THERE WAS A SHIP
Scribe Figaro
Chapter Four
A Hellish Thing
And I had done a hellish thing
And it would work 'em woe
I.
Sango was not much of a philosopher, and much of what she thought of the world could be said in this way: Things happened.
Sometimes, things happened because something caused them to happen. Most times, in fact. It was often easy to understand why events occurred. Her skill in demon fighting required prediction, and prediction required deductive ability, and reason, though there were other things as well. Intuition, they said, was a woman's strength. The men she fought with, in her village, had often joked about her ability to know things faster than a man could know them, to sense danger, to dodge or duck well before the need to dodge or duck was apparent. She thought this was misleading but good-natured camaraderie. Perhaps it was even demeaning - the idea that she, a young woman, could not possibly fight as she did with natural skill. But she did not think that was the intent of her comrades in arms.
Sometimes, things happened for no reason. Even with hindsight, it is often difficult to say for certain why a series of events played out in the way that they did. Sometimes the reason is irrelevant, and when there is no clear reason, there can be no prediction.
But sometimes things happened, and Sango could not predict these things, but she could feel them. Sometimes the wheel of fate spun abruptly, sending a shudder that shook Sango to the core, if only for half an instant. The resonation of nature rebelling against something, the sensation that all was going well until, beyond logic, the path of fate turned sharply, the breathless sensation in Sango's chest as she felt that fate accelerate down a steep embankment, the sides too rocky to escape, the path before set, the speed so great the destination cannot be seen clearly, the distance impossible to judge, but the certainty still there that whatever lay before was inescapable and disastrous.
She felt this feeling before, kneeling before the elder Hitomi, the lord already in service of the demon Naraku. He doubted their skill, and her father defended her honor, and the honor of her brother Kohaku. But as her father's words disappeared in the night sky, the half-instant of panic, the feeling of horrific inevitability, struck her, and at once was gone. She did not think of the sensation again, not even when Kohaku's kusari-gama pierced her back and sent fragments of her ribs into her lung.
The premonition was so rare as to be useless to her, and it always came so long before the actual danger that she would often not remember ever having the feeling. Were she especially pragmatic, she might wonder how often this premonition came without ever being followed, but she simply did not dwell on this issue enough to come up with this idea.
Thus, when Sango kneeled before the stacked tinder in the center of their camp, holding out one hand as Houshi-sama placed the flint and striking stone in her palm, she did not think much about the very brief moment of dread she experienced.
"Sango?"
He noticed it, of course. He was looking directly at her, and surely he noticed the brief change in expression when his fingertips so gently brushed against the heel of her palm, when for an instant she was certain that something unspeakably terrible was about to happen to them.
She squeezed the flint and striking stone in her hand, feeling reassured by their weight.
"It's nothing. Just a chill."
He nodded, though clearly dissatisfied. He would be watching her closely for a while, waiting for a moment to speak privately with her, and making himself available then. It was unnecessary, of course, but it made her happy he worried for her, and that he did so without being overbearing.
Sango thought no more of it that evening. But she would remember this feeling. She wondered if this was the moment she realized, unconsciously, that she and Houshi-sama, whose fates were already close together, were at that moment set on a path by which they would be driven apart. She wondered if that was the time the gods decided to test her, to test both of them, and see what sacrifices she would make to keep him.
She wondered if the gods had sent her a wave of ill will on purpose, so that she would know this touch would be the last kind gesture she would ever receive from Houshi-sama.
But she knew none of this then, and the feeling of dread was already forgotten as she leaned forward over the small twigs and grass that she had shaved razor-thin. She struck the flint into the stone, showering the tinder, then cupping the smoking grass in her hands and coaxing it with her breath. She was rewarded with a long yellow flame, to which she quickly fed the small sticks, building the fire up with practiced skill.
Had she known what was going to happen, she would have made the fire in much the same way.
II.
Sometime later, Sango would be asked why she did it. She would be asked many times. She had no real answer. No reason. Perhaps it was because it brought her comfort. The feel of the linen and leather bindings. The sheer smoothness of hard, polished bone. It grounded her, gave her a foundation, a handhold, and as the situation before her, and around her, grew steadily worse.
Or perhaps she had an itch at the back of her neck. Honestly, even as her right hand went to the general vicinity of Hiraikotsu's holding strap, the instant before everything went to hell, she had no idea what was happening.
The men before them were well-trained, and at fifty yards, the rifle brigade had a decent advantage. She was not used to fighting men, and certainly not used to fighting against men with guns. She could not dodge bullets. She could not deflect bullets with her sword. She believed the trick to fighting such a thing was to move quickly, to get in close, to make sure the gun barrels could not be pointed directly at her.
There was a click, not a series of clicks, but one loud click, and she knew it was the sound of the mechanisms of the guns moving into action, twelve of them, all at once. She could tell that a catch had been tripped, that a spring-loaded part was now released, and her hand began to pull Hiraikotsu from behind her. She watched in eerie fascination as the glowing tips of the burning wicks affixed to the guns began to cycle downwards.
She noted the positions of the rifles, realizing they were all about eye-level, all pointed to the center of her chest, and drew Hiraikotsu outward, in a sweeping motion, to shield herself, and her friends.
Within one half of one blink of an eye, she had Hiraikotsu in front of her.
The guns puffed smoke, and she felt a crack in her arm and shoulder, muffled by flesh and muscle, and she felt the taste of vomit shoot up her throat and stay there for a moment.
The samurai before her were hidden in rolling white, but she knew they were already reloading.
The stench of bone-ash came to her, and the smell of the polish she used on Hiraikotsu, and her eyes caught several small holes in her weapon, on the edges, where the bone was thinnest. Each was no longer than a thumbnail, and from each there trailed the barely-discernable wisp of white smoke.
She turned the weapon in her hands, seeing a number of small holes on the other side, the material warped, the small, rough-edged steel balls each no bigger than her thumb, each buried about an inch into Hiraikotsu, and she knew the weapon was ruined.
She noticed all this before the sharp crack in her arm registered again, and before the wave of nausea hit her again, and before her body reacted, knowing the heavy weight of Hiraikotsu was pulling her hurt arm apart, sliding her hand out of its grip, letting the weapon bang against the ground with a loud and defeated thud.
"Kagome!"
She turned, seeing the girl stumble, and she knew the bullet meant for her, the bullet that had gone through Hirakotsu, had gone straight into the girl, and that was why her shirt was so red, why she fell into Inuyasha's arms, why Inuyasha cried her name in such hopeless lament.
It was all over. They were defeated. They were dead. Sango knew this.
"Get her out of here!" she cried.
The hanyou moved like the wind, pulling the bleeding, screaming Kagome into his arms, looking over his shoulder for half a second, eyes locking with Sango, and it was his shame, his confession, his expression switching from sorrowful to callous, and Sango read him, as she could read any demon: I would let you die to save Kagome.
She understood. She, who had nearly traded Inuyasha's life for the safe return of her brother. If only Naraku could be trusted, she would do so again. It was only natural to kill one's friends to save one's loves.
III.
Something inside her turned off about that time, but she was aware enough to recognize, when she reflected upon her situation some hours later, that she was not treated unfairly.
In some other circumstance she would have been awed by the professionalism and skill of her captors. Eight men with pikes surrounded her, crossing the blades of the lances in a circle about her neck, making it impossible for her to move or turn without cutting her own throat. Two more men, crouching below the pikes, searched her. They took her blue furoshiki, and patted her down, finding clasps and vials of powders and poisons tucked in her kosode and obi, and began to fill a canvas bag with them. When they found the blade tucked away on her right forearm, they did not attempt to remove it. Instead, they immediately moved away and informed their commander, still mounted on his horse, and he ordered her to roll up her sleeves to her shoulders and remove everything on her arms. She did so, dropping the tekkou and blade to the ground, whereupon the soldiers retrieved them. They then bound her arms and legs and carried her to a wagon. Two men with swords sat on either side of her, and the pikemen surrounded the cart.
They took her to a provincial guard station, which consisted of a fenced-in area and several shacks. In one corner of the fenced-in area, there was a wall of thin cloth suspended at about shoulder height. The purpose of this was clear when she was brought under this cloth. On this side, there were four women with short swords. On the other side, the men stood at the ready.
In this makeshift dressing room, her female guards ordered her to undress and remove anything in her hair. One women collected her clothing while the other checked her hair, then searched her skin for markings that might identify her. Aside from the scars, they found none. The taiji-ya did not mark themselves. Throughout this time she asked them who they were, why she was being held, and what happened to her companions, but her captors did not respond in any way. When the search was finished, her clothes were taken and she was given a thin kosode. After she put this on, the female guards lowered the modesty curtain, and the male guards escorted her to the cell where she would spend the rest of the week.