Blood Ninja (27 page)

What hideous things could live on this wall, ready for his fingers to glide over, to stroke?

Taro forced himself to carry on, fighting the impulse to take his hand away from the wall. He could hear breathing ahead. He tried to still his pounding heart, bring his own breathing under control. It would be Shusaku, of course. Who else could it be? But there was no light, and whoever was up ahead didn’t hail them.

Taro felt Hiro’s hand tightening around his own. They had come close now to whoever was doing the breathing. Taro could
feel
a presence before them. He slowed, terrified, convinced that the walls were tightening in, that they had walked into a trap that they couldn’t back out of.

Then a light flared, making spots dance in Taro’s vision, and out of the white haze Shusaku’s figure gradually resolved into focus. He held a torch in one hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back into daylight.”

“You had a torch all that time?” asked Yukiko. “That’s cruel.”

“We don’t light them till we’re deep in the ground,” said Shusaku. “Don’t want light to seep out of the cracks in the hut. It might arouse suspicion.”

They followed him for a time. Taro could not have said how long, but he felt that they covered a fair distance, the length of the beach back home at least. Now that there was light, the tunnel had become only that: a simple passage through the rock, not frightening in the least.

Gradually the tunnel began to lighten, shrinking the shadows cast by Shusaku’s torch. It also widened until at last they stepped into a large cave, its walls carved with intricate figures—demons, bodhisattvas, animals, and graceful
apsaras
bearing musical instruments. The cave’s roof was decorated with smooth flying arches that stood above the rock, as if to give the impression that the group was standing in the rib cage of a great creature. In thousands of small niches in the walls flickering candles stood, filling the cave with an unsteady yellow light and the smell of tallow.

Taro gazed around him in astonishment, his mouth open. The place was like a temple; it was magnificent. He had never seen anything like it.

Shusaku nudged his shoulder. “Come on. You haven’t seen the best of it yet.” He led the way through the cave toward a wide opening at the far end. Taro watched the walls as they passed—saw rock tigers leaping as if on the point of breaking their stony
bonds, saw
apsara
angels smiting boar-tusked demons with delicate swords of hard granite.

“Apsaras!”
said Heiko. “This was a Buddhist cave temple once, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Shusaku. “Only long forgotten by most. The rock carvings are masterpieces. But you will have plenty of time to study them later.” They passed a statue of a sitting Buddha, wedged into a large niche in the rock. It was as tall maybe as four men standing on end, and leafed all over in gold.

Heiko gasped. “But this is extraordinary! Someone should be told—”

“For obvious reasons,” interrupted Shusaku, “that would be a bad idea.”

They came to the cave mouth, and Taro, Hiro, Heiko, and Yukiko stepped out behind Shusaku into a large, round space—about thirty tatami mats across. Taro could just make out the rock wall at the other side. On all sides rose a single, continuous cliff face, its wall sheer and tall. This cliff was at least the height of three torii gates set one on top of the other. The effect was of standing at the bottom of an enormous well. The temperature here was appreciably lower than it had been on the mountainside, outside the little hut that concealed the entrance.

Hiro pointed upward. “Look,” he said. Above them was the night sky, bright with golden stars and a crescent moon—only, as Taro looked, he saw that the sky was not real, was instead some kind of illusion. The true moon was waning, yes, but it was far from being this thin. This narrow, curiously flat golden moon was not the real moon. Taro had seen the real one only an hour before, when they had stood outside the little hut, and he was not fooled. He strained his eyes. Yes, what covered the round space at the top of the bowl-like clearing was not the night sky but some kind of dark cloth painted with constellations. As Taro looked, he saw it ripple slightly, presumably with the outside wind. He couldn’t help gasping.

“It keeps the sun off,” said Shusaku. “And the rain, too, which
is a shame for our small crops. We have an irrigation system that distributes springwater around our few paddies and vegetable plots, but they have never grown as well as those outside. The sunlight that filters through is dim at best. Still. It is a small price to pay.” He gestured at the artificial night sky. “It always impresses visitors. Those few that we have, anyway.”

“Where are we?” asked Hiro.

“Haven’t you guessed? We’re standing in the cauldron of a dead volcano. Welcome to the home of my clan.”

Taro looked around again at the smooth circle of rock that surrounded them. Of course. He could see now that they had followed the tunnel into a hidden valley; a crater that would only be visible to someone who managed the climb to the very top of the volcano.

Shusaku seemed to read his mind. “It requires very few guards. We post a couple at the top of the mountain. We have one or two non-vampires, able to go up there by day. Very occasionally a peasant gets too close—looking for a goat, that kind of thing. Then we arrange a little fall for them. Nothing too bad, just a couple of broken bones. The kind of accident that discourages further exploration.”

As he spoke, a woman stepped into the clearing, apparently from nowhere. Taro squinted, and realized that the dark patch behind the woman must be a cave in the cliff wall. The newcomer smiled when she saw Shusaku, and walked over to them, her step springy and lithe—but she frowned when she saw Taro. She
bowed to Shusaku. “Shusaku. I am glad you have returned.”

“Kawabata-
san
,” said Shusaku. “You look younger with every day. Your husband is a lucky man.”

The woman rolled her eyes, and Taro decided on the spot that he liked her. She had a grace and a humor that he had seen before, in some of the amas who’d dived with his mother, grace and humor that he associated with those who had decided not to let the vagaries of a dangerous life destroy their equilibrium.

It was the look of a person with inner strength.

Yes, he knew he was right, because even now, as she smiled, he could see that the laughter lines around her eyes echoed other, deeper lines—the signs of frequent worry creasing her forehead.

She turned to Yukiko and Heiko. “The girls I know, of course.” She bowed to them. Then she directed that half smile, half frown at Shusaku. “You decided it was time for them to complete their training?”

“Not quite. The abbess sent them away.”

The woman, whose hair was gray and whose face was lined with wrinkles, despite the agile grace of her movements, gave another little nod. “They were troublesome?”

“No. She believed someone was coming to kill her. She wanted them to be safe.”

The woman looked concerned. “What trouble are you bringing to our door this time?” she asked Shusaku. “You know what my husband is—” She broke off, looking scared, and also ashamed. “I mean … you know the precarious position we are in.”

“I’m not
bringing
anything.”

“And yet,” said the woman, turning to Taro, “you brought
him
.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “What were you thinking?”

“I had to. The situation was desperate. It was either that or let him die.”

“I see. Well, I’m sure your actions were determined by circumstance.”

“All actions are determined by circumstance,” said Shusaku, a smile on his lips.

“Indeed,” said a new voice. A fat man waddled out from the tunnel and stood beside the woman. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched, then gave him a weak smile—and Taro saw from these two actions combined that he was her husband, and that she was afraid of him.

“For instance,” continued the man, in a wheedling, arrogant tone. “Whoever the abbess was afraid of was no doubt looking for you, Shusaku, meaning that
you
got her killed. You were the
circumstance
that determined the
action
of her death.”

Shusaku’s hand went to his sword handle, but then he composed himself. “We don’t know she’s dead, Kawabata-
san
.” When he had addressed the man’s wife, he had spoken her name with respect, but now he put an accent on the honorific
san
in the man’s title that seemed to Taro sarcastic, almost as if he were implying, by making so much of it, that it had no business being appended to the fat man’s name.

“
Lord
Endo,” replied the man, with the same contempt.

“Now, now, Husband,” said the woman nervously. “We should listen to what Shusaku has to say.”

“Oh, yes,” said the man. “I always listen to Shusaku. Even when he is telling lies.” He narrowed his piggy eyes at Heiko and Yukiko. “Like these girls. You say the abbess sent them away? We both know she would not have parted from those girls in life.”

“Enough,” said Heiko, stepping forward. “Shusaku didn’t kill the abbess. Lord Oda did.”

“Nonsense,” said Kawabata. “She is his fortune-teller. He wouldn’t harm her.”

“He would if it led him to Taro,” said Shusaku, “and a way to destroy Lord Tokugawa.”

“You maintain that Lord Oda entertains designs on Tokugawa?” said Kawabata to Shusaku with skeptical amusement.

“You know I do,” Shusaku replied.

Kawabata looked now at Taro. “He is definitely the—”

“Yes. He is Tokugawa’s son.”

“He knows?”

“Yes,” said Taro.

“Do you expect me to be pleased that you have brought him here? It could be dangerous for us.”

“We’re ninja,” said Shusaku. “Everything is dangerous for us.”

“Well, yes, but—”

Shusaku took a step forward, his manner suddenly stern. “You are only the civil leader here, elected by the community. Your responsibilities extend to pastoral care and the growing of crops—no further. I am leader of this clan. You may be pleased or not pleased, that is your prerogative, but you have no authority over me. I was elected over you.”

Kawabata bared his teeth in a very nasty smile. “As you say,
Lord
Endo.”

Taro was paying close attention to this exchange, so he didn’t notice at first that many more people had now appeared in the circular clearing. They were now surrounded by a crowd of smiling, jostling people of all ages. Here, a woman held a baby on her hip. There, a young man held a two-headed spear in his hands and looked at Taro, Hiro, and the girls gravely.

Taro felt suddenly very vulnerable. He didn’t like all the attention. For days it had been only him, Hiro, and Shusaku. “Who are all these people?” he asked Shusaku. “They’re all vampires?”

Shusaku smiled. “No. Vampires are not born, only created. These are the wives of ninja, their children, their parents. Not everyone can go on missions. Some have to stay to look after the crops, the pigs, the weapons.”

Taro looked at the staring people. He felt the urge to be polite.

He pointed at himself. “My name is Taro.”

There was a murmur from the crowd at that, some sharp looks exchanged.

“And this is Hiro, my best friend. Thank you for … for welcoming us into your community.”

Then Kawabata stepped forward. “Who said you were welcome?” he said. He turned to the crowd. “Did anyone say he was welcome?”

The woman with the baby on her hip looked at the ground; the
man with the spear continued to stare at Taro. Shusaku took a step forward. “Kawabata-
san
,” he said, emphasizing the
san
again so that it became sardonic, rude. “I told Taro that he and his friend would study here with us, just like Heiko and Yukiko here, who have been destined for the clan since I rescued them as babies. I told Taro that he would be welcome in my clan.” The word “my,” too, was lightly inflected. “Would you contradict me?”

Kawabata stepped up to Taro and gave him a cold but appraising look, like a farmer inspecting a pig or a samurai inspecting a horse. “Since you have told him so,” he said to Shusaku, “I suppose there isn’t much I can do about it. You’re the leader after all, and a man who was once samurai.” He put the same emphasis on “samurai” that Shusaku had put on the “
san”
in his name. “What am I? Only the son of a ninja who was himself the son of a ninja. But I suppose you haven’t thought about the jeopardy this could place us in,
Lord
Endo?”

Shusaku—Lord Endo—shook his head. “Of course I’ve thought about it. But the boy is talented. The benefits far outweigh the risks.”

Kawabata waddled up to Shusaku. His stomach swung as he walked, his gravid belly reminding Taro of a pregnant woman’s. His legs, too, were effeminate—thin and delicate. Combined with his wispy beard, balding head, and bloodshot hooded eyes, the effect was grotesque—as if someone had put the head of a drunken merchant on the body of a young woman about to become a mother.