walked through a series of dingy alleys with ragged clothing drying on broken fences and hungry dogs barking at him. Where he emerged, a ruined temple, part of its roof collapsed, rose from a grove of trees. He turned that way and almost immediately encountered an oddly assorted group of people.

Five young men in flashy clothing accompanied an older man, who seemed to be having trouble walking. A drunk? Tora had little faith in the charitable nature of the young in this part of town. He had once been their age and poor and had had no regard for anyone else. The young are first of all survivors. Here, in the capital, they were frequently raptors. As he got closer, he saw that the man they supported had been beaten. There were bloodstains on his jacket, and his face was swollen. And they were not supporting him. They were forcibly taking him somewhere.

Their prey was middle-aged, short and frail, his clothes a grayish brown. He did not look strong enough to tackle even the smallest of the five louts.

Tora gauged their strength. Five of them, young and tough-looking. No doubt they carried knives. They were probably no better than the thieves that had taken his money.

He was unarmed. Bad odds, though he outweighed the biggest one and knew a good deal about fighting. Their victim would be no help. On a second glance, he looked like a crook himself. Perhaps the youths had merely repaid him for something he had done to them or their families.

But Tora did not like it when the young and strong abused the weak. He slowed and stepped in their path.

The tallest youth, walking behind, moved around the two who held the beaten man. ‘Get out of the way,’ he said in a threatening manner.

Tora grinned and raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Taking your old uncle home from the wine shop?’ he asked. ‘Got into a little trouble, did he?’

The tall one’s eyes shifted to the group. He relaxed a little. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘My auntie sent us for him. Got there just in time.’

Tora shook his head sadly. ‘Some people never learn. Can I give you a hand?’

‘No, thanks. We’re five of us.’ He sounded as if he was making a point.

‘Help me,’ croaked their victim and cried out as one of the youths twisted his wrist.

‘Hush, Uncle,’ said the tall boy. ‘We’ll get you home to Auntie, don’t you worry.’ He took a step towards Tora. ‘You’d better let us pass.’

Tora rocked back and forth on his feet, as if undecided, his eyes on the limp figure between the two young thugs. Then he studied his boots a moment before launching himself at the tall youth, swinging his right foot forward, aiming the heel at the youth’s groin. The kick was powerful and unexpected. The youth left the ground and flew a few steps back, landing on his back with an almighty scream.

Tora had already pivoted towards his companions, the two whose hands were free. He used his fist to strike the first one on the temple and send him crashing into the dirt. ‘You’re next,’ he growled to the other. But that one pulled his knife and rushed Tora.

Tora feinted, jumped back, caught the youth’s knife arm at the wrist, and twisted it back until it snapped. The knife fell to the ground, and the youth shrieked, cradling his broken arm.

Tora scooped up the knife and turned to the two, who gaped, still holding the limp figure between them. They dropped their burden and ran.

Tora surveyed the wounded trio that was left. The one he had hit with his fist sat on the ground, looking groggy. The tall one lay curled in a ball. He was cursing steadily. ‘What were you doing to the old guy?’ Tora asked. ‘And don’t lie to me.’

The one with the broken arm blustered, ‘He’s a thief. We caught him. We were gonna turn him in.’

Tora fingered the knife. ‘And I’m the Empress Jingo. Try again.’

The other backed away. ‘He’s got a lot of gold hidden.’ He glanced at his companions and offered, ‘We might share with you.’

Their victim raised his voice. ‘They’re lying.’

‘Hmm.’ Tora eyed the small man and decided that he did look like a thief, but a poor one. He turned back to the trio. ‘Let’s see. What should I do with you? I could call for the constables.’

They merely stared at that suggestion. For some reason, the victim was the one who cried, ‘No.’

Tora glowered at the youths. ‘Get out of here before I change my mind and cut you up a little.’

The one with the broken arm hesitated only a moment, then turned and ran. The tall one staggered to his feet, cursed Tora, and pulled his groggy friend up. They limped off, clutching each other for support.

After making sure they were gone, Tora checked the miserable heap still sitting on the ground. His shoulders were heaving, and he made a strange wheezing noise. Tora thought he was weeping, but when he bent down, he saw that the wheezing was laughter. The little fellow shook with it. A small claw-like hand shot out and pointed. Down the street, the tall youth Tora had kicked was bent over, vomiting.

‘Hehehe!’ wheezed the small fellow. ‘Hehehehehe. Son o’ a bitch knows how it feels to get kicked inna balls! Tha’ss worth a piece o’ gold, that.’

He had trouble speaking and stopped to feel his front teeth. One of them was loose and started bleeding again. ‘Damn bassards beat me,’ he said unnecessarily.

Tora reached out to help him to his feet. ‘Who are you? Are you really a thief?’

The other stood gingerly and groaned a bit. Then he looked up at Tora. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I’m Jirokichi. And you, my hero?’

Tora stared.
‘You’re
Jirokichi? Jirokichi, the thief?’ he asked, dumbfounded.

The other nodded. The little fellow was anywhere between thirty and fifty, for all Tora could tell. With his buck teeth, sharp features, and close-set eyes, he resembled a rodent, but Jirokichi, also known as the Rat, was a legendary and magical person, and this creature looked altogether insignificant in his plain and dirty brown cotton clothes. And his manner was ingratiating.

‘Well,’ said Tora, ‘whatever. I’m Tora, and you look like you could use a cup of wine. Come along. I’m buying.’

The little man gave a chuckle and followed obediently. Tora
headed back towards the market. After a while, Jirokichi mumbled, ‘Don’t believe me, do you?’

Tora looked back, hesitated. The real Jirokichi could make himself invisible. Because of this, he could enter wealthy people’s homes while they slept to steal their gold. Among the poor, a kind of religion had developed that venerated the image of a rat, presenting gifts to it and praying that Jirokichi share his wealth with them. There were claims that such prayers had been heard, and that people had found gold in their empty rice bin or under a wooden bucket, or stuffed into their outdoor shoes.

‘Maybe your name is Jirokichi, and maybe you’re a thief,’ Tora said cautiously. ‘It doesn’t matter. We both need a drink.’

But the fellow tugged at Tora’s sleeve. ‘It matters to me.’ The broken tooth caused him to make whistling sounds when he talked.

‘OK, I believe you,’ said Tora, suppressing a grin.

At the market, Jirokichi pointed to a small wine shop with benches outside. This time of day it was nearly empty. Tora saw only a few other guests. Inside, a monk ate something from a bowl and two old men drank wine and played
go
. Outside, a shifty-eyed man sat and watched the crowd. He gave them a brief glance, then turned his attention back to the market.

Jirokichi lowered himself gingerly on to the bench and shouted, ‘Hoshina! Wine.’

A large young woman appeared from the back of the shop, crying, ‘Jiro, my little turtle, is that you?’ She glanced at Tora and then at Jirokichi. ‘Amida! What happened, lover?’

Jirokichi waved her away and looked at Tora with a blush. ‘She’s great in bed,’ he muttered.

Hoshina reappeared with wine and two cups in a basket. Tora marveled at her size. She was one of the biggest women he had ever seen. Jirokichi’s head would barely reach her ample bosom. She took a wet cloth from the bottom of the basket and knelt down beside the little man, touching his bruised face as lovingly as a mother. ‘You look terrible. Who did that to you, my love?’ She dabbed at the traces of blood.

Jirokichi winced, snatched the cloth away from her, and held it to his swollen lip. ‘Don’ask.’

Tora reached into his jacket to pay for the wine, but Jirokichi pushed his hand away. On me,’ he mumbled through the cloth.

‘I thought those hoodlums picked you clean?’

‘Hoodlums?’ cried Hoshina.

Jirokichi took the cloth away to say, ‘No, no. I had a fall. Now pour us some wine, precious.’