* * * *
Night encroached.
The fire crackled in the tree-rimmed clearing, its lambent glow pulsing and ebbing at the encircling blackness, now parting the veil, now shrinking before it.
The samurai sat cross-legged in the radiant warmth, a sullen frown tugging at his lips, arms limp, elbows on knees. He waxed meditative in the flickering patterns of color, the charring twigs becoming dying memories he sought to quicken, to order, to understand.
Always the needs, the nagging aches in one’s head and heart. The needs and...the search, the search back and forth and up and down this angry continent....
The Sagami lay naked along his left side. To the right, two things he had crudely fashioned: a torch of dry grass tied to a sturdy limb; and the mystical implement made from his seppuku sword and the spare killing blade. A dirk was lashed to his thigh. Apart from these, there were none to call friend this night. Loneliness washed over and through him like waves lapping an eroding shore.
Tora snorted peevishly and stamped at the carpet of pine needles under his hooves. Although he had been unburdened of the saddle, he was unused to being tethered. But something else was making him skittish—something that had cost both horse and rider a good deal of sleep over the past few nights. Gonji could only guess at what the animal felt. But to him the sensation was of entrapment, the predator studying its prey from silent vantage.
Gonji yanked a slab of beef from its perch over the fire. No luck in the stream, and even the flame hadn’t helped the beef; it tasted like stropping leather. He tossed it aside with a scowl and munched the last few berries. Leaning back on his arms, he regarded the tattered patch of sky the jutting treetops allowed him.
A pale yellow moon nestled between twin pine peaks. From the lowlands the moon spread a cheery glow over the earth. Here in the high hills it was different; sharper, hard-edged, glowering, offering little comfort. In a few days it would be full. In its present aspect it looked about as friendly as a bloated leech.
Gonji drank deeply from a skin filled with fresh water. He had chilled the wineskin in the stream and would have much preferred the heady drink. But after pulling at the skin once, he had decided to forego the pleasure, caution tugging at the back of his mind.
At length he stretched himself. Loose, circular contortions. He growled and sneered, baring his white teeth casually, like a languidly reclining lion. Confidence. Always display the swagger of dominance in the face of the enemy.
Gazing at the starry pitch above, he wondered whether, as the people on this continent believed, the dead lived on somewhere beyond the heavens. If so, was his mother there now—she who had both blessed and cursed him? Did she watch him from above, guide his meanderings? Had she, in her incredible voyagings, traveled farther than he? Had any man journeyed as he had? seen what he had seen? if so, lived as long as he to tell of it? Was it, as some said, that the sky above was a great wall which no man can pass, the stars but portals through which the gods may peer at the folly of men?
Kojimura thought that way. Kojimura....
The wind moaned on the slopes, alluring and deceitful in its movement, as if diverting the attention. An unnatural stillness settled over the forest.
I am, the grand thought came, a man of destiny. Why else would my life become such a mad whirl of ironies, tragedies, misbegotten motives, ridiculous quests? Can I not see into my own head, the good and right that is there, the thoughts of others lost to me? Perhaps they have none. Is not all illusion? Then, if it is my illusion, why can’t I change it to suit me?
And as Gonji thought on these things, ominous clouds gathered at the fringe of his consciousness, and he saw the images of his mind through a murky haze, a rolling tapestry of bitter loneliness—mutual hatred—friendless death—all manner of foulness from bottomless hells—the good suffering, the evil triumphant—swords raised in skeletal fists—starving children—ravaging plague—creeping things that stole the peace of death—eternity without purpose—life without duty—empty souls that shared nothing—kills, endless kills—rivers of blood—the Weeping Sisters....
The samurai’s soul cried out in its pain.
And the children of darkness heard its cry.
They had come at midnight, sensing his anguish and acute vulnerability. Never had they been able to approach so closely before. The glade became an unholy arena, crouching and slithering shadows pressing forward anxiously. He had felt their presence before. Never in the vision, always just at the periphery. The eyes. The hot red eyes that burned with forbidden hunger; the cold yellow slits, dispassionate, commanding, beckoning with...promise...lust....
As one they moved inward.
Gonji could hear Tora’s frenzied bolting. The animal’s fierce whinnying carried challenge, bordered on madness. Brave steed. The visions that had stolen Gonji’s will departed, but he had been a fool. The meditation had lulled him, allowed them to penetrate his defenses. Still in a half-trance, he could only stare into the flames. The fire had burned low.
They sighed, and as a body moved closer.
Gonji tried desperately to strain against the icy chill that numbed his flesh, his sinew, penetrated to the core of his being. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled down his arms, lidded his eyes in a way that bade sleep. Sweet, peaceful sleep—no! Fear. Rampant fear....
It is a power, Gonji-san. A force which may be used like any other. Learn to use it. The predator knows well its strength....Have you ever known such fear, Master Oguni?
Still Gonji stared. He reeled slightly with his effort to move, nausea roiling in his belly. Behind, Tora stomped and screamed, lashed backward with his hind legs. The embers burned lower. When they were spent—
When the first soft tinkle of the Sisters’ sobbing came to him, Gonji was able to raise his head, focus his spotted vision. They advanced to right and left, two of them, white as the lotus blossom in their nakedness, sinuous and hypnotic as only the sea can be when it courts one to floating death. First came the deep longing, the searing heat in his loins. Then the mellifluous voices that gently massaged his aching mind. Their weeping was for him alone....
—See how lonely he is, tiny, fragile man!
—Let us ease his burden, sister, touch him with soft comfort.
Another wraithlike step, and he could smell their caressing scent, a wisp of cherry blossom, a hint of fragrant verdant hills. Takayama Province—he dreamed a dream of home....
—So sad, so sad is his longing, it thickens the life in his veins....
—His heart is heavy with the death wish, I shall set him free....
Hulking shades gasped and groaned with passion, swaying in rhythmic accord, as the Sisters floated nearer on unsoiled feet.
Their wan song cleft Gonji’s spirit, setting two forces in motion: The bitter needs and desires that gnawed at him sensed the surfeit of sweet peace promised by surrender; the yearning was intense. But beneath them rang the ever-vigilant alarm, the pounding pulse that thawed unwilling muscle, the rush of adrenalin.
As deep draughts of air swelled his chest, Gonji at last saw clearly the face of the nearer Sister. She smiled a familiar smile.
Reiko. Sweet, gentle Reiko, her casual allure, perfumed hair—
—Let me touch you, Dear One, it has been so long, so very, very long....
—Come, let us make love, weary, hungry little man....
He staggered to his feet, slumped, found something to support him, leaned forward on it tentatively. His head began to clear. He looked at Reiko. Different, different—hai. The blood thrummed feverishly in his brain. His eyes strained to part the misty blackness that cradled the advancing white sirens. The night, the glade, the heavy sweetness in which he swooned strove to wilt and crush him. A womb. A monstrous womb engulfed him. He would emerge stillborn.
If it must come, then