Dragon Island (21 page)

My gaze levels directly onto the golden flowers. An entire field of them grows in an enormous planter sitting along the seal of the biggest window I’ve ever seen. The flowers gleam in the sunlight trickling in through the window’s vertical wooden slats.
 
They are little more than sprouts, and look almost comical in the context of their resting place.

But there’s power in them.

I can feel some invisible force radiating outward from the gilded plants even from this far vantage. There’s no doubt in my mind any single one of them could heal twenty
shobijin
if need be.

The clanging sounds again and I turn in the noise’s direction. I sigh in relief to see Kitsune and Ishiro still alive and whole. They are suspended across from me in two separate cages identical to my own.

I start to call to them, but Kitsune presses a finger to her lips, shushing me. She points at the ceiling. I take a closer look at the rafters running horizontally above us. Flocks of sleeping Tengu are perched along the beams’ upper sides, the creatures’ beak-like noses nuzzled into the crooks of their furled wings.

I hear the clang again and snap my head in Ishiro’s direction.

The first thing I notice is that he is naked save for the undergarment wrapped about his loins. He has a rope of sectioned cloth in his hands. I’m guessing that’s what happened to his clothes. There’s a femur bone tied perpendicular to the rope’s end so as to weight it down. Ishiro begins twirling the bone-tied end of the rope around as though he were a cowboy about to lasso a steer.

When the femur has picked up enough speed to become little more than a blur to the eye, Ishiro releases it. The bone goes hurtling toward the metal ring at the top of his cage, the rope trailing after it. It bangs against the metal bars, falling just short of its mark, then drops to the cage floor, producing the clanging sound I heard.

Above us, the Tengu momentarily stir.

“Come on, Ishiro,” Kitsune cries, her voice a whisper.

“I’m trying,” he whispers back.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something passing between them. Apparently, they have gotten over whatever rift laid between them.

Ishiro winds up and lets the bone fly once again. To everyone’s amazement, the femur lands home, catching itself between the cage girder and ring on its return plummet.

Ishiro tugs on the rope, checking the security of his homemade grapple’s position. The three of us sigh in relief when the bone holds fast.

Without further hesitation, Ishiro begins shimmying up the rope, moving with practiced speed and skill. I’m once again envious of his athletic ability.

In what seems like no time, Ishiro is at the open metal ring forming his cage’s apex. He clears it easily and rises to stand. Ishiro hooks his arms through a length of chain and positions his feet on either side of the open ring. Then he tugs on the chain, having to draw back his entire upper body to do so.

The chain creaks and Kitsune and I cringe. We momentarily glance at the Tengu. To our relief, they continue slumbering away peacefully.

Ishiro presses his body in the opposite direction, his feet pushing on the cage beneath him. He continues this back and forth motion until, at last, the cage begins to move along with him.

“He is doing it,” Kitsune whisper-shouts. “He is doing it!”

“Doing what?” I whisper back.

Ishiro continues his rocking motion, forcing the cage to sway back and forth. Its swings steadily gain momentum and rise ever higher.

The cage is almost horizontal at the highest points of its arc when I realize Ishiro is aiming the cage so that its forward swing is directly in line with the golden flowers.

I look at Kitsune.

“He wouldn’t...?”

She merely nods in response.

The creaks and moans of the chain are coming continually now. And louder than ever! But there’s nothing to be done about it.

The chain swings back and the look in Ishiro’s eyes changes. That’s when I know this is the one. He is readying to enact the final stage of his insane plan.

The cage rises to hang motionless in the air for an eternity-long moment. Then it comes crashing down with the velocity of a wrecking ball. It plateaus in mid-swing and Ishiro releases his hold upon the chain.

As the cage begins its forward swing, Ishiro scampers out along the one of the iron bars, moving as though it were a balance beam and he the world’s greatest gymnast.

Ishiro reaches the end of the cage just as it levels off and, unable to help myself, I cry out in disbelief as he vaults off the edge.

He tumbles through the air stories above the floor, executing flips and rolls that would put an Olympic high-diver to shame.

I’m even more awed when Ishiro actually reaches his mark and lands in the dark, soft earth of the flower pot. He touches down and rolls, expertly spreading out the impact of his landing.

He gets up and dusts himself off, sparing a moment to give us a thumbs-up. Kitsune and I perform baby-dance steps and utter hushed cheers, keeping the corners of our eyes locked on the snoozing Tengu all the while.

Ishiro approaches the golden flowers and then kneels reverently before them. He slowly reaches down and then, moving swiftly so that he has no time to reconsider, plucks one from the soil. Bits of earth fall away from the stem, revealing the flower’s glimmering roots. He turns and holds it aloft for us to see.

That’s when Yamanba bursts into the room and awakens her Tengu minions. Her enraged howl sends them fluttering about overhead in a fright.

They aren’t the only ones who are scared!

While math is often called the universal language, I submit to you there is no form of communication more powerful and transcendent than that of song.

—Excerpt from
The Magic and Music of Time Travel
, by Akira Ifukube and Shon Jason Medley (2009)

T
ime freezes, leaving Ishiro and Yamanba locked in a perpetual stare-down. Ishiro’s face is full of controlled terror while Yamanba’s seethes with hate.

An eternity passes in that crystalline moment—enough time for a thousand Raymond Nakajimas to grow up and father children who father still more children in turn. But that’s a luxury I will never know.

Perhaps it’s for the best.

The Nakajimas’ record where fatherhood is concerned isn’t exactly what you would call sterling. Maybe if I’d been a better son—the kind of son my father wanted—one concerned with engineering and mathematics instead of music and singing, things might have been different between us.

But the day my plane crashed on
Dragon
Island
, I was robbed of the chance of ever finding out. I may have survived one deathtrap after another so far, but now, locked high in a cage here in the castle of the giant witch, Yamanba, my luck has finally run out!

Yamanba roars and charges toward Ishiro, her footfalls shaking the pots and pans hanging throughout the giant room. Her movements are unbelievably fast for something so large and so old.

The golden flower in hand, Ishiro leaps from the gargantuan planter onto the proportionally large window sill. He runs for one of the open spaces between the window’s wooden slats. Several Tengu swoop down and bar his way, sealing him off from his potential exit with the beating of their huge wings.

Yamanba grabs for Ishiro. He vaults and rolls and the giantess’ massive, gnarled hand finds nothing but air. They continue this game of cat and mouse for several minutes, Ishiro’s superior agility keeping him just beyond Yamanba’s reach, much to her frustration.

But the vast onslaught of foes facing Ishiro ultimately proves too much. The Tengu dive-bomb him, momentarily knocking him off balance. In that critical moment, Yamanba pounces, snatching the Toho warrior up in her great, liver-spotted hand.

Ishiro struggles to no avail as Yamanba plucks the golden flower from his grasp.

“Witch!” Ishiro spits, defiant as ever despite being seconds away from being crushed by a giantess. This guy is even braver than I thought...or even more of an idiot!

Yamanba cackles.

“So,” Yamanba says, “a little foreign-tongue-speaking samurai comes to steal an old woman’s treasure, hmmmm?”

Her voice is hoarse, but her English is surprisingly good. Especially considering she must rarely, if ever, speak my native language.

“Foreign?” Ishiro says. “I am a Toho warrior! And as such, I take the spoils of war whenever and wherever—!”

“What Ishiro means to say,” Kitsune calls down from her cage, “oh great and powerful Yamanba-sage, is that we came to your castle in hopes of gaining an audience with your regal countenance so that, despite our unworthiness, we might make of you a humble request: that you, in your boundless wisdom and generosity would have mercy on us, and grant us a single flower from the golden field of your planter.”

I think about what I might say to piggyback off Kitsune’s compliments and allay Yamanba’s anger. After all, I’ve had plenty of practice doing such where Dad is concerned. But I decide, in this case, the best thing I can do is keep my mouth shut so as to prevent my foot from getting stuck in it.

“So this is how you seek an audience to gain my favor?” Yamanba thunders. “You invade my home and attempt to steal that which you have come to ask to be given as a gift?

“The very rudeness of it!”

Kitsune falls to her knees.

“I beg your forgiveness, mistress. Never would we dream of so insulting the beautiful and mighty Yamanba, whose majesty is like that of the rising sun—whose glory is the like the thousand eyes of Ryuu glimmering in the night sky.

“But as you know and perceive all, oh great Yamanba-sage, I know you will remember that it was the Tengu who attacked us and brought us here in this fashion.”

I hold my breath and squeeze the bars of my cage as I await Yamanba’s response.

“True,” Yamanba says, and I exhale in relief. Kitsune has bought us a few more precious minutes of life.

Yamanba sticks her thumb under Ishiro’s chin, forcing his head back.

“Your words are sweet, Toho child. They are all that is keeping me from popping the head of your fierce, little samurai here like a grape!”

Yamanba’s lips twist into a grotesque parody of a smile.

“That is,” the giantess continues, “you have bestowed kind words upon me, and I have given you your friend’s life...for the moment.

“So, if I grant you what you ask for, what would you give me in return?”

Kitsune starts to answer, but Yamanba cuts her off.

“Yes, I know what you are about to say. It is true. I have many golden flowers, as you can plainly see. But still they are mine to the last one, and therefore precious to me and not something I would part with lightly.

“If I were to give you one of my lovely golden babies, what precious gift would you give to Yamanba?”

“My life is yours to do with as you please!” Ishiro barks without hesitation.

Yamanba draws him close so that mere inches are all that separates the Toho from Yamanba’s immense, purple noise.

“Foolish little samurai,” Yamanba says. “You would bargain with what is already mine.”

Yamanba looks up at Kitsune, her gaze hard. “So it is for all of you. Your lives are now Yamanba’s to command for a thousand years or to snuff out in an instant!

“So I ask you again, child of the Toho, what precious gift would you give me in return for one of my prize flowers?

“Do you have magic? Precious metals, perhaps? A secret of the world Yamanba has not already discovered in her thousands of years upon it?”

Kitsune looks at me, tears forming in her eyes and my heart sinks. That’s it. We are goners!

When her question goes unanswered, Yamanba nods and begins walking toward the boiling cauldron.

“I thought as much,” the giant witch says. “At least the three of you will make a fine addition to my stew.”

“I...I...” Kitsune stutters, at a complete and total loss for words.

And that’s when it hits me.

Words!

Yamanba considered Kitsune’s shower of extravagant words to be a gift. Maybe that’s something I can build on.

I step back from the cage bars and clear my throat, knowing what I must do.

I open my mouth and let the wind rush into my lungs. Then Kitsune’s song of thanks begins to flow from my mouth. My voice echoes throughout the vast, open space of the room, filling the air as it reverberates off the walls, pitched ceiling, and wooden floor until it creates its own harmony.

I think it sounds pretty good.

No, that’s a lie born of false modesty.

I think it sounds awesome! Possibly the best my voice has have ever sounded. But a singer never really knows until he or she sees the reaction of their audience.

And react, Yamanba does.

She freezes in step and turns away from the cauldron to face me. The look on her face is unreadable. It could be shock, horror, or boundless joy.