The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year - Volume Eight (33 page)

Akiko?

Perhaps, but knowing the name did not help. He couldn't picture her at all, nor name the song he still heard being played on the distant
koto.
He could picture the instrument itself, see delicate hands at its silk strings, but that was all. Hiroshi took a deep breath and, when he felt he was able, he followed the music one more time.

The valley narrowed soon after, but the hill where Akiko waited was getting much closer, and the music, while distant, was very easy to hear. The same song, beautiful and melancholy. Hiroshi saw bleak earth rise on either side of him, as if he was walking into a grave.

At least the monster can't sneak up on me from the sides
...

The monster didn't bother. It waited, serene, directly in his path. A coiled dragon with scales so smooth and black they glistened. Its talons dripped venom, and it looked at him with unblinking red eyes. "Go home, Hiroshi," it said.

After the
oni
, the sight of a dragon was not so startling, for all that Hiroshi could see death in its eyes.

"If I could go back, I would have. Please let me pass."

"That isn't the way of this place," the dragon said, and Hiroshi was almost certain that, when it bared its fangs at him, the thing was coming as close to a smile as its appearance allowed. Hiroshi, terrified and yet unable to retreat, did the only thing he could think to do and drew his sword.

Now I am sure it is smiling at me.

Whether it was or not, the thing struck almost too fast for Hiroshi to see. It didn't bother to bite him; its talons closed tightly on his right arm, and Hiroshi felt them piercing his flesh, sending their venom into his blood. A wave of agony washed over him, far worse than when the
oni
had struck him down, far worse than anything he could have imagined. For a moment he knew nothing, could know nothing through the haze of pain.

He did not wake, exactly. He heard a woman's voice, speaking to him. He knew it for a dream, a memory, but real just the same. Akiko was speaking to him, somewhere, sometime... him? No. Yojiro. It was Yojiro who heard, and Yojiro who answered.

"You will return, Yojiro. Promise me."

"I promise," Hiroshi heard himself answer, in Yojiro's voice. It was a promise he had failed to keep, on the day he died.

Hiroshi opened his eyes. The dragon was gone. Hiroshi was not surprised this time; he had begun to understand, perhaps a little. He had two sets of memories now. First Yojiro, now Akiko. He remembered her, her glossy black hair and sweet face, remembered their love and the promises they had made to each other. He remembered dying.

And she followed me. I'm sorry, Akiko.

There would be a third guardian, but Hiroshi put his sword away; he did not think he would be needing it again. He followed the music, remembering the words, remembering who played that song with so much joy before and so much sadness now.

Cherry Blossoms on the Water.

The song was a promise of spring. A promise of many things. Hiroshi looked up at the hilltop. He could see the lone figure sitting there, bowed over the
koto
, playing the song that had called him down the well and away from his life. He was neither angry nor sad about that, but he was left with the problem of what to do. He did not try to climb the hill just yet. He waited for the guardian to appear, and soon he did, the rhythmic jingle of his staff serving counterpoint to the mournful
koto.

"Greetings, Honored Sir," Hiroshi said to the monk. Hiroshi was a little surprised, but not very much.

"Why wait for me? The way to the hill was clear."

Hiroshi shook his head. "Obvious, perhaps. But not clear. Nor do I think you intend to stop me directly. Either of the other two could have done that."

The monk nodded. "You're perhaps less of a fool than I thought. How much less, though? That is not certain."

"The first two guardians gave me Yojiro and then Akiko," Hiroshi said. "What will the third guardian do?"

"Perhaps he will take them away again. Perhaps that is up to you."

"What should I do?"

"I told you before – go home."

"I
will
go home, for that was my promise. Yet I have another promise that I must keep first. One even longer delayed."

The monk frowned but stood aside. "I will wait here. If you return..."

Hiroshi didn't like the way the monk said 'if,' but he understood. He slowly walked up the hill.

Akiko sat with her back to him, her long white fingers on the strings of the
koto.
Too long. Too white. Her kimono too was white, and it sagged back upon her bony shoulders. Hiroshi remembered those shoulders, that neck whiter than snow. Grayish now. He could not see her face. Her back was turned and she could not see him, but she obviously knew he was there.

"Yojiro, you've come back to me."

She started to rise, but Hiroshi stepped forward and took her shoulders in a gentle but firm grip. He tried not to think of the scent that rose from her now, so different from long ago. "Do not look at me, Akiko."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm dead. I was... I mean. Yojiro – I, remember. I waved my sword about quite bravely, but then I was shot full of arrows and they cut off my head. My ankles were spiked."

"You've returned," she insisted.

"You called me from another place, with your music and my promise. I kept my promise, but I don't belong here. Now I must go."

She shook her head, slowly. "Let me look at you."

"What will you see, Akiko? What will I see when I look at you now? We are not what we were. I've traveled the River of Souls before and returned to the living world. You must do the same. You don't belong here, either."

"Stay?" She sounded confused. "You must stay!"

"No," he said.

"You
promised!"

"I promised to return, and I have. To love you, and I did. I remember. I... Yojiro, loved you, and I came back to you. Let that be enough."

"No!"

"What will I see when you look at me? I remember your beauty. Do you want me to see what you are now?"

"I am Akiko!"

"Yes. You are also dead and your flesh has gone to corruption. As long as you remain on this hilltop down in the darkness, playing that song for me, you will remain dead. I don't want that, and neither should you."

"Please..." she said, and reached up to touch his hand. Her fingers were cold, and there was no living flesh to them.

Hiroshi took a deep breath. He knew what he must do, but it wasn't his decision. It was Yojiro's, for the woman who died out of love for him.
Forgive me, Akiko, but I believe I will need Hiroshi's sword one last time.

"Please play for me," he said. "'Cherry Blossoms on the Water.'"

"Always," she said, and her fingers caressed the strings as they had his face and body, once long ago.

In one smooth movement, with less thought than a breath, Hiroshi drew his sword and brought it down on the strings just to the side of Akiko's fingers. The taut silk strings parted with a high screeching sound like a wail of despair, fading, only to be echoed by Akiko. She twisted suddenly in his arms, fingers reaching to claw, not caress, but Hiroshi held firm and looked full into her ruined face, painting over the horror he saw there with one last strong memory of beauty.

"Good-bye," he said.

His memory clothed her in full life for just a moment, then it began to fade, as did Akiko. In a moment, both were gone, leaving only a trace of sadness and a faint ghostly memory that was more like a dream.

Hiroshi was left alone on the hill with the shattered instrument. After a bit, he made his way back down to the valley again where the monk was waiting for him.

"She can move on now," the monk said, "as you also must. That was well done."

Hiroshi just said, "I would like to go home now."

They made their way out of the valley and back across the dry streambed of stones. Hiroshi looked at the piles of stones again, and again he listened. There was no music, but he did hear the sound of children playing. He was sure of it this time, but he said nothing until they were past the stones and walking through the cave back to the well. He looked at his companion.

"I thought you were a simple monk, but I also thought this a simple cave."

"Who do you think I am?"

"If this is the River of Souls, then there are many powerful
kami
in this place, but I think you are the one called the God of Children," Hiroshi said. "Yet I also think what you did, you did for Yojiro and Akiko. Not for me. They were young, but they were not children. Why?"

"We are all children, Hiroshi," the monk said, and that was all.

It wasn't an answer, but then Hiroshi no longer remembered asking a question of the little monk or, for that matter, remembered the little monk himself. Even the names Akiko and Yojiro were fading from his memory now, and then they were gone completely. Hiroshi was alone. He knew only that he was in a deep dark place where he did not belong, and the way out was clear.

Hiroshi saw blue sky far above and let it guide him as he climbed back up into the living world.

RAG AND BONE

Priya Sharma

Priya Sharma (
www.priyasharmafiction.wordpress.com
) is a doctor who lives in the United Kingdom. Her short stories have appeared in
Tor.com
,
Black Static
,
Interzone
,
Albedo One
,
Alt Hist
and
On Spec
, and have been reprinted in Paula Guran's
Best Dark Fantasy and Horror
2012 and 2013 and Ellen Datlow's
Year's Best Horror
Volumes 4 and 5.

I
leave Gabriel in the yard and go into town, taking my bag with the vials of skin and bone, flesh and blood, my regular delivery to Makin. The Peels are looking for body parts.

I love the grandeur of the Strand. High towers of ornate stone. The road's packed with wagons and carts. Boats choke the river. The Mersey is the city's blood and it runs rich. Liverpool lives again.

I can hear the stevedores' calls, those kings of distribution and balance, whose job it is to oversee the dockers loading the barges. The boats must be perfectly weighted for their journey up the Manchester Ship Canal. Guards check them to ensure no unlicensed man steals aboard. Farther along, at Albert Dock, there's a flock of white sails. The Hardman fleet's arrived, tall ships bringing cotton from America.

The Liver birds keep lookout. Never-never stone creatures that perch atop the Liver Building where all the families have agents. I keep my eyes fixed on the marble floor so that I don't have to look at the line of people desperate for an audience. The Peels' man has the ground floor. The Peels' fortune came from real estate, small forays such as tenements at first, but money begets money. They took a punt when they redeveloped Liverpool's waterfront, a good investment that made them kings of the new world.

The other families have managers on other floors, all in close proximity as nothing's exclusive, business and bloodlines being interbred. The Hardmans are textile merchants, the Rathbones' wealth was made on soap, of all things, while the Moores are ship builders.

The outer offices contain rows of clerks at desks, shuffling columns of figures in ledgers. A boy, looking choked in his high-necked shirt, runs between them carrying messages. No one pays me any mind.

Makin's secretary keeps me waiting a full minute before he looks up, savouring this petty exercise of power. "He'll see you now."

Makin's at his desk. Ledgers are piled on shelves, the charts and maps on the walls are stuck with pins marking trade routes and Peel territories.

"Have a seat." He's always civil. "How did you fare today?"

"A few agreed."

I hand him the bag.

"They're reluctant?"

"Afraid."

There are already rumours. That the Peels, Hardmans, Rathbones and Moores, these wealthy people we never see, are monstrosities that live to a hundred years by feasting on Scousers' flesh and wearing our skins like suits when their own get worn out. Their hands drip with diamonds and the blood of the slaving classes. They lick their fingers clean with slavering tongues.

Makin taps the desk.

"Should we be paying more?"

"Then you'll have a line that stretches twice around the Mersey Wall consisting of drunken, syphilitic beggars."

"Do we have to order obligatory sampling of the healthy?"

"That's unwise."

His fingers stop drumming.

"Since when are rag and bone men the font of wisdom?"

I'm not scared of Makin but I need the money so I'm respectful. Besides, I like him.

"At least wait 'til it's cooler before you announce something like that or you'll have a riot."

That brings him up short.

"I'm feeling fractious today." He rubs the top of his head like a man full of unhappy thoughts. "Don't be offended."

"I'm not."

"You're a good sort. You work hard and don't harbour grudges. You speak your mind instead of the infernal yeses I always get. Come and work for me."

"Thank you but I hope you won't hold it against me if I say no."

"No, but think on it. The offer stands." Something else is bubbling up. "You and I aren't so different. I had to scramble too. I'm a Dingle man. My daughters are spoilt and innocent. My sons no better." His rueful smile reveals the pain of parenthood. "It's their mother's fault. They're not fit for the real world, so I must keep on scrambling."

I envy his children, wanting for nothing, this brutal life kept at arm's length. Makin must see something in my face because he puts the distance back between us with, "Have you heard any talk I should know about?"