THERE WAS A SHIP
Scribe Figaro
Chapter Five
A Hot and Copper Sky
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
I.
Her hair was unbound and disheveled. She wore a kosode of hemp, which demonstrated the natural sickly hue of dead plant material, save for an intricate pattern of tiny spots of mildew. The unfinished seam scratched a dull red line from her left shoulder and across her neck, and her right collar down across her chest, across her breast and almost to her hip. The kimono covered only half her thighs, which was just as well, as a longer garment of this type would likely have rubbed her knees raw, and also as her bare feet and legs were warm enough from the coat of mud they developed not long into her walk. The kimono was tied shut with a rope that was really no more than three stalks of wheat intertwined, one of which snapped while crawling out of the detention cage. It was not likely the other two were up to the task of protecting her modesty for very long, but the problem was solved by a coil of rope wound just beneath her breasts, which held her kimono closed while pinning her arms to her sides. A second coil bound her wrists behind her back.
Around her neck they placed two loops of rope which ran out to cords about three meters long; having seen the assembly, and having a vocational appreciation of knotwork, she understood the loops were meant to cinch up when pulled. As she walked she realized the simple but functional design: on the road, at her right and at her left, a samurai walked with a loop around their chests; these loops of the type that would not cinch up. The implication was clear: her guards needn't do anything but keep about fifteen paces apart, and if she tried to run in any direction one or both loops would tighten around her neck. A further implication was that upon any annoyance of the non-escaping kind, i.e., attempting to talk to anyone they pass, one of the guards might stop at something interesting at the side of the road, and the other guard might not notice and keep walking.
Along with the mounted prison official, a half-dozen foot soldiers and two cavalry officers were following her. Since her two guards appeared sufficient to prevent escape, she took this as hopeful sign. Her captors were prepared against an attempted rescue. The others had not been captured
She saw her friends wounded, but knew they had survived worse. For now, it was nearly a matter of waiting. She was not yet told of her crime, not yet told she was found guilty, and not yet told she was to be executed. These formalities are not always seen though, of course, but at very least a prisoner would expect to be taunted by guards in such a way to reveal her situation. Seven days had passed, and at this point her only clue was that her captors believed she had some information and wanted her to confess to it. This was not said directly, but twice now she was taken from her cell and taken to the fenced-in area, and told to sit on a moldy tree stump that was scored with dozens of parallel axe marks. The first time, they told her it was to allow her fresh air. The second time, they apologized, saying they selected the wrong prisoner. In neither case was there any attempt to lie convincingly.
She did not mind the fresh air. Her cell had been a cage of rough tree branches each about the width of her forearm, which bisected a guard shack. The cell was large enough to comfortably fit a half-dozen prisoners, and the lingering stink would indicate the cell would uncomfortably fit over a dozen, and had done so until her capture. The cell had been cleaned out in preparation for her arrival, either because she was too important to endanger with disease, or (more likely) because they expected she would be able to escape if given so much as a shard of a teacup. The stink, of course, she could not use against her captors, which was just as well as the wood was so infused with sweat and breath that it was practically a living thing itself. She knew the cell had been cleaned because of the heap of straw bedding left outside the shack. She knew the cell's previous occupants had been relocated because a lot of this straw bedding was wrapped around bundles that had feet sticking out one end.
At the front of her cell was a square panel approximately one meter wide, with a door suspended by iron hinges from the top of a heavy wooden frame. A metal rod went through a hole in the floor just before the panel to bar the door from opening. The gaps in the cage were too small to allow a person to reach around the door and access the rod, but it was possible that she could tear a strip of her kimono and make a rope to snag the rod and pull it free. Her guard – a well-arrayed and battle-worn captain who was clearly not impressed with this particular detainment facility – made the same connection. When she had been secured in her cell, this captain approached her – close enough that he could whisper without being overheard by his men; not so close that she could reach through the bars and grab him – and spoke to her.
"We are told that you are so resourceful an assassin that if given even a scrap of cloth you will find some way to break free and strangle your guards. My superiors, who do not want you to break free, and my men, who do not want to be strangled, have told me you should be kept naked. Some of my men go so far as to say you should be bound and suspended from the roof-beam. Human dignity makes it impossible for me to do these things. I do not blame you if you take advantage of this failing of mine, but such an action will force me to place you in the care of my lieutenant, who is not so encumbered."
She had days to weigh whether or not a good man would make such a threat, but considering her treatment – poor-tasting but edible millet, no threats, no beatings, no rape, not even leering from the guards; i.e. she was a Very Important Prisoner – she considered that it may have been a calculated threat given to her by a man who would be looking at seppuku if she escaped.
The Captain now rode behind her, this day, seven days after her capture, during her first trip outside the provincial detainment area he had commandeered.
An hour up the steep, winding incline, she saw the walls of the white castle, and she nearly stumbled, which would have choked her, but even without being choked she could not breathe for a moment. Some memory worked its way loose and faded before she could get a feel of it.
It happened again when she approached the open gate. The outside edges of the heavy wooden doors, built of countless tons of pressed timber and iron, were shredded to splinters, and a few paces behind the gate a trench drew a perfectly straight line along the packed earth of the outer courtyard, ending in a boulder the size of an ox, inscribed with Buddhist prayers and iconography. This boulder was bisected by a handspan-wide crack. Wedged in the crack was about half of Hiraikotsu. A spray of white fragments each no larger than a finger, fanning outward from the boulder for as far as she could see, would appear to be the other half of Hiraikotsu.
"That's a hell of a calling card," said the Captain. "It's been a week and they're still prying the damn thing out of there."
The boulder, the remnants of Hiraikotsu, the earth, and the sky, began to tilt back and forth. She heard the Captain's next words as if through a bale of cotton.
"I'm sure you won't answer, but I can't help but ask: which demon allowed you to throw a bone through eight inches of iron-reinforced timber and halfway through a fifty-ton boulder ?"
II.
She awoke, head pounding, in what would appear to be a meeting hall of the same castle. As she stirred, she saw the Captain make a gesture to a messenger. She was still bound, and found that the ropes around her neck were affixed to posts on either side of the room, giving her enough room to lie down, sit, stand, or move about ten paces in any direction.
A young man in well-starched, exquisitely-arranged mourning clothes entered. The Captain and his guards bowed deeply and left.
She sat up. The man sat on a cushion at the front of the room. The man was Hojo Akitoki.
Her stomach spasmed. She dry-heaved. He waited.
"I know who you are," Hojo said. "Or, I thought I knew. Because you traveled with Kagome-sama, I believed you were a good person. That you fought against evil. That if you had a cruel heart, you would not be able to keep company with the beautiful Kagome-sama.
"So I hope, I hope against all hope, that you could explain to me the source of this misunderstanding. I hope that you can explain to me why I awoke three nights ago to the sounds of my mother screaming in terror, my father demanding to know who was killing him and why, and you shouting like a lunatic with your sword at his throat."
"Naraku," she whispered, dry, hoarse.
"Yes, you called him that. You demanded he show you his heart. He was ready to cut his chest open in hope that self-torture would appease you and stop you from killing his family, but he had no weapon. You demanded he show his true form, and chased him around his own bedchamber at sword point, deflecting his Chamber Guards, and all but running me through when I finally got close enough to you."
"In a dream . . . I ran away . . . I couldn't do it . . ."
"Even with your shattered weapon abandoned here, even with a dozen witnesses who confirm the invader was wearing the uniform of a youkai taijiya – of which there exists only a single survivor – even with a half dozen witnesses who memorized the face of the person who tried to kill their lord and cannot confuse it with any other – even with all of this, I would let myself be convinced that all this was done by an imposter – except that, as I lunged at you with my sword, I saw your face – I saw your face seeing my face – and there was recognition. You know who I was. You know I knew who you were. And you escaped. You could have killed me, as you could have killed anyone that night, but you dove out the window and were not found until the next morning. And then you attacked. With Kagome-sama in the crossfire, you attacked my men, and they shot her. They shot her, you insufferable bitch."
"Is she . . ." She could not speak.
"I don't know, but now that I have you here, you may assist me in my investigation of that very fact."
He made a gesture, and from behind a partition, two samurai brought in a wooden chest, of the sort that Hojo would fill with gifts to tribute provincial leaders and court nobles, and removed its cover, balancing this cover on the edge of the chest. Working together, with slow and theatrical movement, they placed the items on the tamati between her and Hojo. Hojo flinched slightly, as with each item produced, Sango let loose a howl of agony.
Inuyasha's sword, dried mud encrusting its hilt.
Miroku's staff, broken in two.
Kagome's yellow backpack, marked with black soot.
"My agents found these items scattered throughout this region while pursuing their owners. Would you say that their owners would not abandon these things unless they were dead?"
She made not a sound. Words were not necessary.
"Then it is certain they are either dead or they are pretending to be dead. Perhaps they will try to rescue you. Until then, they are not a concern to this investigation, as you acted alone. Do I surmise correctly?"
She nodded.
"Good. So to be clear, you confess to the events of the night I spoke about earlier?"
"I was in a trance . . ."
"Oh, of course."
"I was . . ."
"You were there."
"I did it."
"Who told you to do this?"
"My brother. He told me that the keeper of the castle was Naraku."
"Your brother. Told you that my father was the devil, and needed to be killed."
"Yes."
"Your brother Kohaku."
"Yes."
"Your dead brother Kohaku."
She nodded.
"I . . . see." Hojo exchanged a look with one of his samurai, who up until now had a stony countenance that betrayed a hint of murderous hatred, and now wore a stony countenance that betrayed a hint of pity.
"Kohaku tells you to do things?"
"Sometimes."
"Such as?"
"He wants me to leave him alone. To stop trying to rescue him."
"From what?"
"From Naraku."
"Do you listen?"
"No."
"So you go to Naraku to try to save him?"
"Yes."
"Does Kohaku tell you to kill people?"
"No."
"This is the first time?"
"Yes."
"If he tells you to kill again, will you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because . . . he is with Naraku . . . and Naraku lies."
"Naraku is using Kohaku."
"Yes."
"Kohaku tells you lies."
"Yes."
"If Kohaku tells you to do something?"
"I will say no."
Hojo clapped his hands.
"Very excellent. This makes things much easier. If you were completely sane I'd have to have you executed. But it looks like you're merely hysterical. I can show leniency without losing face."
"Hysterical?"
"Vagina-crazies. It's really a wonder how any woman can not go insane from all that menstruation."
"Wait a minute!"
"With execution off the table, we're going to have to choose one of a few punishments. Your class status is gone, of course; while the taijiya were considered of the farming class, you and your progeny will forever be outcasts. As for what to do with you, I would consider exile, but my advisors have insisted that you be kept in one place. So that brings us to forced labor."
Hojo stood and gestured with his hands.
"To the north: The copper mines of Hojo and Takeda."
"To the south: the pleasure districts of Asakusa and Shibuya."
Sango gaped.
"That's where you have sex for money," he said helpfully.
Sango continued to gape.
"To be honest, your body seems equally suited to either task."
She fixed eyes on the broken shakujou and said nothing.
"Clearly this is too much too quickly; I'll give you some time to think about it."
Hojo lifted the yellow backpack, cradling it like an infant, and walked toward the partition. Stopping suddenly, he made a gesture of forgetfulness, and reached into the backpack. He withdrew a thin hardcover book and, holding it with one hand, he thumbed through the pages. Its vibrantly colored cover was labeled, in a language that looked remarkably like Japanese, Introduction to Psychology.
"We have made a lot of progress today," dictated Hojo, his eyes skimming the pages. "I hope you feel you have learned something about yourself. In the future, when you are upset, you should direct your feelings to positive things. Write in a diary, or paint a picture."
Nodding sagely, Hojo replaced the book and carried the yellow pack out of the room.
III.
Outside, he walked twenty paces down a hall and turned right, where he had left Hitomi Kagewaki.
"She admitted to it," said Hojo. "Displaying the items worked just like you said."
"She is sick," said Hitomi. "Being shocked is the only way to break through the sickness."
"It is amazing you found these items so quickly. My guards lost their trails not long after they got out of sight."
"My agents have been tracking them for years. I have entire books filled with accounts of their travels, their encampments, and their footprints. They were on the trail when your forces captured Sango; when her companions escaped they practically threw their personal effects at my agents' feet."
"My advisors are pushing me to proclaim them as agents of Oda. Even when I object, they tell me it makes no difference, as they are most surely dead."
"If they were spies, I would have found their messages. If they were dead, I would have found their graves."
"I will have to hold a tenuous hope. As for Sango . . ."
"You don't know what to do with her."
"Because of her friendship with Kagome-sama, I can't kill her . . ."
"Brothel?"
"Or copper mine. I gave her the choice. She hasn't decided."
Hitomi pursed his lips.
"To be honest, I'd prefer a copper mine. A brothel seems . . . rude, almost."
"You want to treat her like a man," said Hojo.
"I want to treat her like a warrior."
"An insane warrior."
"An excellent warrior."
Hojo nodded.
"As you know, I have some control over the Takeda mines. I will be able to keep track of Sango if she chooses this fate. And I'm all but certain she will."
"We have mines as well, Hitomi."
"Of course. Of course, that would be fair."
Hitomi approached the yellow backpack.
"I'm very glad this item aided your investigation. Thank you very much for safekeeping it."
Hojo winced as Naraku placed his hand on it.
"As you well know, Kagome-sama is a most interesting young woman. I have a number of scholars who are absolutely dying to get their hands on this carrying sack. These are stunningly unique artifacts. Her clothes, recall how strange they are? In here she has a complete change of clothes. I know of no one who has ever seen clothes like that before."
Hojo shifted in his seat to conceal the beginnings of an erection.
"And this . . ." Hitomi drew out a white, flowery piece of cloth. "I don't even know what –"
"The Takeda mines!"
Hitomi blinked. His hand was still; Kagome's underpants waved in what would appear to be the gust of wind created by Hojo's outburst.
"I've decided that Sango will go to the Takeda mines. If you will accept her."
Hitomi smiled.
"That is very generous."
He replaced the contents of Kagome's bag.
"As I was saying, my scholars are dying to get their hands on this bag and its contents, but the friendship of Takeda and Hojo comes before anything else. I only hope my court will forgive me for denying them the opportunity."
Hojo skidded forward and gripped the bag.
"There is one thing," said Hitomi.
Hojo made a face as if ready to whimper.
Hitomi pulled a book out of the bag, as thick and heavy as silver bullion.
"I think I should satisfy my court so long as I return with one of her fantasy books."
Hojo would have surrendered most of the furniture in the room so long as Kagome's panties remained. Hitomi slipped the book into his kimono and bowed. He walked past the room where Sango was bound, but resisted the urge to peek inside.
As he left the castle grounds, Hitomi did not resist the urge to pull out the book and marvel at the title.
Annotated History of Japan, Volume Four: The Ashikaga Bakufu and the Sengoku Jigai.
"Kagome, you wonderful, beautiful, stupid, cremated bitch," said Naraku.