Chapter One
Obaa-chan: Grandmother.
The smoke was still billowing into the sky, by the time Hannibal Lecter arrived. The charred remains of the once grand house stood blackened and hollow, it's soulless rooms exposed to the elements like carrion. He adjusted his raybans, and slowly breathed in the sour stench of decay, shuddering inwardly as it rattled his lungs like groping fingers.
"Oh My Lady Murasaki, the fates have not been kind …" he mused quietly.
He took one last look at the house before the swarming fireman moved him onwards, and got into his car. He drove slowly and purposefully down the street, dissecting the neighbourhood before parking up next to his rented accommodation; a quaint but comfortable ground-floor apartment a few blocks down from the smoking ruins.
With only working hand, he wrestled with his belongings and dragged them into the flat. To his chagrin, the place was empty and white-washed, echoing the husk-of-a-building down the street.
"Nevermind," he muttered to himself, "I think I need some retail therapy."
Two days before. Tokyo.
Lady Murasaki gently placed down her pliers, and ran her fingers over the smooth vines of the Kokai tree she had planted ten years ago. Today, it had come into bloom; a pallet of red, luscious flowers opening their petals to the watery sunlight descending from the roof of the greenhouse. Lady Murasaki smiled, gazing around her flowing oasis; a result of her life's work as one of Tokyo's most celebrated Horticulturalists.
Even though the years had passed, and she was riddled with arthritis and her hair was now grey, she had lovingly tended to each and every plant as if it were a child. There was an enamouring peace which hung in the air, which Lady Murasaki pinned down to her fortuitous life and good-health. Or good Karma.
The door slid open. Lady Murasaki looked up as her granddaughter Taka entered the greenhouse, slightly red in the cheeks due to the condensation. She bowed.
"Obaa-chan," she smiled, "dinner is ready. I have cooked your favourite; sashimi with extra eel."
"And Sake?"
"No Sake tonight," Taka laughed, taking her grandmother's arm. "I remember last time. No more dancing on the tables."
The two women laughed and exited the greenhouse. With the aid of Taka, Lady Murasaki knelt down at her table and stared at the sashimi, which was accompanied with some tablets.
"So this is how you force these things down my throat?" she complained, glaring at the tablets in disgust. "I have said before, I have my own remedies."
Taka sighed, and Lady Murasaki felt a stab of guilt. She was turning into a grumpy old lady, and knew her granddaughter was only doing her duty. Her crippling arthritis had sent her tumbling down the stairs a few weeks ago, dislocating her left shoulder. The side-effects of the medication made her feel vulnerable, something which she loathed. Working in her garden was her medicine, but Lady Murasaki knew that Taka was just as stubborn as her and would force the tablets down her mouth whether she liked it or not.
"Please take them, Obaa-chan," Taka replied firmly placing the medication closer to the sashimi. She sat down before her own bowl of rice, said a quiet prayer and the two women in ate in companionable silence. Outside the room, the distant rumble of relentless traffic drifted through the windows, rattling the floorboards.
Lady Murasaki had trained her mind to block out the urban annoyance, but enjoyed how different the peace in her own home differed to the outside world. After dinner, she bid farewell to Taka who seemed reluctant to leave her and automatically lit a candle beside the door. Darkness had fallen, and Lady Murasaki began her usual bedtime ritual. As she shrugged on a more comfortable kimono, she caught her reflection in a mirror; the dancing shadows enhanced the contours of her withered face but her eyes retained the same wiry strength when she was young.
Many people marvelled how she managed to live alone since her husband died fifteen years ago, but duly, Lady Murasaki loved her own company and her garden breathed purpose into each day.
She padded down a darkening corridor and stole a glimpse of one of her most priceless possessions; her ancestor's amour and weapons. Normally, she would pray to her Samurai masters for strength but tonight she felt content enough to merely bow her head in respect and move onto her chambers. Even as she lay in the comforting folds of her bed, her mind suddenly felt restless. There was a missing sword from the collection, and Lady Murasaki knew exactly who had taken it.
"He had no honour," she whispered into the darkness. "Why? … why? Forgive me ancestors."
Sleep finally wrapped it's arms around her frail body, and Lady Murasaki closed her eyes, blissfully unaware of the pair of cold eyes peering at her through the gloom.