Late Summer, Early Spring Page 9
Daigo shot Iwata a questioning look, but he ignored him, falling in behind Hiroshi. Surely Daigo was confused by his uncle’s coldness. But Iwata was too bewildered himself to give Daigo any explanation. Bewildered and angry—and hurt too. Iwata had forgotten what it felt like to be hurt. He hated it. His anger grew stronger, swallowing the hurt and confusion. He hadn’t expected Hiroshi to embrace and kiss him, not in front of his nephew, but he seemed furious that Iwata was there.
Hiroshi forged through the fog as if he could see where he was going, but several times he had to duck branches that loomed suddenly out of the mist, and once he cursed under his breath when he planted his foot in the middle of a mud puddle. Iwata began to suspect that Hiroshi’s haste was driven by a need to stay ahead of him.
Iwata stared at his tense shoulders, still straight under the weight of his pack. He could remember the lean, hard muscles of those shoulders beneath his fingers—had dreamed of it, touching Hiroshi’s bare skin, tugging at his braid to get his attention.
But now the ragged ends of Hiroshi’s hair lay on his neck.
Iwata’s back began to ache, and his knees sent twinges of pain into his calves. The left side of his neck had gone numb. It did sometimes, since the fox had sunk its fangs there. Behind him he heard Daigo, his step light and youthful. Iwata gritted his teeth and tramped on.
The fog lifted just in time to show them the sun descending toward the bare trees. The sky bloomed orange and red just above the blackened branches.
Hiroshi halted, squinting suspiciously at it. “We have to stop for the night. I’ll find a good place to make camp.”
Iwata breathed deeply. Mixed with the smells of water and trees was a faint acrid scent that stung his nose. “I smell salt. If we push ahead a little farther, we can camp in the open. We’re close to the shore.”
Hiroshi was shaking his head before Iwata had finished. “No. We have to settle in before the sun goes down. The creature hunts at night.”
The place Hiroshi chose was a rocky outcrop tightly hemmed in by huge trees whose roots broke the ground like tiny hills. They set about the business of making camp. No one spoke.
It wasn’t until they were kneeling around the fire, surrounded by darkness, that Hiroshi spoke again. “I heard of the prince’s death. It grieved me. He was nothing but kind to Momo and me.”
“He was a good father.” Daigo smiled wistfully. The flames threw his broad face into shadow. “Though I confess, I hated him for a while after… after Mother died. Shiro and I were away at school, and I thought if he hadn’t sent us there….” He shrugged. “It was ridiculous, of course. All his sons left for school when we turned ten. And what could I have done, when two of the finest soldiers in the Empire… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Three,” Iwata muttered.
Daigo looked at him in puzzlement. But Hiroshi understood. “Three of us fought the fox, Nephew. Your father, weak as he was, managed to help us.”
“I never knew that.”
“He didn’t like to talk about it.” Iwata gazed into the twisting flames. Hiroshi sat next to Daigo, opposite Iwata. In the uncertain light, his face wavered between shadow and illumination. “He never recovered from losing your mother.”
Daigo glanced at Hiroshi, who shrugged. “I’m sure the Lord General speaks the truth. I don’t know myself. I left immediately after the funeral.”
They lapsed into silence. Daigo abruptly rose. “Dawn will be here far too soon. I’m going to sleep.” Smiling shyly, he added, “I’m glad to see you, Uncle Hiroshi. I knew Lord General Iwata could find you, if anyone could.” He went to his mat, laid out between two bulging tree roots. He fussed with the blankets a moment, then lay down. Iwata noticed that he’d settled rather pointedly with his back to them. It wasn’t necessary. Iwata knew how deeply Daigo slept, and in an empire where most houses had thin wooden walls, people learned early to mind their own concerns.
Iwata’s heart quickened. After eight years Hiroshi sat just across the fire, his knees drawn to his chest, his chin resting on them in a pose Iwata remembered. The vague, lost desire that had plagued him in Hiroshi’s absence had grown in the hours he’d walked behind him, and now it bit deep, a sharp hunger that reduced his breath to shallow gasps. The urge to step around the flames and grab Hiroshi’s shoulders, haul him to his feet, and bury his face in the remains of Hiroshi’s hair, gnawed at him. But something in Hiroshi’s posture—his knuckles white where they clutched his legs, his thin face drawn—kept him in his place. The silence, punctuated by the popping of the fire, stretched perilously thin.
Finally Iwata said, “Your hair looks strange.”
After a painfully long moment, Hiroshi nodded. “That long braid wasn’t practical for my new life.”
“I never saw it out of a braid, except once.” Iwata took a deep, shuddering breath. “Hiro—”
“No one ever called me that but you.” Beyond the flames Hiroshi curled tighter into himself. Iwata had to lean perilously close to the fire to hear him. “Why are you here, Sho?”
Iwata gritted his teeth. “As soon as the prince’s funeral was over, I came to find you.”
Hiroshi’s gaze lifted. His eyes were clouded with something Iwata couldn’t name, but which sent a sharp edge of unease between his ribs. Hiroshi jerked his head away, staring again at the fire.
Iwata added, “I’m going to help you kill the fox.”
Silence again. Hiroshi pushed his hair off his forehead and rose. “It’s late.” His voice was brittle. “We should sleep.”
Their mats were next to each other. There wasn’t much space among the twisted tree roots. Hiroshi lay on his back—that at least had not changed. The sinking fire threw his profile into shadow. Iwata lay next to him, barely an arm’s length away. He turned his back on Hiroshi. Even so, he thought he could hear Hiroshi’s slow, even breathing. Iwata closed his eyes and steeled himself. It was going to be a painfully long night.
THE MEMORY came, as it often did, in the form of a dream. It was one of many, but this memory was a frequent visitor.
The regiment had been camped for days in one spot while Prince Narita attended the wedding of one of his sons. Iwata had gone with him. He and Hiroshi had been lovers a month, and Iwata had spent the five days away thinking of little else. As soon as he dismounted, he ordered Captain Sagawara to his tent to report to him what had happened while he was gone. He ignored the knowing looks exchanged by the other soldiers—they gossiped more than old women. They knew, and Iwata didn’t care.
Hiroshi ducked into Iwata’s tent with a smile. “My lord, welcome back. What did you—”
Iwata didn’t let him finish the question.
Some time later an unfamiliar voice called from outside the tent. “Lord General Iwata? I have a message for you.”
Iwata raised his head, but before he could bark an answer, the tent flap was shoved aside and a young man’s round face appeared. “My lord, I….” He gaped.
Iwata imagined what the young soldier was seeing. Prince Narita’s second-in-command, sitting on the floor of his tent with Captain Sagawara sprawled in his lap. One sleeve of Hiroshi’s robe was yanked down, baring his shoulder. Hiroshi’s back was to the flap. He turned his head, presenting the boy with his profile—the scarred side, so there was no mistaking his identity.
“What is your message?” Hiroshi sounded as if he was on a battlefield, not caught in his lover’s arms.
“I… umm… the….” The soldier couldn’t have been older than fifteen. His face flushed red. “Prince Narita says to tell my lord that the new horses have arrived.”
“I see,” Hiroshi said. “If you’re not planning to join us, you should go.”
“Yes, Captain!” The boy bolted from the tent.
Hiroshi pressed his face into Iwata’s neck, shaking with silent laughter. Iwata pushed the robe from his other shoulder, tracing the ridge of his collarbone with his thumb. “What exactly did you find amusing about that?”
“Shut up,” Iwata growled. He kissed Hiroshi slowly, raking his teeth over his lower lip. Hiroshi shivered and arched against Iwata.
“I’m sorry, Sho,” he murmured. He slipped his arms around Iwata’s waist. Then he chuckled again. “Did you see the look on his face?”
Iwata sighed with impatience. He slid one hand down between their bodies and with the other pulled Hiroshi down into a fierce kiss.
Hiroshi finally stopped laughing.
IWATA WOKE with a start. The dream had ended in the middle, and he was unfulfilled, aching, his mouth dry. He could still feel the pressure of Hiroshi’s fingers on his body, Hiroshi’s breath on his skin. He breathed deeply of the cool, damp night air. The fire had burned down, an orange glow like a tiny earthbound sunset. Above, the tree branches were a darker web against the night sky. Iwata rolled onto his side. Hiroshi was still on his back, but relaxed, asleep. His arms had fallen and lay loosely at his sides. Iwata’s heart shuddered in his chest. The need of the dream memory burned in him. Tentatively he reached for Hiroshi’s hand, brushing Hiroshi’s fingertips with his own. The tiny contact sent a shudder up his arm and through the rest of his body. For an instant he considered inching closer, twining his fingers with Hiroshi’s, holding the hand that had caressed him in the dream. But Hiroshi abruptly rolled on his side, pulling his hand away. Iwata found himself blinking at the dark shape of Hiroshi’s back.
Iwata draped his arm over his face to shut out the sight. He tried to sleep.
IWATA WOKE into watery gray light. Sometime during the restless night, he’d rolled onto a tiny rock that dug into his lower back, and his body hurt out of all proportion to the size of the stone. He rose and stretched as much stiffness as he could from his muscles. Daigo bent over the rekindled fire, boiling water for tea. He smiled briefly but quickly returned his gaze to the pot. Surely he knew that whatever had happened while he slept had not gone well.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Iwata glanced around the camp. His mat was the only one still unrolled. “Where’s your uncle?”
“There’s a stream over that ridge. He said he was going to fetch water so we can wash our faces. There should be a town on the other side of this forest. If we’re going to make inquiries, we should at least look a bit presentable.”
“I see.” Iwata began to fold his blanket.
“I can do that, my lord. The stream isn’t far. I went earlier. It’s cold. Better than from a waterskin, I think.”
“All right,” Iwata wasn’t sure Hiroshi would even speak to him after last night. But the urge to see his former lover overwhelmed his apprehension. He dropped the blanket and hiked in the direction Daigo had indicated.
Bare branches jabbed at his face like skeletal fingers. Iwata shoved them aside, feeling a slight satisfaction when they snapped. Birds twittered foolishly above him. The smell of water hit him first, then the gentle trickling of a stream over rock. For some reason he couldn’t name, Iwata slowed his steps, moving as soundlessly as he could through the bare forest.
Between two trunks he saw the glimmer of daylight on water. Iwata paused, watching.
Hiroshi crouched on the bank, naked to the waist. His hair was wet. Hiroshi looked almost the same—sharply defined muscles, the ridges of his hips—but there were new scars. A pink line as long as a finger across his shoulder blade, a mark the size of Iwata’s palm marred his upper arm, and the most striking—four parallel scratches, pinkish gray, at the place where his ribs ended. Animal claws. Fox claws?
Hiroshi splashed water on his face, scratching at his beard.
Iwata stepped out of the trees. Questions crowded his mind. What had happened? Where had the scars come from? What had Hiroshi done these last eight years? For the first time Iwata felt the length of their separation as a wide gulf between them. The realization made him uneasy. To hide his disquiet, he stalked to the stream without speaking.
Hiroshi looked up, his eyes narrowing. He watched as Iwata knelt on a flat rock and shrugged off his kimono. Iwata rolled up the sleeves of his wide under-robe and thrust his hands into the water. Goose bumps shivered up his arms.
Hiroshi pulled on his kimono and knotted the sash. “Why do you still wear the military kimono, when you’ve resigned?”
“I have two kimonos. They’re both black.” Iwata couldn’t remember ever wearing another color. He splashed a handful of the frigid water on his face.
Hiroshi made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Did you sleep well?”
“Enough.”
Hiroshi didn’t move. “That night, after Momo’s funeral, I tracked the fox to a little village. I stayed in a shrine that night. I didn’t think I would ever sleep, but I was so tired from sitting vigil for Momo, I slept better than I had since the prince took ill.”
Iwata rested his hands on his knees. The swift water swirled around a rock that jutted from the middle of the stream, surrounding it with a collar of bubbles. He didn’t know what to say, so he kept silent, staring at the water. Behind him, cloth rustled on rock as Hiroshi turned to go.
“Where did you get those scars?” The question fell from Iwata’s tongue against his will.
Hiroshi paused. “They’re not from the fox. The one on my shoulder comes from falling down a ravine years ago—I don’t remember. It’s difficult to track days, living like this. Another time I came upon a bear one spring. It had just woken and was irritable.” He offered no further explanation.
“Those were bad wounds.” Had Hiroshi survived them alone, or did someone nurse them? Someone like Kaji?
“Neither were as bad as the one I got eight years ago.”
“With that beard, you can barely see it.”
Hiroshi’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, and for a moment he looked almost his old self, before the fox. Abruptly his expression cleared. He looked away.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “The one on my face.”
Iwata had said something wrong, but what? Annoyed, he straightened up and brushed off his robe. A trickle of icy water meandered down his neck into his collar. “We have to go. We’re losing time.”
“HAVE YOU confronted the demon before, Uncle?”
Iwata slackened his pace, curious to hear the answer. He glanced over his shoulder, but Hiroshi’s head was turned, his loose hair hiding the scar on his temple. “Not since the night we chased it away from your father. I’ve seen it twice. Twice in eight years.”
Bitterness weighed heavily in his voice. A frown settled over Iwata’s face. He strained to hear over the crunching of his feet in the undergrowth.
“What’s it like?”
Iwata’s frown deepened. Couldn’t Daigo hear the hard edge of pain in Hiroshi’s voice? He answered instead. “The size of a bear, white all over but for the tips of its tails. It has a broken fang, and it’s missing a toe now, thanks to the prince.”
“It’s evil,” Hiroshi said flatly. “It toys with humans. It never needed Prince Narita’s life force. It played with us like a cat does a mouse, tormenting us for its own pleasure. It killed your mother for no reason but its own amusement.”
Daigo fell silent. Iwata turned back to the path he was forging. Hiroshi was right—the thing was evil. Iwata had felt it himself. The fox had sunk its teeth into his neck and left no scars, but sometimes he still felt the pressure of its jaws in those rare minutes when he was alone and had nothing else to think about.
Sunlight flooded his vision, and Iwata paused, blinking. He’d emerged from the trees. Fool. Pay attention!
He glanced around quickly. Beyond the tree line lay a strip of land covered in yellowed grass as tall as Iwata’s chest. Past the tangle of grass lay a village, small houses of weathered wood scattered
like game pieces dropped by a giant child. Farther away Iwata saw a glittering blue line: the sea, darker beneath the rich blue of the sky. The air was heavy with the smell of salt. Iwata squinted, seeking movement, but the village appeared deserted.
The others came up beside him. Daigo grinned. “We have it trapped. Foxes are land spirits, they can’t cross water.”
Iwata remembered how a priest had sprinkled sea salt around Prince Narita, hoping to confuse the creature. The seven-tailed fox had scattered the salt as if it were dust.
Hiroshi seemed to be thinking the same thing. “I wouldn’t count on that.”
They approached the village slowly. Three travel-worn men could easily be taken for bandits by nervous peasants. As they drew near the first house, a ramshackle little rectangle whose boards were weathered smooth and gray, Iwata smelled something else in the salty air: the pervasive stink of fish.
A sharp twinge of pain in Iwata’s thigh nearly buckled his knee. It was where the dagger scar marred his leg, a spot that sometimes ached but never hurt this badly. Hiroshi glanced at him. An instant later pain flooded Iwata’s neck where he’d been bitten. With his good arm, he reached out and steadied himself against the wall. The boards were almost soft beneath his hands. The burning lanced deep into his muscles; Iwata closed his eyes, trying to force the pain away to some corner of his mind where he could ignore it.
“Sho?” Hiroshi’s long fingers gripped Iwata’s elbow. Iwata blinked through a haze of agony. Hiroshi’s forehead was furrowed in concern.
“My neck,” Iwata grated between clenched teeth, “and my leg.” The pain didn’t ease, but it grew no worse. Hiroshi’s nearness distracted him. Iwata managed to straighten up, sweat coursing down his temples.
“Your neck….” Hiroshi trailed off as realization hit him. He reached for his katana but didn’t relax his hold on Iwata’s arm.
Daigo stared as if they’d both gone mad. “What’s wrong, Uncle?”