Eternal Samurai (4 page)

And the word
vampire
only existed in the news about distant places.

An unassailable loneliness made itself known with gut-wrenching insistence. What the hell was he doing here anyway?

With no warning, the loss of his one and only love crashed over him. Sage Neztsosie, the beautiful Navajo boy who took his heart. Who showed him the way of loving men.

Salty drops slid over Tatsu’s lower eyelids. Shamed, he dashed them away. Foolish to grieve over a love that was never meant to be. A love forever lost in the unreachable past.

Santa Fe, The Pueblo Sovereign State, 2012

Rumors flew through Santa Fe Industrial High about the school’s newest quarterback, Sage Neztsosie. School directors, desperate for a star player, lured Sage off the Shiprock Reservation with promises and bribery. They overlooked his juvenile criminal record and granted him a full scholarship.

From the minute he arrived, the Navajo created his own brand of anarchy. He sped into the school parking lot on his battered motorcycle with one of his many friends clinging like a monkey on the back. Brakes squealed and people yelled as Sage blithely ignored all driving regulations. One afternoon, the principal caught the Navajo rappelling down the back of the high-school stadium. Before the homecoming game, the janitor found Sage dancing naked in the end zone of the football field. Sage claimed he was doing it for victory. More than once, he faced expulsion for smoking on school grounds. Yet, no matter how often he broke the rules, he always charmed his way out.

Nobody escaped falling under the spell of this beautiful, copper-skinned boy with his mobile mouth and blunt teeth that flashed often in a brilliant smile. High cheekbones and sultry eyes the color of dark chocolate gave his face an exquisite cast. The crook of his nose only enhanced his bad-boy glamour. Guys wanted to be like him, girls dreamed of doing him.

Tatsu’s life was the opposite. He was the only twelve-year-old in the school. Newly arrived from Japan and still in shock from the loss of his family, Tatsu was
bugaisha,
an outsider. His genius mind coupled with his polite, shy manners, guaranteed he was the target of every bully and made high school a living torment. His exotic, pretty face meant the
faggot
slurs began on his first day. It took all his self-control to ignore the vicious taunting. Even when physically attacked, he refused to use his knowledge of secret
Budo
techniques to defend himself. His grandfather would be ashamed. And disappointing
Ojii-san
was far worse than anything anyone else could inflict on him.

Alone and friendless, Tatsu joined the track team. Running gave him that magical moment when Sage Neztsosie captured his heart.

On that astonishing afternoon, athletes, cheerleaders and teachers froze at the football coach’s bellow of rage ripping across the field. Coach and Sage faced each other like two bristling pit bulls. The coach screamed at Sage about his long hair, called him a queer, a fag and ordered the Navajo to get a hair cut “like a
real
man.”

Everyone froze, waiting for Sage to erupt and slam his fist into the coach’s face. Instead, the Navajo’s wide I-don’t-give-a-shit grin spread across his face.

“Maybe I’m a fag, maybe not. But I’m still the best fucking quarterback you’ll ever see.” He undid his waist-length braid and tossed his head. The shining, obsidian mane flared free in the wind.

In his thin running shoes and too-large training shorts, Tatsu stood on the track, completely transfixed by that single, breathtaking sight. An instant, one heartbeat of time, yet Tatsu’s heart was utterly and irrevocably captured.

All that year Tatsu worshipped from afar. He learned they had the same birthday. Every day as he walked to the track, his belly quivered. The kind of quiver guys get when they are about to do something embarrassing or crazy like kiss a girl. His heart thumped painfully in his narrow chest each time he caught a glimpse of the handsome senior.

Tatsu did not know he was in love. His body rollercoastered with bewildering fears and yearnings that frightened and thrilled him at the same time. On the days Sage was absent, Tatsu’s running times fell into the toilet. On the days he caught a glimpse of the Navajo, Tatsu’s world glowed golden.

He didn’t care that Sage was a boy. Tatsu just knew he yearned for the gorgeous Navajo with a sweet painful intensity. He imagined Sage leaning down to him, embracing him, pressing their lips together. Fantasized the feel of strong brown hands sliding down his back to squeeze his small bottom. Tatsu awoke to morning erections and the mystery of white stains on his sheets.

For the rest of the year, Tatsu suffered the agony of his adoration. Then came the moment he left boyhood behind. That day he stood beneath the locker-room shower lost in his naïve fantasy. With a sudden, almost painful blast, Tatsu’s young-boy spunk spurted over the wet tile. Confused and embarrassed, he looked down at his throbbing, dripping prick. And he knew the truth of his feelings for the Navajo.

They only spoke once. On this unforgettable day, Carl, the sadistic leader of the worst school gang, stuffed Tatsu butt first into a trashcan. The gang jeered as Tatsu flailed about in a futile effort to pull himself out. Carl drew a knife from under his sweatshirt and stepped with clear menace toward the trapped boy. “We don’t like slanty-eyed Chinks around here.”

Tatsu’s defiant, “I’m Japanese,” triggered a fresh wave of sniggers and taunts. A sick helplessness washed over him as his thin arms pushed with impotent fury against the sharp rim. The boys crowded around, spewing their hate. Tatsu’s feeble kicks at Carl’s arm drew more heckling. Tatsu fought back tears of frustration, unable to tear his gaze away from that approaching knife tip.

“Why are you all such goddamn assholes?” came a low rumble. Startled, the four spun around. A mixture of relief and shame washed through Tatsu at the sight of the owner of that voice.

Sage leaned against a scraggly mesquite tree. Dappled shadows played over his face, hiding any expression in his obsidian eyes. With lazy grace, the Navajo struck a match against the trunk then set it to his cigarette. His hair fell forward as he took a long drag, blew the smoke out from his nostrils in long, wispy trails.

“Shit, if it isn’t our redskin football hero. Gonna save the little Chink?” Carl brandished the knife toward Sage. “Come on, pretty boy. Let’s see if you got the balls.” The bully, jaw set with murderous belligerence, lumbered toward Sage. The jeering gang crowded behind. Sage stepped from beneath the tree into Carl’s path.

Fascinated and horrified at the same moment, Tatsu watched Sage square his shoulders and crook one finger at the group. Everyone knew one more infraction of school rules would get Sage kicked off the football team. These boys were determined to make that happen.

“
Sumimasen.
Please. Don’t. I’m not worth it,” Tatsu’s plea went unheard.

Carl, waving the knife in wannabe badass moves, lumbered up to the Navajo. “I’m gonna cut your nose off, Injun. Then let’s see how many cunts think your so fucking pretty.”

Sage looked up into Carl’s beefy face then flicked the smoldering matchstick at him. It bounced off his cheek. With an enraged bellow, Carl lunged, sweeping the blade in a clumsy over-handed stab toward Sage. The Navajo faded sideways, grabbed Carl’s wrist, stepped behind the bully’s back, and rotated the arm outward. The joint left its socket with a sickening pop. With a shriek of agony, Carl collapsed to his knees, the arm dangling at a grotesque angle.

“Dammit, you made me drop my smoke.” Sage’s mild expression belied the fury in his dark eyes.

Tatsu’s warning drowned beneath the angry roars of the other three boys. They rushed Sage in a pummeling, pounding, kicking pile. One pinned Sage’s arms while another punched his exposed midsection. The Navajo doubled over with a painful grunt. He continued folding, dropping to one knee. Thrown off balance, the grappler lost his hold. Sage curled sideways, and drove his fist upward into the youth’s exposed groin. The kid shrieked, grabbed his nuts and stumbled back.

Before Sage gained his feet, the third boy aimed the toe of his boot at his head. Sage caught the youth by his airborne foot, sprang up and flipped him backwards over Carl, still howling and rolling in the dirt.

“Goddamn squaw.” The fourth boy grabbed Sage by the shoulder, spun him around and punched him straight in the mouth. The Navajo staggered a moment, scarlet spurting from his split lips.

“Who you calling a squaw?” Before the bully replied, Sage’s fists thudded four fast blows into his gut. Clutching his belly, the gagging kid stumbled backward, shook his head and raised one hand in surrender. Sage shot him a disgusted look, spat out a stream of blood and spit then turned toward Tatsu.

Horrified, Tatsu heard the snick of a switchblade. His cry stuck in his fear-parched throat. The blade flashed through the air toward Sage’s back. But the Navajo was already spinning, his leg coming up in a high sweep. The side of his motorcycle boot connected with the kid’s temple. The youth’s eyes rolled up and he dropped with a single grunt to the dust.

Sage picked up the knife, snapped it closed and shoved it into his pocket. “You touch him again, I’ll kill you all.” He spat again toward the groaning boys and walked toward Tatsu.

“Well,
Atsilí
, little brother, you’ve got yourself in a mess.” Sage grinned and lifted Tatsu out of the trashcan with unexpected gentleness as if taking a baby from its stroller.

A shivery delight rolled through Tatsu’s thin body at the hard grip of Sage’s hands under his wet armpits. Heat fired through Tatsu’s loins at the rich odor of the Navajo’s sweat mingled with the smell of leather and tobacco.

Tatsu’s knees wobbled at Sage’s proximity. He stared up in adoration at the battered, beautiful face. “
Domo arigatō gozaimasu
.”

Not understanding, Sage laughed and shook his head. By the time Tatsu recovered enough to repeat his thanks in English, Sage was already striding away, that thick braid bouncing against his butt.

Sage disappeared the day after graduation. Tatsu hid his heartbreak. Over the years, he was swept up in college life and his grandfather’s constant teaching of the Samurai Way. Days, months then years passed. Absorbed by dedication and commitment, Tatsu felt time run through his fingers, taking with it his hope of seeing the Navajo again.

For the next seven years, Tatsu accepted his heart belonged to a myth. Until that bittersweet day a few weeks past his nineteenth birthday when Tatsu buried
Ojii-san.

And Sage walked back into his life.

Santa Fe dedicated the entire month of December to the Yuletide Festival. Ray Cobb, Tatsu’s uncle, always embraced the holiday with gusto. His enthusiasm and delight over the pageantry, the music, the earnest gestures of goodwill, drew Tatsu and
Ojii-san
into the celebration despite their reserved upbringing. The house filled with the rich smells of Mexican, American and Japanese food, the laughter and crude jokes of Ray’s friends—the sense of home and family. The crazy mixture of cultures formed an international celebration that culminated with a day of feasting and sharing gifts.

And on that day, amid the pleasant turmoil,
Ojii-san
lay down for an afternoon nap and never woke. His ninety-five-year-old heart said enough and simply stopped.

Three days later, Ray and Tatsu built a tiny shrine in the corner of the garden under the willow tree. Ray carved
Ojiisan’s
name, Shiniichiro Kurosaki, in kanji on a wooden
sotoba
and drove it into the ground with a savage grief. At
uma no kuku,
the hour of horse, they interred the old man. Unable to comfort the boy, Ray squeezed Tatsu’s shoulder once before going into the house.

Dressed in white
hakama
and
keiko-gi,
Tatsu knelt in the snow-dusted ground. Grandfather’s swords rested on his right side, their hilts pointing toward the shrine. Thin wisps of smoke from three sticks of incense in a prayer bowl carried the fragrance of sandalwood into the air. Tatsu placed the third and last oval stone before the brick
jinja
that housed his grandfather’s urn. He wrote his farewell prayer on a
fuda
, and tucked the rice-paper scroll beneath that last rock.

Tatsu knelt for hours, letting the sorrow take him. Tears slid unheeded down his cheeks. Numbness seeped into his legs from the near-frozen ground. From somewhere far off, cheerful noises of rejoicing mocked his anguish. He moved inside himself, sought his center, his
tanden
. Wanted to hide there forever.

But
that
presence, that energy, that ineffable sense of
him
reached Tatsu through his grief. Called to him.

Mistrustful of his own senses, Tatsu rose on legs that trembled with hope and excitement. Stared in mute disbelief.

Sage Neztsosie leaned against the wall. The dusky rays of the fading sun caught him, turned him glorious and bronze. He was the desert—flowing obsidian hair, burnished-copper skin, deep cinnamon eyes. In two long strides, the Navajo reached him. He cupped the back of Tatsu’s neck and rolled his thumb in light swirls beneath the hair at the nape. Comfort and understanding spread like a warm blanket from that hand.

“Your
shi’nali
has gone to the ancestors like a true warrior.” Sage called Shiniichiro “grandfather” in the language of the People.

Absurdly, in this time of pain, Tatsu realized they were the same height. He stammered his thanks. Then fell silent and shy before that dark gaze.

“You’ve grown up,
Atsilí.
Couple of days, I’ll come visit. We’ll catch up. Okay?”

The grief that clutched Tatsu’s heart softened as he looked once again into that beautiful, nutmeg face. “
Hai, hai
, I’ll be waiting.” Not ashamed as his voice cracked.

Amid the pop pop of a disgruntled engine, Sage pulled into the driveway two mornings later. He climbed out of the battered pickup and leaned against the rusted fender. Beneath his shabby sheepskin jacket, Sage’s tight black tee outlined the hard bulges of his chest. His hands, thrust into the back pockets of his indigo jeans, stretched the fabric over his magnificent crotch.