The Call of the Thunder Dragon (45 page)

On the curb outside the hunting,
shop sat a Chinese musician; playing a Guquin. The sounds of the
seven steel stringed instrument reached faintly into the shop.

Carefully selecting maps,
Falstaff also managed to ask the owner to find them a Sextant, with
solar filters. The shopkeeper promised to find the much-needed
sextant before they had to leave.

He was so pleased with his
business the jovial, friendly Randhir Singh stepped out onto the
shop step to see them off, promising again to bring the sextant to
the hotel. He vigorously shook hands with Falstaff in the
street.

“That’s great Mr. Singh – I’ll
not leave without it!”

“Thank, please come again. It is
good doing business with you! I will see that I get your
instrument!” Randhir Singh waved, raising his voice over the sound
of the hubbub in the street, and gently strummed sound of the
Guquin.

Falstaff and Zam paused, agreeing
it was time to return to the hotel. Zam wanted to rest and prepare
for dinner. Falstaff urged her towards a row of rickshaws. He was
late to meet Gibbs at the clubhouse he realised. The shopkeeper
waved them off even as he sent boys running with messages to
prospective Sextant owners.

Urged into a waiting rickshaw;
Falstaff hesitated as he climbed into his seat beside Zam.

“What is that?” Falstaff said
turning to look down at the Chinaman picking at the steel strings.
“I know that tune, do you Zam?”

Zam shook her head, soon
forgetting the musician as the streets flashed by in a dusty blur.
Falstaff sat silently beside her.

After a while, Zam spoke up.
“What is wrong? Is something bad?”

Falstaff turned. “I know that
song, I’m sure.”

“It sounds like any other you
hear played on those things,” Zam commented uninterested, she
wondered about Falstaff again, and what he was thinking.

“Yes, but this player knew only
one song and played it over and over?” Falstaff, “Perhaps that’s
why he ended up begging?”

Randhir turned to go inside. The
playing stopped abruptly, Randhir turned to look back. The beggar
stood staring from behind his silver-framed smoked black glasses.
His eyes burned into the back of Randhir, following his movement as
the shop keeper disappeared inside.

While Zam went back to the Manor
house, Falstaff had the porter call a car and then left immediately
to attend to the Caproni.

Zam was relaxed, although was
getting closer to Falstaff’s India, the British Empire, from which
he’d come, the foot of the mountains leading to her home were a few
hours away, now almost visible further to the west.

She was calmer, the suffering
left her body as she slipped into the hot water of the bath. The
worry and terror that Falstaff would leave her and take her
father’s money left her. She rubbed cream on her hands, still
scratched and red from the pulling at the iron safe door.

Her head rested on the lip of the
bath and relaxed. She considered the pleasure she had learnt from
Falstaff. Resting in the water the aches of her body and fears in
her troubled mind dissolved replaced by the previously undiscovered
happiness of loving.

Finally, she thought she trusted
Falstaff more than anyone she’d ever know. She frowned, this was
not logical she told herself. He was a troublemaker. A man with
blood on his hands. An enigma, overflowing with antagonism and
secrets. He drank, smoked; she’d seen him kill two men out of
anger. Although that had been to save her. He was impetuous and
easily angered, but he was honest. Zam smiled to herself, she
remembered, he was also incorrigible!

She relaxed, the splashing of the
water subsided and the room fell silent. The steam settled on the
frosted glass of the window, through which the sun streamed
unchecked.

Ono Itchi listened, perched upon
the dormer roof above the bathroom, knife in hand. A knife recently
washed in blood. Falstaff had left, the woman was now alone. Ono
heard the running of water fall silent. He imagined the woman naked
resting in the water. He gripped the tiles of the bracketed eaves
and lifted himself onto the slope of the main roof. A fishtailed
dragon, the rooftop weather vane spun, startling him. He paused
gripped to the roof by his fingers and toes watching the dragon.
Its mouth open, tongue flicking outwards towards the west, the fish
tail flapping to the east.

Ono had watched Falstaff from his
elevated position. The car rolling off down the immaculate driveway
taking the pilot safely away. Ono knew Zam would be alone and the
pilot would not return. Waiting he moved closer to the bathroom
window. A stream train whistled loudly as it entered the station
behind the line of trees. Smoke and steam blew over the roof. He
checked his silenced pistol and slid the knife into its sheath on
his belt. Ono sniffed the air, then like a gecko scuttled quickly
towards a window into the Manor house.

Zam sat up, suddenly afraid. The
steam engine screamed again then was silent. Unable to relax she
got out of the bath and dried herself. Just as she started
dressing, there was a knock at the door.

Falstaff was impatient to start
the on the Caproni. There was no sign of Gibbs or his mechanics so
he stripped the Caproni down, removing the cowlings and covers.

He checked the water levels in
the radiators, anxiously looking around for a sign of Gibbon’s car.
He found an oil drain pan behind the shed and set it under the port
engine. He left the oil draining slowly, not daring to start the
engine until it was clean and checked over. He warmed up the other
engines and let them run until they were hot. There was still no
sign of Gibbs.

He stopped work, hot from
climbing in and out of the cockpit. He wanted to check the other
engines further but without tools and ladders in the shed, he was
limited.

He inspected the floats, which
had collected no further dents or scratches. After checking the
control cables and surfaces, he checked tire pressures then
realised with a laugh that he had become so bored he was literally
down to kicking tires.

He fiddled with the lock on the
workshop door, the tools, foot pump and other equipment locked out
of reach. He walked around the aircraft with his hands his pockets
whistling the tune he had heard earlier. He had a head for music,
at least for picking up tunes and lyrics. He loved singing, if
there was an audience, typically a woman.

The tune in his head was
irritating him. It was a simple melody, hauntingly familiar he knew
there were words to go with the tune, if only he could place the
time he had heard it?

Suddenly he realised he was being
watched. He looked up to face a Japanese paratrooper. He was an
officer dressed and polished ready for a parade. He stood
motionless with his rifle gripped oddly, horizontally in front of
him.

“What the devil!” Falstaff
exclaimed. “Nani? Do you understand?”

Goemon stuttered in English,
struggling with every vowel. “I am Japanese officer. I fight no
more…”

Falstaff interrupted. “I speak
Japanese if you like. Nihongo?”

Goemon's shoulders relaxed. “Hai,
I have been a soldier for a long time.” He started in Japanese.
“Please listen Falstaff-San, it is a long tradition in Japan to
learn Bushido
⁴⁹
, I followed this
path and became an officer. My family were very proud.”

Falstaff nodded listening, he
furtively looked around, looking for a trick.

“You do not need to be afraid
Falstaff-San,” Goemon said.

“I’ve heard that before, -
normally before someone tries to kill me?”

“John Falstaff Wild, you are an
enemy of my people. You have fought bravely as an officer. When you
left the field of battle, you were pursued by deceitful spies who
would kill you and your wife.”

Falstaff opened his mouth to deny
that fact and renounce Zam then decided the continuation of his
life at that moment might depend on that misunderstanding.

“My name is Goemon, first son of
Nishimura of Hokkaido. I am a soldier, not a spy. A Lieutenant in
the Special Naval Landing Forces of the Imperial Emperor’s Navy.
This was my chosen path, not that of an assassin! Bushido is a code
of honour. The reason and the way I fight must be justified. I
trained thousands of Marines like myself I… ” Goemon was sweating,
blinking as the perspiration ran into his eyes. He gave up trying
to justify Japanese actions or his own.

“I would have been proud to kill
you on the battlefield Captain Falstaff-Sama!”

Falstaff had heard that before as
well, he also knew that the Japanese were proud people and often
talked in such a way as to save face. “I thank you for that, do you
have a message for me?”

“I, Goemon, surrender to you, to
apologise for the wrongs done to you by my people.” He pulled back
the bolt on the rifle.

Falstaff gasped, not sure if he
should duck or grab the rifle from him.

Goemon let the unfired bullet
fall from the chamber, then he pulled the magazine from the
receiver and broke the gun over his knee. Tears ran down his
face.

Falstaff wondered which
particular wrongs he was so cut up about. Thinking of the last few
days he daren’t ask.

“It is done. They will still try
to kill you, I cannot stop them! Some may choose the way of the
assassin and they have their own code as well! He will come
soon.”

Goemon wiped his eyes and
hesitated. “My masters have set a trap. It would be my wish for
them to fight you man to man and I with them!”

He drew his sword, a kai-gusto, a
naval version of the shin- gusto, carried by the army. Like a
samurai sword, in a scabbard, nearly measuring 40 inches in length.
His rank symbolized by the coloured threads woven into the hilt and
the tassel wrapped around and knotted on it, Brown and red for a
field officer.

“Please take his gift. I am a
soldier no more. I surrender to you, please take this sword as
protection. See it is secured, knotted with the cord. I have no
plans to hurt you.”

Gaping Falstaff took the sword
from Goemon’s shaking hands. “Thank you. Domo arigato
gozaimasu!”

Goemon saluted Falstaff stiffly.
He returned the salute as Goemon prostrated himself on the ground
and smartly bowed ducking his head down to the ground. When Goemon
lifted his head, Falstaff gave him his free hand and clasped the
trooper’s huge hand in his, glad he didn't have to fight the
brute.

“My thanks, but please tell what
will you do now?”

“I will go to the temple in the
next city. I heard it said by the gardeners here that there are
disciples of the Sanron sect down river at Hajo. Among them are
monks who fled Japan many years.”

“It was you, at the club, in the
road wasn’t it?”

Goemon nodded. “Yes.”

“Good luck with that at Hajo
then!” Bewildered Falstaff watched him go walking towards the
river. He wondered about the trap, he considered running after him
but decided against it. Hajo, he recognised the place, realising
that Goemon was going in the same direction. Journeying to the
west, next stop Guwahati.

He paced up and down, with the
sword in his hand, thinking about what Goemon had said, climbing
into the cockpit deposited the sword there and jumped down. He
started whistling a tune and sang in Japanese the words a pretty
dance hostess had sung in a Jazz club in Tokyo’s busy Ginza
district:

“Oh, the moon is
rising high in the depths of night,

Silent is the ruined
site - lying on the ground,

Ivies creep o'er the
gate in the cold moonlight,

Rustling are the pine
trees through the windy night
⁵⁰
.

To rise and fall is
people's fate, the moon shines so bright…”

He stopped mid-sentence, the hair
standing on his neck. He was singing in Japanese. The words for the
tune he had heard in Jorhat a few hours ago.

“Kojo no Tsuki, the ruined
castle?” He whispered.

A cold chill ran through his
body. He forced himself to move. He did not have his guns, they
were back at the hotel waiting to be cleaned and loaded. His knife
was in his flying boots also at the hotel. He turned and jumped up
to the cockpit scrambling for the Japanese sword.

Once he had it in his hand, he
realised how big it was. From his heel, it would have reached up to
his hip. What was he going to do, run all the way to Jorhat with it
in his hand? Zam was back in Jorhat was she in danger?

He drew the blade, it was
stainless steel, usual in a blade used at sea, like Goemon and his
marines. He contemplated the battles Goemon had carried the sword
through. What had Goemon said; ‘trained’? He had once been an
instructor then? The sword looked well used, polished smooth where
there were nicks in the blade. Circles of corrosion polished away
with great care. A lump came to his throat, for a moment he
believed he saw Goemon’s face in the shining blade, twisted and
bitter and there was a flash of steel.

Falstaff whirled raising the
sword, still half sheathed to ward off the slashing cut coming at
his head.

Ono Itchi had crept so close and
so quietly he’d made less noise than the dragonflies resting on the
bright red surface of the Caproni’s wings to warm themselves for
flight. He’d crept through the nacelle and had been ready to plunge
his great grandfather’s ninjaken into Falstaff’s unprotected back.
Then his eyes had been distracted by the sight of the Japanese
gunto blade in Falstaff’s hands.

Falstaff rolled aside as the
unexpected figure assailed him again. He ducked under the
instrument console into the bow and rose, trying to unsheathe the
unfamiliar blade in the cramped space.

Ono Itchi leapt over the cockpit,
unsettling Falstaff’s balance. The assassin leapt high bringing his
sword down as Falstaff fell back. Falstaff thought the last thing,
he'd ever see, would be the flying assassin high in the air with
knees bent up to the chest, feet tucked in like a ball. He
resembled a shot with sword rocketing down with all the assassin’s
weight.