Whistling Past the Graveyard (40 page)

Billy shook his head, but Uncle Conch was staring at the urn. He opened it and looked at the soft gray nothing that was Cooter.

“I done this,” he murmured. “I got no one else alive on this earth who is blood kin to me. The Boukman name, proudest blood of my people, dies when I die. And if I die this moment, right now, then that blood turns to piss that ain’t worth hosing off the street.”

He drew a long breath.

“But I got me a little breath left and a little blood yet, and I got me a heart that is so full of hate that it wants to burst open and break the world. So what you think I should do?”

Billy said nothing. His eyes were huge and round.

“You ‘member Cooter said I could magic, white boy. Pretend I’m a genie in a bottle and you can ask one wish. What that wish going to be?”

Billy looked at the urn and down at the melted flamingos and then up at the endless blue sky. “I guess I’d want two wishes,” he said.

“What wishes, boy?”

“I’d want to see Cooter again. He’s my best friend, you know? He’s the greatest, Cooter’s the king. I’d want to see him again. Not with burns on him, though. Like he was yesterday morning. Laughing and happy, singing to himself like the way his mom used to. That’s what I’d wish for.”

A tear broke from Uncle Conch’s eye and wandered over the million seams and lines in the old man’s face, burning like hot silver.

“And what’s your second wish? You want me to burn those boys who burned Cooter? You want me to raise the devils of hell to burn them? Or how about I call the
loas
of vengeance and we turn these melted gnomes into a pack of monsters to hunt
that
pack of monsters. I could do that. That’s dark magic. I call Kalfu and I could do that.”

But Billy shook his head. “No…if I only had one more wish after that, I’d want Cooter and me to fly out of here. Far away. Like flamingos, but not melted ones. Not fly like we’re smoking ice, but really fly. All the way into the sky. That would be the shit, man. That’s what Cooter would want.”

Uncle Conch stared at Billy for a long, long time.

“That’s all you want? You can have all the revenge you want and instead you want to fly away with my Cooter like a couple of birds?”

Billy closed his eyes.

“Big pink flamingos, man. So high…so free…”

-5-

Billy thought he said more to Uncle Conch, but he couldn’t hear his own words. Another sob hitched his shoulders.

But it wasn’t a sob, of course. He knew that. When he opened his eyes, he knew that much.

Far, far below the Passaic River curved along the edge of Newark, but from up here it looked like a blue ribbon. Billy turned to say something to Uncle Conch, but it wasn’t the old man. It was Cooter. Big and pink and riding free. Billy called out to him, but his voice sounded different. It didn’t sound like his voice. And it didn’t sound wrong. It sounded right. It sounded too right.

Billy closed his eyes and he laughed in that strange new voice as he and Cooter flew free.

-6-

Uncle Conch took his time getting to his feet. He was old but parts of him were even older, used up before their time. He braced himself on his cane and began lumbering toward his car.

In his chest, his heart hammered like old drums. Fast, insistent, powerful. Pain darted up and down his left arm.

But he hummed as he walked to his car. He knew that he wasn’t going to die in the next five minutes. Not that soon. When he got to the curb he turned and looked at the debris in the yard. The flamingos were gone, and that made him smile. For just a moment. It would be the last of Uncle Conch’s smiles to touch that face.

Then his eyes fell on the little singed and half-melted gnomes. Nasty looking little things. Stupid things. White man’s idea of what looked good on a man’s lawn.

The eyes that looked on the gnomes were Uncle Conch’s for one blink longer. Then with the next blink the eyes changed from dark brown to fiery red. The smile on the old mouth changed, became broader, brighter. No longer the pained smile of a dying man but the vital smile of something far more powerful. In his chest the old heart began hammering to a rhythm that was many times older than the body around it. A rhythm many times older than the pavement beneath the scuffed shoes. Many times older than the country in which he stood. As old as hate, and that was so very old.

“Rise up, my brother spirits,” said the voice that was no longer Uncle Conch’s. Nor was the language English, or French, or Creole.

On the lawn, there was a small sound, a tiny groan, a rasp of plastic. One of the lawn gnomes raised its singed and sooty head. The white beard was streaked with ash, the eyes were melted holes. The mouth was stamped into the plastic. But then the plastic lips trembled and the whole body trembled with effort and finally there was a
popping
noise as the mouth opened. Broken, twisted plastic in a zigzag gash. The little creature smiled, and its wide and wicked grin was exactly the same as what was now stretched across Uncle Conch’s mouth. The mouth that had belonged to Uncle Conch, when there had been an Uncle Conch.

“Rise up, brother spirits,” repeated Kalfu, using Uncle Conch’s borrowed mouth. Each word was exhaled on a hot breath that blew through the open door of hate in the ancient body. “They are serving dinner on Seventh Avenue. White meat, served rare. All you can eat.”

One by one the melted gnomes opened empty eyes and ripped open jagged mouths. Hungry mouths. They rose unsteadily to their feet, tottering toward the open car door beside which Kalfu, their brother, waited.

Author’s Note on “The Death Poem of Sensei Ōtoro”

Sometimes a story waits patiently in a writer’s head until the right moment for it to be written. This is one of those. And it involves several of my favorite elements—weird history, horror, action, and martial arts—particularly the sword arts of the Samurai. I’ve been a lifelong practitioner of Japanese martial arts and have always wanted to write a tale set in Feudal Japan. This is it.

-Ichi-

Ōtoro knelt by the doorway to contemplate the cherry blossoms as the late afternoon breeze dusted them from the branches. The courtyard was a softly rippling sea of white and pink.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

The servant girl came and poured more tea and the fragrance of jasmine perfumed the air. He nodded his thanks but did not touch the cup until she was gone. Ōtoro didn’t know this girl and didn’t like her furtive looks. Might be curiosity—everyone was curious about a stranger until they knew the story—and it might be suspicion. Anyone who was not suspicious in these times was a fool; but suspicion could have so many meanings. He kept his sword hand on his thigh until she had closed the door and her soft footsteps had vanished down the hall.

In the courtyard of the inn blossoms fell like silent tears from the trees. Ōtoro sipped his tea. It was a little too strong; the girl had hoped to impress him with its scent so that he wouldn’t notice that she’d over-brewed it. He took a second sip and set the cup aside.

Beyond the holly hedge he saw the tops of two heads bobbing their way toward him. Ōtoro considered the angle of the sun. They were right on time and he appreciated promptness. The two men emerged from behind the holly, paused to orient themselves, saw the open door and angled that way. The older man was Ito, a daimyo of considerable wealth and connections; his young companion was unknown to Ōtoro.

Ito was perhaps sixty, in fine silks, the other less than half his age in less expensive clothes. Both wore two swords—it confirmed what Ōtoro had learned about Ito, that he was a traditional Samurai, a devout Buddhist rather than a Christian. The Christians did not carry the shorter sword, the
wakazashi
, as it was against their religion to commit seppuku, even when faced with a loss of honor. Ōtoro disliked and distrusted this spreading departure from the values by which his family had lived for centuries, though he was realistic enough to accept that some changes were inevitable. Europe was closing its fist around Japan and eventually even the age of the samurai would pass.

One day, he knew; but it was a day he would never live to see. Like the samurai culture itself, his time was nearly over.

The visitors drew closer. Ito walked with casual confidence, his companion affected a gamecock strut. They came to the edge of the courtyard and the younger man strode forward, body erect as a statue, his gait that of an experienced but arrogant veteran. The young man made as if to keep walking but Ito stopped him with an arm across his chest. The older man looked out across the unbroken sea of cherry blossom petals and his face changed from a purposeful frown to a softer look, eyes scanning the color, lips parting slightly. The younger man just looked past the beauty to where Ōtoro sat.

A samurai and a fool, mused Ōtoro.

Ito looked up and made eye-contact with Ōtoro across the forty feet of color. He bowed ever so slightly. Not yet an introduction—but clearly an acknowledgment of the moment. It was that, more than any of the letters and presents Ōtoro had so far received or anything that was said or given later, that decided his mind. Because of the blossoms Ōtoro knew that he would help this man, that he would kill whomever he wanted killed.

-
Ni
-

Ōtoro lifted his fingers an inch and Ito took that as an invitation to enter the courtyard. He stepped into the blossoms and now it was okay that his footsteps disturbed them. Beauty is meant to behold, it is not meant to endure. The younger man followed him across the courtyard, his strut increasing as they approached.

They stopped again about ten feet away and everyone bowed. Ōtoro and Ito both lowered their eyes when they bowed; the young fool did not. He probably still lacked confidence in who and what he was supposed to be. Dogs are like that. Men shouldn’t be.

“Ōtoro-san,” the older man said. “It is my great pleasure to meet you.”

“Ito-sama. Please be welcome.”

Ito nodded toward his companion. “This is Kangyu, my nephew and heir.”

At closer range Ōtoro realized that the old man’s companion was not a grown man at all but was instead a tall boy of maybe sixteen years. His erect posture and aggressive manner were probably more for show—a display intended to convince others as well as himself that he was a man and a samurai. Seeing this, Ōtoro relented from his previous assumption that Kangyu was a fool. He was merely young.

Ōtoro gave Kangyu a small bow, not out of any real respect but because Ito’s statement surprised him and the bow hid his reaction. Ito had three sons. This boy could not possibly be any closer than fourth in line to inherit the clan’s considerable wealth. Ōtoro hid his surprise behind good manners.

“Please be comfortable. The girl will bring saké if you wish, or tea.”

The guests knelt and Ito pulled his swords from his belt and set them beside him. Kangyu did not; the younger man’s hands fidgeted on the scabbard.

Ōtoro tapped a small bell with a stick and the girl appeared with a fresh pot of tea, clean cups, and a tray of rice cakes. She poured and withdrew.

“The tea is very fragrant,” Ito said but he didn’t drink any and Ōtoro knew that this was a segue from politeness to business, but now that it came to it Ito seemed to hesitate, his face pale and damp from exertion, and Ōtoro wondered if the hesitation was sadness, sickness, or perhaps a trace of weakness.

“Ito-sama,” Ōtoro prompted, “your letter indicated that this was a matter of both grave importance and some urgency.”

The old man studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Importance? Yes, without a doubt. Urgent?” He smiled a weary smile. “That’s relative, all things considered.”

“Timely, perhaps?” Ōtoro suggested.

“Timely indeed.” Ito took a breath. “I am dying, Ōtoro-san.”

Ōtoro was careful not to move or show anything on his face. Less than a year ago that statement would have been one of indifference to him. People tended to die, old men more so. Now, however, death was a spirit who whispered in Ōtoro’s ear. Death, he reflected, takes on so many new meanings when you are, yourself, dying.

But there was more to it than that. Death had reached out its hand across the entire nation and many thousands had died. The coastal merchants called it the ‘Spanich Disease,’ attaching the label based solely on a popular belief that the plague originated among the passengers on a Spanish trading vessel. That claim had never been substantiated, though the government burned three Spanish traders to the waterline and issued an inflexible warning to all others to steer clear of all Japanese ports.

Ōtoro studied Ito for the signs of the disease, but although the old man’s skin was pale it was not gray. There were no visible signs of unhealed bites or sores. On the other hand, clothing hid so much and a bite could be anywhere. Even so, this man was still able to speak. If he did have the Spanich Disease, it could not be very far advanced.

It did make Ōtoro wonder more about the presence of Kangyu. Was his nephew traveling with him as a bodyguard, or as a
kaishakunin
—the person entrusted with the death cut during seppuku?

Ito must have been reading his thoughts because he smiled and shook his head. “No, Ōtoro-san, I don’t have the Spanish Disease. I have a wasting sickness of the bowels. A cancer.” He made a small gesture. “Not the most dignified way to die, and not the ideal end for a samurai.”

The old man’s eyes were penetrating as he said this, and there was an expectant quality to the fragment of a smile on his mouth.

After allowing a moment to come and go, Ōtoro said, “All things die.”

“And some in better ways than others,” Ito replied, and Ōtoro nodded to acknowledge the point.