The Nicholas Linnear Novels (37 page)

“How do you know that?”

“I asked Aunt Itami once and she made out as if she hadn’t heard a word I’d said.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, then.”

Yukio merely shrugged, putting her arms across her breasts. “Can we go in? I’m hungry.”

They went into the house and Nicholas excused himself. He went off to his room and, throwing off his dirty robe, padded into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, stepped inside the stall. Someone as traditional as Itami would, perhaps, prefer the bath but Nicholas had no such predispositions.

It was good to feel the hot water on his body and he began to soap up, his thoughts on the day at the
dōjō.
He had wanted to talk to Kansatsu after the match with Saigō but that had proved impossible. Why hadn’t he mentioned the match to Yukio? There had been ample opportunity when she had brought up Saigō. He shrugged, dismissing the thought.

He turned his head, curious. A shadow had been thrown against the frosted glass of the shower stall. It condensed in size. The person was coming into the bathroom.

He turned off the water, opened the door.

He stood perfectly still. Water beaded his skin, glistening in the fluorescent light of the bathroom, which had turned her skin opalescent.

“You are quite beautiful,” Yukio said. She was naked. She held a baize bath towel over one arm. She did not offer it to him.

He watched her face for any sign of what she might be thinking. He thought of her words. He saw hunger in her eyes.

He was seventeen and she two years his senior. In terms of chronology it wasn’t much but now it seemed like light-years. Despite all his training, his careful schooling, his cool intellect, he felt lost beside her, as if she were some doorway to a world for which he had been totally unprepared.

She took one step toward him. Her lips opened and she said something. It might have been as mundane as “Do you want this?” He couldn’t tell. One leg was extended in front of the other, as his had been earlier at the
dōjō
as the beginning of the interlacing cross. Her tiny ankle, the flesh of the calf, the extended knee, the long sweep of her thigh.

Something inside him, high up at the top of his brain, seemed to rise up, beginning to float away, as if someone unknown had chopped at the last cables holding him to the earth. It went twisting away, diminishing in size with such rapidity that he forgot that it had ever been a part of him.

“Come here,” he said thickly and his hand reached out, brushing the towel from her arm. It pooled on the glistening tile floor as her arms lifted to him.

“Yukio.” But a breath.

Her breasts were high and round, the dark nipples long and already very hard. Her narrow waist, her creamy belly. The dark mound of her mons was highly arched.

Her arms came around him and he enclosed her open mouth.

She slid her body against his, not using her hand at all, only her lips against his own, down his neck, back upward again, almost desperate in their urgency. Her breasts rubbed along the wet flesh of his chest, picking up the moisture; her mound was against him, gently massaging.

Her lips were at his ear and he heard her whisper, “Turn on the water.”

He half turned, reaching behind them both to spin the taps. Hot water gushed down, inundating them, and as he turned back to her, he found that he was already deep inside her. He gasped. By what magic had she accomplished that? Sensations rolled like liquid thunder upward from his groin, engulfing him.

As he began to move against her, he saw her head float back, upturned, the wet hair cascading down like a stream at midnight. Her face was in the rush of water, her eyes rolling backward, and her mouth wide open in a soundless scream. He could hear panting. Her arms came up, reaching over their bobbing heads to grasp the slippery chrome spout. Her knuckles turned white. Her thighs rose until they were locked around his waist and he was supporting her with his body. Her belly ground in hard circular movements as if she could not get enough of him and he was obliged to put his hands on her waist so that she wouldn’t throw herself from their wet connection. The fierce heavings of her body mounted. It was like trying to hang on to a wild animal in the shuddering throes of death.

She began to scream now and abruptly he understood why she had wanted the water on. The pleasure was becoming unbearable and his legs began to tremble with the effort and the straining for release. Dimly he became aware that she was saying something to him.

“Hit me,” she moaned. “Hit me.”

He thought that in this state he must have misheard her but she repeated it over and over, a litany. Her breasts shook, rivulets of moisture ran down her supple flesh. Her body was arched backward, her hands still gripping the spout, their bodies pistoning frantically.

She was gasping and moaning and he didn’t think that he could hold out much longer. Her body seemed bottom-heavy.

“Please!” she cried to him. “Please, please, please!” But he would not raise a hand to her. “I know,” she gasped out, her lips against his ear. The hot rain crashing against them, her hard nipples scraping his chest. “I know what happened today—at the
dōjō
.” Her voice was ragged and there were uneven gaps between the words. Still, he heard her. “I know—oh! Hit me, darling. Hit me!” And then, savagely, “I fucked Saigō, just as I’m fucking you now!”

He struck her then, as she wanted him to do, indeed, as she needed him to do.

“Oh!” she cried out, her body arching. “Oh, oh, oh, darling! I’m going!”

And, in that moment, he felt a ring of muscles deep inside her gripping him, clamping his flesh in exquisite torment, and he too cried out, his legs giving way at last. Her fists slipped from the spout and they collapsed to the bottom of the stall, the water on them, all around them, the steam rising. Her arms came around him, pulling him hard against her, both of them still in orgasm.

The clouds were on fire.

The sun, sliding downward in its arc, broke across the oblique shoulder of Fuji, turning the sky the color of crimson. As quickly as it had come, the flare faded as the sun dipped behind the mountain and all that was left was traces of pink, slowly healing wounds on the undersides of the passing clouds. Soon they had turned gray. The lights were lit.

Kansatsu sat cross-legged in the center of the
dōjō.
Nicholas faced him. Nothing was said. The students, the other
sensei
had departed for the night. These two stayed on, breathing.

“Tell me,” Kansatsu said at last, “what you have learned from the
Go Rin No Sho
.” His eyes remained closed.

“There is good in it,” said Nicholas. “And evil.”

“That is rare, Nicholas.”

“On the contrary,
sensei
.”

“So?”

“I don’t think anything in life is all good or all bad.”

Kansatsu opened his eyes and nodded: “You have learned well, Nicholas. You are an astute student. It is a bad idea to rely too heavily on one discipline or one strategy set. This quickly becomes ingrained and one’s thinking stagnates. Rely only on the situation that presents itself. If you let notions of strategy dictate to you, you will surely be defeated.” He closed his eyes again. “You would be surprised, Nicholas, at the number of quite good students who make that mistake.
Sensei,
too.”

For a time there was silence between them. From outside Nicholas heard the muffled cough of a car starting. It drove off, the beams from its headlights swinging briefly across his field of vision. Darkness returned. A plover twittered, took off in a soft clatter.

Nicholas cleared his throat. “I have read it all.”

“And what do you think?”

“To be truthful, I don’t know what to think.”

“Do the ninja interest you, Nicholas?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

“I didn’t know I had.”

“Then you had better look inside yourself.”

He thought for a moment. “I guess I feel I should have said no.”

“Ah.”

“Ninjutsu seems a forbidden topic.”

“Arcane, yes. Forbidden, no.” Kansatsu stared at Nicholas across the small space between them. “Even here in Japan, there is surprisingly little known about the ninja. They are from a segment of society about which no Japanese can be proud. But ninjutsu is an ancient art. It came from China, or so it is commonly said. I do not think that anyone could tell you with absolute certainty.

“The ninja were not bound by the Way of the Warrior.
Bushido
was only a word to them. Their rise was swift. Because they were so successful, the
bushi
used them more and more. As their wealth increased, so did the sophistication and diversity of their techniques. There came a time, then, when the samurai came to the ninja to learn. Thus the Way became perverted.

“There are many
ryu
in Japan. More than in any official governmental count. Among these, the variety of disciplines taught is virtually limitless. Good and evil are sometimes propounded indiscriminately.” He did not have to ask if Nicholas was following his line of thought. Darkness, now; the clouds obscuring the moon. Only man-made lights shone.

“To be a true champion, Nicholas, one must explore the darkness, too.”

That evening, Cheong took Nicholas aside. They went into the Colonel’s study. It smelled of tobacco smoke and leather. Along with the kitchen, it was a Western room in an otherwise very traditional Japanese house.

Cheong sat sideways on the high-backed wooden chair in front of the Colonel’s roll-top desk. Nicholas sat on the leather couch, near her.

“You are happy that Yukio has come to stay with us.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” he said truthfully. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

Cheong smiled. “You are growing up but you are still my child. I think I have a right to ask. You don’t have to answer me, you know.”

His eyes dropped to his hands for a moment. “I know that,” he said softly.

She leaned forward, enclosed his hands in hers. “My darling, you have nothing to fear from me. Whatever you and Yukio do is between the two of you. Your father may not approve but he sees different things than we do. He is still a soldier and, therefore, mistrusts everyone and everything.”

Nicholas looked at her. “He mistrusts Yukio. But what—”

Cheong shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, don’t you see that? It’s a blind spot he has. Never mind. I’m quite certain he mistrusted So-Peng in the beginning.”

She turned and, opening a drawer in the desk with a key, she produced the dragon-and-tiger box that was So-Peng’s parting gift to her and the Colonel. With deft, economical movements of her fingers she opened the box.

“You see,” she said in a hushed voice, “there are fifteen.” She meant the emeralds. “There were sixteen, originally. One bought this house.” She looked up at him. “I’m sure your father told you the story of this present.” Nicholas nodded and she continued. “What he didn’t tell you was its meaning. I’m not certain whether even he knows it fully.” She shrugged. “And if he did, he would most likely dismiss the idea. He is a most pragmatic man, your father.” She smiled. “One of his few faults, I’m afraid.”

She put the opened box with its glittering contents in Nicholas’ lap.

“You are free to use six of these. To convert into money if your need is sufficient. No, hear me out. I want you to understand this fully; I think you can accept what I’m going to tell you.” She took a deep breath. “There must never be less than nine emeralds in here. Ever. No matter the reason, you must not use more than six.

“This is a mystical box, Nicholas. It has certain powers.” She paused, as if waiting. “I see you’re not smiling. Good. I believe it as did my father, So-Peng. He was a great and wise man in all matters, Nicholas. He was no fool. He knew well that there exist on the Asian continent many things which defy analysis; which, perhaps, have no place in the modern world. They relate to another set of Laws; they are timeless.” She shrugged again. “So I believe.” She took her hands away from the box, watched his face. “You are old enough now to form your own opinions about the world and its mysteries. If you believe, then the power will be there for you when someday you need it.”

Night. Nicholas in the living room, cross-legged in front of the window.

High in the sky, clear now of clouds, the full moon sent reflected light scattering down across the treetops and, closer to him, the formal garden. Intense black shadows streaked the window as the tall pine near the front of the house was illuminated as if by some celestial spotlight. Now and again, as the wind disturbed the branches, the shadows moved up and down, up and down, the motion of a fairyland boat from tales his mother used to tell him as he was falling asleep years ago. That time seemed long gone and Nicholas wondered now whether this was something all people felt: that childhood belonged to another, simpler time when all decisions were minor and seemed of little consequence.

In times gone by; on sleepless nights, that lone pine had been his protector. He knew every configuration, every angle of its branches, every knot along its thick trunk. Now it seemed to him to have been transmogrified. He saw it as an old soldier, a guardian in the night, a friend and an ally.
To be a true champion…

His world was changing so swiftly now.

Haragei
allowed him to become aware of her presence as she stepped into the room. He did not move. He heard her coming toward him. Softly. Softly. Appalled, he found himself getting hard. He willed his erection down but his body would not listen.

She sat down gracefully, facing him, away from the moonlight. Her face black in the dense shadows, her long blue-black hair haloed faintly in platinum light. He thought he could see her entire body beat with the rhythm of her pulse.

He was so acutely aware of her, it was almost painful. The musk of her body mingled with a perfume he could not identify; a certain heat that transmitted itself physically. But there was more, an almost tangible force. He felt enveloped by her aura.

The house was so still that he could hear the white noise soughing in his inner ear like an internal storm.