Death on an Autumn River

Chapter Nineteen

Hanae would not stop screaming, and Tora jerked into partial wakefulness: he lay on strange and uncomfortable bedding and the screaming continued.

Opening his eyes on darkness, he made out the chinks of a door. The smell and touch of his rough bedding registered. He was in the Hostel of the Flying Cranes, and there was a real woman screaming outside his door.

He cursed and scrambled up. At the door, he remembered the demon and hesitated with his hand on the bar, but another blood-curdling scream overcame his fear. He lifted the bar, flung the door open, and looked out at the moonlit night.

The screams came from the shack near the back fence. He could just make out a shadowy figure struggling with a smaller one. The smaller one was a woman. Some brute trying to rape her? With a shout Tora rushed to the rescue.

The man was big. He let go of the female, who scurried away, and turned to Tora with a welcoming smile. The smile was unexpected, and Tora almost stopped, but it was already too late. Dark figures rose up beside him, behind him, surrounding him as if they had sprung from the earth. His last thought was that he had walked into a whole gathering of demons. A short, sharp pain to the back of his head wiped out any other reflections.

*

He came half-awake to swaying and bobbing motions. He was wet, and there were strange noises, scraping of wood, splashing of water, rhythmic breathing. The back of his head hurt abominably, and he turned it a little. Nausea rose. He retched, then vomited and vomited again. This woke him completely. Still retching, he tried to sit up and failed because he was trussed up tightly, his feet tied together and his arms caught under loops of rope that passed around his chest. Above him was a dark and hazy sky. It was dawn or dusk-he did not know which- and when he moved his sore head a little, he made out the backs of four men rowing. They were in a boat, and all around was gray mist and black water.

It made no sense.

The boat hit a larger wave, rose up and plunged back down, and Tora’s head bounced against the bottom of the boat with such force that he passed out again.

He came round next because he was being manhandled into an upright position. He heard grunts and curses and felt rough hands on his body. Someone above him shouted, “Hurry up, you lazy bastards.”

He was still tied up but instinctively kicked out against the men who had hold of him. There were more curses and ringing slap to his head that made him see stars where there should not have been any, and then the bonds tightened around his chest, the hands fell away, and he rose up into the air, pulled by a rope attached to his back. It was daylight. As he swung, he saw first the side of a ship and then the open water and men in a boat below. And when he looked up, there were, against the pale sky, the outlines of dark heads peering down at him. Like a pendulum, he swung and rose, sometimes out over the angry waves below him, sometimes painfully against the rough timbers of the ship’s bow.

They dragged him over the side and let him drop. He vomited again and was kicked in the chest. Some time passed in a haze of misery. His face was raw from scraping against the ship, his head hurt like blazes, and he was dizzy. The kick to his chest might have broken a rib, he thought. There was an excruciating stab of pain whenever the ship rolled or he took a deep breath.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on taking shallow breaths and waited, feeling wretched. And always, there was the question: Why was he here? What did they want with him?

Ship’s noises. Men running about, shouting. Things like “Pull hard,” “Make fast,” “Heave”. Bare legs and feet scampered past his bleary eyes. He heard rattling, creaking, heavy breathing, curses, and a wet flapping sound. The wooden boards he lay on shifted, rose, and fell, and the rolling of the ship made him sick again.

After several more bouts of vomiting, he found that the rushing about had stopped. He turned his head to look. He was lying amidships near the railing. Across from him was a roofed cabin, and above two huge dark sails rose into the blue sky. Ropes fastened these to the front, back, and sides of the ship. The flapping sound came from these sails. Up ahead, four men stood in line, pushing long oars. As he looked at them, one began a rhythmic chant, hai, hai, hai, hai, with every stroke of the long oar. The others joined in one by one. The ship moved less sluggishly and with more purpose.

They were on their way. The ship was taking him away from land, from help, from any chance of being rescued or escaping. Already, the huge sails were filling as they caught a breeze.

He struggled into a more upright position and twisted his body to look back. A fierce pain in his side made him gasp and close his eyes. When the pain ebbed a little, he peered through the railing. He was not in a good place for seeing the land, and he dared not twist any more. As it was, he saw a sliver of the coast with some houses, and a ship or two. It was not enough to know where he was, but he guessed the houses belonged to Kawajiri or a neighboring village.

He had been knocked out and abducted by the men on this ship. If there was any mercy in his situation, it was the fact that they were much too busy to bother with him. But this was a temporary relief. In the moments of the ship’s departure, as the men had been running about on deck, he had seen a writhing dragon tattooed on one of the sturdy thighs.

It seemed a lot of trouble to go to for revenge.

Tora was reasonably sure he was on board a pirate ship. Dragon Tattoo would see to it that he could not talk himself out of his present dilemma by offering to become a pirate. He searched his mind for the man’s name. Toji? No, Tojo. At least that was the name the bastard had given at the hostel.

Tora scooted his bound body slowly and painfully against the side of the ship and leaned against the boards.

Nausea returned and dizziness joined it. Not seasickness, he thought, but the knock on his head. The back of his skull hurt badly enough to signal a crack. And there was blood, too. He could smell it. It had soaked into the back of shirt and jacket and stiffened. The rest of him was wet. They must have dragged him through water to get him into the boat.

They had taken his sword. No surprise there, but he had liked that weapon. It was short, but it had fit his hand perfectly, and its weight had been light enough for some clever wrist work. He mourned his sword for a while, breathed carefully, and watched the sailors at their work. Most seemed his own age, with some youngsters mixed in. Altogether, he counted eighteen men and boys, plus the helmsman. There might be more in the cabin and below deck, but he doubted it. The ship was quite large and had two masts with huge square sails. The helmsman at the rudder, issuing orders was probably the captain.

They were leaving the port of Kawajiri and heading out into the Bay of Naniwa-he assumed that was where they were-and this appeared to be tricky work. Where were they headed? The farther they got from the coast, the less likely it was that he could escape. He strained against his bonds. In vain. It was already too late. If and when they made landfall and he escaped, it would take him many days to return to Naniwa.

What would his master do? Would he worry and put himself in danger to find him? Of course, he would.

Bitter recriminations occupied him next: How could he have been so careless? That screaming female had been a decoy to lure him out of his room, and he had fallen for it like a mere novice. But why all this effort? It did not make sense that Dragon Tattoo would carry his revenge this far and get his shipmates to help him. Why not just beat him up or kill him behind the hostel?

He found no answer and turned his mind to how they had worked it. Kunimitsu must have sold him out. Maybe Kunimitsu had offered him up to Dragon Tattoo as an apology for having cheated him at dice. They had all been scared enough of the bastard. And most likely they had been scared because they had known that Dragon Tattoo was one of the pirates, and his companions would return with him to take care of Kunimitsu and his buddies. Add that they could not call on the police to protect them because of the gambling. It was likely that Kunimitsu had had dealings with pirates before.

At this point Tora dozed off.

He woke to a sudden, sharp pain to his injured chest and roared. Dragon Tattoo loomed above him, his foot still in the air. He grinned malevolently. The bastard had kicked him. Tora sucked in his breath and steeled himself for more. The pirate’s grin was spoiled by a fresh gap in his front teeth. Tora took some satisfaction from that.

But no other blows fell.

“What the hell did you do to me?” Tora croaked.

“It’s not what I did, scum. It’s what I’m going do,” said Dragon Tattoo, baring his missing teeth again. “You’ll be talking to my chief, and when he’s done with you, you die.”

“Why? What’s going on? And where are we going?”

“None of your business.” Dragon Tattoo spat in Tora’s face and walked away.

Rubbing the spittle off on his shoulder, Tora considered. The chief was not the captain and did not appear to be on the ship. So he was being taken to some pirate stronghold or hideout. Perhaps there was still some hope of talking himself out of this fix. Dragon Tattoo’s threat he put from his mind. There was time to deal with him later. He closed his eyes again.

He woke with a terrible thirst. This time, he had lost all sense of time. The sun was high, and he was baking like a fish on a griddle. At the corner of the cabin, four pirates were throwing dice. Evidently, gambling was their main occupation when they weren’t asleep or working.

He croaked, “How about some water?”

They turned their heads and stared at him. One of them muttered something. They guffawed and went back to their game.

“Oh, come on! Just a drink of water. I’m burning up here.”

One of them got up, walked over to the side of the ship and dropped a pail on a rope into the sea. Bringing it back up, he carried it to Tora and flung the contents over him. “Wet enough for you, spy?” he asked.

The others guffawed some more.

The water cooled Tora’s burning skin for a moment, but the little that got into his parched mouth made his thirst worse, and his skin began to itch.

Spy?

Where did they get the idea he was a spy? He thought back and could not remember saying or doing anything that would have given his purpose away.

Nothing much happened the rest of the day. They ignored him. His thoughts went to Seimei and he grieved. Seimei would be disappointed in him, but he would tell him, “Don’t be afraid to mend your faults.” How did you mend this fault?

He tried to beg for water one more time when a different sailor walked past and got another kick for his troubles. In the afternoon, clouds moved in, and a sharp wind sprang up. It got cold very quickly. The big sails flapped and the masts creaked. Tora shivered.

Within an hour or so, the sky had turned dark, lightning tore across it, and the wind buffeted the sails, and caused turbulent waves. The ship plunged and rose, plunged and rose. Thunder rolled.

The pirates did not seem too concerned, and Tora decided that they knew what they were doing. He thought about rain. Surely there would be rain. Blessed rain. He was utterly parched and miserable. But the rain held off, and the wind grew stronger. The day turned into a long night.

When the rolling of the ship increased, Tora pushed himself against the railing and held on with the fingers of one hand. The movement and strain hurt his damaged rib, so he tried to find a more comfortable position by moving his arms to ease the pressure of the rope. This proved in vain on his right side, but on the left, a knot allowed his wrist and hand enough room to twist a little. Encouraged, he continued to work at stretching and shifting the loops around his chest. It occurred to him that he might push the rope lower, toward his waist, and gain some extra room. He looked around and saw a large metal ring attached to the deck. It probably served to fasten something or other but was not in use and only a couple of feet away. Lying down, he used his legs to slide his back on top of the ring. When the ring caught against the rope that passed around his back and chest, he started pushing hard.

The heart of the storm came up fast, and all hell broke loose on the ship. The pirates rushed about; sails flapped as men moved the great horizontal beams that held the canvas spread out to lessen and deflect the force of the wind against them. It took three men to hold and move the rudder, and the ship tossed about, rolled, and rose to unimaginable heights, only to drop into precipitous depths over and over again.

Tora’s work became immeasurably harder. He kept sliding and had no way of controlling this. Besides, his struggles at pushing the rope down were extremely painful, and he seemed to be making things worse. He was sweating, yet he shivered in the cold wind. Spray came over the sides. He was afraid the rope would tighten further when it got wet, and so he tried to push harder and faster. All the while, he kept an eye on the sailors and made himself as small as he could, afraid that they would stop him.

But there was little chance of that. They were busy reefing the sails and tying things down. Feet stepped on him, stumbled over him, kicked him here and there, but they paid him no other attention.

It got dark very quickly-a good thing, because they could not see what he was doing, but the darkness added to his fear. If the ship went down, he would not be able to save himself.

The rain finally came in great gusts. He let it fall into his open mouth, tried to soak it up with his skin. Blessed rain. And he finally felt the rope begin to give a little. His rib cage protested briefly and very painfully, but then the strain shifted lower, to his flat belly, and he had a little room to twist and turn his left arm.

This was still a far cry from being able to extricate it, but further painful maneuvers, including rolling back and forth on the wet deck, loosened the rope loops some more, and he freed first his upper arm and then, with a final excruciating effort, his elbow. The rest was easy, but he was by then utterly worn out from pain and effort. He lay exhausted, flexing his free hand.

The storm did not rest. Lines snapped, a sail came loose and tore, the roof of the cabin came off, piece by life-threatening piece hurling about the deck and overboard. Then one of the masts cracked and slowly leaned, tilting the ship.

Tora slid hard against the railing and held on with his free hand. The sea washed over him, and he pulled himself up to catch a breath, muttering a prayer under his breath. Only a short while ago, he would have been lost, bound hand and foot and washed over the side.

Suddenly he was not alone. One of the pirates had slid down, hit the rail beside him, and started to go over the side. Instinctively, Tora let go and grabbed the man. For a moment, their lives hung in the balance. The next roll of the ship would toss them both overboard.

But the sailor, having both arms free, caught himself and clasped the railing, then pulled them both back from the brink. They stood, staring at each other, and Tora released him. They would come now and tie him up again, he thought. All that effort and pain for nothing and he would still drown in the end.

The sailor suddenly pulled a knife, and Tora jerked away and fell. Never mind drowning, he thought, lying on the wet deck, the knife will be quicker. But the man bent to his feet, and Tora felt those bonds parting. Then he cut the rope that still held his right arm. When he was done and Tora was free, he turned away and plunged back into the driving rain where the others were using axes to cut loose the broken mast.

Tora sat against the side and held on. The storm was still fully upon them and water came from all sides. It was impossible to tell what was rain and what sea. Waves washed across the deck, and once, as the ship pitched hard, he almost tumbled over the side again.

While lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and ever larger seas swamped the ship, Tora thought of his family, and how he loved his sweet, dainty wife Hanae with every fiber of his being. She had been the one to make sacrifices to be with him and she had given him his son Yuki. He felt a fierce pride that Yuki had attacked the armed intruders. The love and the courage of that act! If he died in this storm, he would lie lost and unburied among the shells and fishes. They would mourn him for years, hoping in vain that he might return some day. He wept at the pity of this, and then he prayed to the Buddha and clutched the railing with icy fingers.

But the storm abated at last, and dawn came, and with its silver light, a shout from one of the pirates. Tora turned his head and looked around blearily. He saw an island, a mere dark silhouette against the gray of the sea and the paling sky. Beyond, vague shadows might be other islands. A gull circled overhead and gave a shrill cry, and the pirates burst into shouts and happy laughter. They had reached home.

Tora sighed. He doubted he had much to be happy about.