The Oni, page 17
Lord Uto smiles his unpleasant smile. The broken shelf crackles in a three-fingered fist.
“You are all dead men. The only question is one of method. Shall I roast you over your own forge, swordmaker? You, you fat old man, shall I stain your priestly robes a deeper red?” The ebon eyes settle on grim Monaga. “Something special for my old acquaintance. I’ll save you for last.”
The Imuri priest stands by his colleague, apparently unmoved by the oni’s threats. His drab traveling clothes, soiled and frayed though they are, seem invested by his bearing with no less majesty than the elaborate costumes of the others. Monaga hardly spares Lord Uto a glance. He fixes on Hoke with a silent rebuke.
The boy will not meet his eyes.
With a scavenger’s instinct, Lord Uto starts with the weakest. The shelf-club descends, its shrill keening slicing the still air, to smash across Taro’s left cheek. Soundlessly, Emperor Kotoku’s chosen sinks to the ground. And stays there.
“Hai!” gloats Lord Uto. “If all Naniwa is as soft, perhaps I will seize the imperial throne today!”
Monaga kneels to aid Taro. Meiko hurls himself forward, shouting, “By Iniro’s sweat, you’ll pay for that cowardly act!”
The hammer swings at a red, scabrous kneecap. The oni dodges the clumsy attack. His club strikes the off-balance swordmaker across the shoulder. The blow’s force spins Meiko around. He staggers toward the forge, jabbing one elbow painfully against the stone as he tumbles to the floor alongside. A pair of tongs clatters from an overhead peg and bounces off his skull.
“Taro!” Monaga whispers as he tears his robe to bind the bleeding welts. “Can you hear me?”
Taro’s eyes focus slowly. The right side of his mouth smiles. “I still live, Monaga.”
“That can be remedied,” snarls Lord Uto. He grasps a trough of cool water, used to quench freshly-heated blades, and overturns it on the hapless Meiko. “In a few more heartbeats, it shall be.”
“It shall not!” Monaga screams. He grips the anvil and pulls himself erect. His fingers touch the uncompleted blade, and wrap around the tang. The edge is dull, yet it stings as his grip tightens. A thread of blood runs unnoticed down his right wrist. “Your evil is to be endured no longer!”
“Ridiculous old man!” Lord Uto spits into the forge. Flames spurt high, singeing paper gohei. “You expect to succeed where my own guards failed?”
Monaga steps around the anvil to stand unobstructed before the towering monster. The priest is human, and has known rage—but never so fiercely burning, and never so determinedly channeled as now. New strength flows into his thin, weary limbs. His feet spread in an attack stance. He feels as if the sword is holding him, rather than the reverse.
He realizes suddenly that it is. His resolve has helped accomplish Taro’s ends.
“This weapon makes the difference, Lord Uto. Kami have bound themselves to it. And they will remain bound until their task is accomplished—your destruction!”
For a moment, the workshop is quiet save for the scrabbling Meiko as he crawls from beneath the trough. Then the rafters shake with the oni’s laughter.
“Have you forgotten, priest? I drove the kami from Imuri! They fear me, too!”
Monaga’s face darkens. “Liar! Not every kami fled, and those who did had done so out of revulsion, not terror!”
Once more, the great horned head tosses back on massive shoulders. Again, hollow crackling rolls forth, mocking Monaga, kami, the Way, the Emperor of Nihon …
With an agility thought lost years ago, Monaga springs forward. The blade sinks deep into the fleshy left thigh. The priest withdraws as quickly, out of reach of that club. Black ichor steams thickly from the wound. Lord Uto seems suddenly diminished, as if slightly deflated.
The oni’s mirth turns into a screech of outraged agony. In the blink of an eye, he loses the complacence of invincibility. Monaga demonstrates a power that unsettles the inhuman creature. With his makeshift club, Lord Uto could crack the priest’s skull or hurl his aged form through the workshop’s fragile walls … but that weapon is all but forgotten in his right hand. The searing in his leg occupies his entire limited intellect.
This cannot be! He is Lord Uto, an oni, the oni of all oni! He cannot be slain by an old man with an unfinished sword!
He needs time to think, a chance to plan his counterattack. Oh, for the burrow beneath his bedchamber in Imuri! His ebon eyes dart from one corner of the workshop to the next, seeking refuge. Panic seizes his mind. Lord Uto pictures himself in the last moments of his former incarnation, lying helpless on his deathbed.
Monaga reads his expression easily. “There is no place you can go, Lord Uto,” he intones, startling himself with the thick menace of his words. “Nowhere that I will not follow, now that I hold the means of ending your foul, unnatural existence. I have stood by, impotent, far too long. No more, I promise you. No more.”
Again the priest attacks. Lord Uto stumbles back, narrowly avoiding the ichor-smeared tip. He nearly trips over Hoke, whose existence is as forgotten as that of his club. Instinct takes over. The massive left hand encircles the boy’s body and lifts him off the floor.
The oni has a shield.
Monaga halts, blade poised. He studies the boy’s face. It is unreadable. Hoke is untrustworthy, traitorous, heartlessly cynical … but still only a boy, under the influence of a demon that was once his human lord. The priest hesitates to harm him.
Shouts echo in the street outside the workshop. Sandals clatter on stone paving.
The oni tilts his head and frowns.
“Imperial guards, Lord Uto,” explains Meiko. He steps forward stiffly, still gripping his hammer, raising it in menace. “Your own screams bring them.”
“They will enter from behind you,” adds Monaga. “They will drive you onto my blade. Your hostage cannot save you.” But the guards might save him, Monaga realizes, if Uto thinks to use the confusion to elude the iron blade. The priest exchanges a glance with Meiko. The swordmaker has reached the same conclusion.
“No,” the oni mutters. “It cannot end like this. I can destroy you, priest. I will destroy you!”
“No respite for you, friend!” Monaga slashes out. The bamboo club in Uto’s monstrous grip is halved. The oni throws down the broken sticks and uses both hands to grip Hoke.
“Master!” cries the struggling boy.
“Be still or I’ll throttle you!” Lord Uto growls.
Hoke frees his right hand and raises it over his head, into the oni’s line of sight. He still holds the ornamental tsuga.
“Your sanctuary, master! In my hand! You can shrink down and …”
“And be trapped, easy prey for your friend, the priest!”
“No! Safe! See! The same metal as in the sword! Forged under the same rituals! Once you are within, the blade cannot touch you!”
Monaga sobs in anguish. “Hoke, you young idiot! If Uto escapes us now, he will destroy all Nihon, you included!”
Lord Uto gapes wide-eyed at this hostage. The infamous smile twists his lips, exposing the fangs. “What a clever boy! Isn’t he bright, priest? He played you for a fool for more than a month, although I admit that is hardly a difficult task!”
Monaga dashes at the oni, blade thrust forward. Not because Lord Uto’s words sting—which they do—but because this is the last chance to strike. The oni swings Hoke into the sword’s path. Its edge veers off at the last moment, as Monaga leaps back. The priest curses himself for his unwillingness to spill the silly child’s blood. If Lord Uto conquers the Eight Islands, Monaga feels he will be as much to blame, for his scruples, as Hoke for his betrayal.
The oni dwindles faster than the eyes can follow. In a heartbeat, he is Hoke’s height; another, no larger than a cat. The rapid conversion of the oni’s mass into energy ends any hope Monaga has of launching a further attack at a smaller, more vulnerable shape. Waves of heated air ripple through the shop, warping wooden wall-planks and forcing the priest to retreat. Monaga’s buttocks press against the stones of the forge, which by comparison feel cool.
Hoke is spared even that much relief. The left shoulder of his kimono falls away, scorched. Beneath is a brilliant three-fingered welt where Lord Uto’s grip held him from running in the first phases of shrinking. The wound is layered, severest in the center, an artifact of the diminution of the hand. Hoke’s skin becomes almost as red as Uto’s. The left side of his face, which is nearest the oni, swells with blisters that force one eye fully closed and the other half shut. The rest of the kimono starts to smoulder. Yet Hoke does not flee, not even when Lord Uto is too small to hold him physically in place.
Too frightened, thinks Monaga. Or in too much pain.
Then the boy moves. He bows on one knee before the oni and lays his right hand palm up on the dirt floor. His thumb holds the tsuga firmly. Lord Uto leaps onto the hand. His footsteps raise tiny blisters. By this time the heat he radiates is considerably lessened. He marches to the open end of the swordhilt. He hesitates at the lip.
Dismay is plain on all three men’s faces.
The workshop door is torn down by the leading imperial guards. Lord Uto crawls up into the slit, skittering rapidly towards the safety of the sealed end. He pauses at the peg hole to peer out mockingly at his enemies.
Hoke suddenly whips the tsuga upward. The oni tumbles to the closed end, with a fearsome, muffled curse. The boy opens his left hand to allow the mekuji in his palm to roll down to his fingers. He jams it into the hole, and keeps it clamped tight with his left hand. He races to the anvil, eluding the startled guardsmen pouring into the room. He slams the tsuga onto the anvil with a clang, and holds it there firmly. The hilt rattles on the flat metal. Youthful muscle stands out along Hoke’s seared arm.
“Now, swordmaker!” the boy cries. “Strike now!”
Meiko is already beside the anvil, the first to fathom the boy’s plan. He raises the hammer and holds it there a moment, waiting.
Metal scrapes metal. Hoke’s sweaty grip is weakening.
“Hurry!” he shouts.
“First move your fingers, lad. I can flatten the end of the mekuji to seal Lord Uto within, but your hand is in the way!”
Hoke’s breathing grows shallow and rigid. Perspiration soaks what remains of his clothing. His fingers ache with the strain of containing the oni’s rage. He shakes his head.
“The moment I let go, he escapes. He moves too quickly. You must seal it first!”
Meiko licks his lips. The hardness in Hoke’s pleading eyes precludes further protest. “A brave boy,” he mutters. He shifts to a two-handed grip and swings.
“No!” Monaga screams. He throws down the blade and stumbles toward the anvil.
Not in time.
Bones crunch under the hammer’s thick head. Enough impact is transmitted to flatten one end of the plug. It will not readily come free, no matter Lord Uto’s strength.
Hoke’s mouth opens, but no sound issues. His agony transcends verbalization. He falls back on the hard dirt floor, his ruined left hand trailing thick, bright blood down the side of the anvil. Even so, he forces his half-open eye to stay on Meiko as the swordsmith flips the hilt over and hammers down the opposite end of the peg.
Monaga cannot recall seeing Hoke smile before.
Blackness envelops the boy then, allowing barely enough time for a last, consoling thought:
Walls of iron now hold Lord Uto prisoner.
New York City
Thursday, December 30, 1982
CHAPTER 35
Creeping daylight washed the last dim stars from the sky, and caused photosensitized cells to switch off the sodium vapor streetlamps along Riverside Drive. A nippy dawn promised colder temperatures than the city had so far experienced this winter, but the sun was blindingly intense.
At this hour there was little traffic on the Drive, or even on the highway that sliced Riverside Park lengthwise. Mrs. Ruggio took no chances. She crossed the street with her terrier hugged to her bosom, streaking her white rabbit’s fur jacket with the pet’s dark gray hairs. They were several paces inside the park when she allowed the animal to stand on his own four feet, relatively safe from canine-hating drivers.
Neighbors speculated on whether Mrs. Ruggio had been widowed, divorced, or deserted … speculation she unconsciously fostered by giving out different stories at different times … except for the truth that she’d never been married. This hint of mystery was her sole claim to character. When her building’s superintendent referred to her, colloquially and out of her earshot, as “the loud fat blonde on the second floor,” he implied more personality than she possessed. She, naturally, was unaware of her lack.
As his paws touched solid ground, the terrier let loose a full dozen high-pitched barks.
“That’s a good Bootsie,” Mrs. Ruggio cooed. She performed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan. No one was watching. The woman slipped Bootsie’s leash from his collar, allowing the animal to scamper due west, through the denuded shrubs that lined the path.
Mrs. Ruggio rolled up the leash and thrust it in her jacket pocket. No stranger could connect her with the free-running dog. She considered New York City’s leash laws a silly nuisance, when she thought about them at all. Almost as foolish as the more recent law that required owners to clean up after their pets. What was she paying taxes for, if she had to do the sanitation department’s job? Anyway, Bootsie wasn’t dirtying the street. This was a public park. What good were parks, if Bootsie couldn’t have his freedom there? A red-bearded hippie once dared to complain because, he claimed, children played here. She’d told him off! It was the parent’s responsibility to see that their children didn’t play in filth! Not hers!
Mrs. Ruggio strolled jerkily down the twisting asphalt path, taking her time, giving the terrier plenty of opportunity to do his business decorously, out of her sight, as she’d trained him to do. What she didn’t see, she couldn’t be made to clean up or get a ticket for. Shortly, though, Mrs. Ruggio picked up the pace. A frown deepened the scowl lines etched like canyons in her plump face. Bootsie ought to have frisked back to her by now.
She hoped he wasn’t constipated again.
“Bootsie!” she called. “Here, Bootsie! Kiss kiss!”
Three sharp barks sounded from the next turn in the path. Mrs. Ruggio clapped her hands in summons. She listened for the familiar scuttering of unclipped toenails on the hardtop.
She did not hear it.
That Bootsie! He’d probably found another wino to badger. So cute, the way the little gray dog nipped and clawed at the merest sliver of exposed flesh, preferring the ankles, until he drove the indigent from park bench or doorway. Of course, Mrs. Ruggio knew she shouldn’t let him do it. No telling what disease or parasites Bootsie might pick up.
“Just as I thought!” she scolded as she made the turn.
Bootsie was hopping like a frog, yapping away, thoroughly pleased with himself. Sniffing first here, then there, he circled a black man lying face down at the edge of the path. The man did not move a muscle. Must’ve gotten a snootful last night, mused Mrs. Ruggio. And such disgusting rags! Falling off his body! He could at least get a decent suit! Then maybe he could find a job!
She stopped short, gasping. The man’s buttocks were completely exposed! He must have passed out trying to go to the bathroom! And people had the nerve to complain about her little Bootsie! She ought to call a policeman and have the drunken slob put away for good! Not that one could expect any better behavior from a schwartzer!
Bootsie raised a hind leg to mark his find—not for the first time.
“Stop that, Bootsie! Come here. Come to Momma. Kiss kiss.”
The dog yipped and lowered the leg. He took two steps toward his owner, and stopped. He sniffed ground he hadn’t sniffed before. A deep growl vibrated in his throat.
“Come on, Bootsie. Kiss kiss.”
Reluctantly, the terrier took three more steps before halting again to look back at the unmoving man. A pink tongue dangled under the animal’s snout. He panted white clouds.
Exasperated, Mrs. Ruggio closed the gap in five long strides, pulling the leash from her pocket. “Bad dog!” she scolded, grasping Bootsie’s collar. “Making Momma come near this vile creature. Just for that, you’re getting a bath today whether you …”
The sentence died in her throat. The terrier yelped as the leash’s clip snagged on curly gray fur. Mrs. Ruggio slapped his muzzle absently. Bending to fasten the leash brought her close enough to see that the black man’s face rested in a pool of dark blood. Another stream of blood, mixed with excrement and freshly diluted by Bootsie’s marking, smeared the ground around his buttocks.
The wind had been blowing toward the river. It reversed direction.
Pale-faced, holding her breath, Mrs. Ruggio scooped up Bootsie. His muzzle pressed tightly against the fur jacket. The terrier gave a frightened cry. Mrs. Ruggio loosened her grip enough for the animal to breathe.
She saw no one as she hurried from the park. No one saw her, she hoped. Her heartbeat did not slow to normal until she’d crossed Riverside Drive and gotten halfway to West End Avenue.
She’d narrowly avoided an unpleasant experience, but she was safe now. She wouldn’t have to talk to the police about dead bodies.
“Tonight, Bootsie,” she whispered to the shaking gray ball in her arms, “we take our walk in Central Park.”
Bootsie growled.
Twenty minutes later, Richard Alexander Jones’s corpse was rediscovered by a middle-aged man in a powder-blue jogging suit. He was looking for a phone booth when he saw a pair of oddly matched uniformed patrolmen enter the park.
“Officers!” he called. “Thank God I don’t have to go through the 911 number!”
The patrolmen halted, exchanging glances. “You the one found the body?” asked the tall one.
“Just now. How did you know? This way.”
“Wait a minute,” snapped the short one. “That’s north. The dispatcher said the old man was near the river.”
