Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (5 page)

“Hah! I’ve yet to encounter anything that can’t be explained by reason,” Paille asserted. “The natural employed perversely—illusion—the uneducated are easily baffled—these are the ways that—”

Gonji was shaking his head. “So sorry,
señor
, but I only partly agree. There are things in the world that confound moral explanation even as they demand it. I believe that nothing natural can be wrong—although like you I know that the natural can certainly be put to wrongful use. I feel no compulsion to explain the wonders and mysteries of nature, uh—” He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember something. Then he smiled, remembering, and translated the poem into Latin, in which language it best retained the beauty of the Japanese:

‘Unknown to me what dwelleth here:

Tears flow from my sense of unworthiness and gratitude’

“That best sums up my attitude toward the unknowable wonders of nature,” Gonji said.

“That’s quite lovely,” Paille observed. “Did you compose it?”

“No, I’m not that profound a poet. It’s ancient. My father taught it to me, and his father to him—”

“But—” Paille began.

“But,” Gonji interjected, stopping his disagreement short of utterance, “there are those things that demand explanation by their, um, un-nature.”

“Unnatural quality, you mean.”

“
Hai, arigato
—yes, thank you. What do you make of this flying dragon, the wyvern? What possible purpose could it serve in any natural order?”

“It exists,” Paille said, “and so we must conclude that it does serve some presently unknown function in the order of the cosmos. Or, quite probably, it is at least part illusion, or the product of natural power as yet harnessed only by the rare few adepts among us. There must be a natural explanation, else all rational order crumbles and there is chaos. Nothing of the sane and mundane in the world could be counted on, even as it has been for untold ages.”

Gonji pondered this. Illusion.... He thought of the fantastic events he had lived through. Of vampires and dragons and beasts of fable that had crossed his path these many years. Can I have imagined that these things were what they were? Have I been self-deluded, misinterpreting every frightful event, recasting every gnome as a giant in flawed memory, even as shadow casts the shapes of things as they are not?

Iye.
No, I have seen truly. Even if it is only I who have seen the truth, whatever that truth might ultimately mean.

The thought vaguely pleased his sense of unfulfilled destiny.

Gonji laughed breathily and changed Tora’s reins to his other hand. “Excuse me,
por favor
, but...knowing alone what I know of the wyvern, I must say that to call him illusion is fully the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all week.” Paille looked offended but said nothing. The samurai then recalled Lydia Benedetto’s similar reduction of the supernatural to the inexplicably natural. What a difference a change in speakers made.

They were nearing the Llorm garrison, and soldiers passing by sneered to see the familiar artist, some jeering openly at him.

“Now don’t be starting any trouble,” Gonji found himself advising in a curious reversal of his usual position. He halted Paille halfway through the delivery of an obscene gesture. “So you don’t believe in the existence of things that are purely of evil use, yet you ply your craft in churches—I’ve seen your work, by the way, and it’s very good.”

Paille brightened. “You think so?
Merci, monsieur le samurai!
But, oh, since these paintings of chapel ceilings became all the rage they’ve cost artists nothing but stiff necks and aching shoulders and arms. Then one must work under poor light and with inadequate equipment—Ah, but I see that I’ve slipped back into French again. Eh, may I continue?”

“Oui,”
said Gonji patiently. “As Guy’s ear would have it.”

“
Merci beaucoup.
But I was saying that there are more portentous matters to concern myself with now than chapel ceilings. Oh, yes indeed, for here in this place, at this time, begins the struggle that will make men forever free of the yoke of monarchy. And
you
shall be the one to lead it.”

“Now
wait
a moment, Paille,” Gonji said, stopping and facing the Frenchman. Tora nudged his shoulder as he spoke. “Don’t be including me in any of your dreams. I’ve already explained how I feel about your...politicals—”

“Politics.”

“—whatever, and I make my own decisions about what I become involved in. Besides, this talk is madness, out here in the open like this. You’re every bit as crazy as they say.”

Paille’s eyes shone. “
Oui
, crazy enough to recognize destiny’s beckoning call, to see the coming
jacquérie
—the peasant revolution—that will begin in this insignificant place, among these humble mountains, and will echo down the corridors of time. And men will hail these days, for I shall record their moment, and they shall not be forgotten.”

Gonji rubbed the back of his neck, and a gurgling sound rumbled in his throat. They began walking again.

“You’ve taken up your predestined place already, you know,” Paille said in a quiet voice.

“How so?”

“Well, the fight at the square, for one. Quite an inspiration to the people. And now you’ve become Flavio’s bodyguard. A stranger, no? Bodyguard to the chief magistrate? And then I’ve heard other things...whispered.”

Gonji’s skin prickled. “Such as?”

Paille moved closer and said out of the corner of his mouth: “They’re saying you killed several bandits single-handedly while trying to rescue Michael’s brother. You’ve become the hero of the masses in a span of days.”

Gonji bridled. “Simply not true,” he lied. “Nonsense cooked up to produce just the effect it has. Those bandits were dead already when I arrived. And I’ll thank you to whisper that back to the whisperers next time,
neh?
”

He deeply regretted the prideful notion that had caused him to reveal how he had slain the boy’s killers. Damn that chirruping Strom Gundersen!

“Too late,” Paille said, grinning, “you’re already included in both my chronicle and in-progress epic! Epic poetry—that’s my current aesthetic passion. Ah, the glory of days past!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have a look at it before long, and I’ll have my blades with me,” Gonji advised, tapping the hilt of his killing sword.

“Ah, but those swords of yours will figure prominently in the epic. Of that I’m confident. I wish I had my manuscripts with me—oh! I do have something, the work of a friend—” He fished inside his tunic and produced a crumpled parchment. “—arrived last week—all the way from England. You’re a man of intellect. You possess discerning critical faculties. Tell me what you think—”

“Well, I’m no great critic of poetry—”

“Just listen,” Paille ordered, holding a hand in front of Gonji’s face. “It’s a sonnet—tacky, sloppily sentimental form—mercifully dying out, I think, but it goes:

‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Giving warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to—’

“What’s the matter?” Paille asked in annoyance, finally seeing Gonji’s head shaking.

“I don’t understand English,” Gonji said.

“Oh—well—let’s see—” Paille did a hasty translation of the sonnet into French, which Gonji strove to follow.

After a second reading, Gonji stroked his chin reflectively, then said, “Well...I think it’s quite good, although I’m sure the language suffers in the translation.” Paille made a small squeaking sound. “But is he saying that he should be forgotten when his present life has ended? No life should be forgotten.”

“No, of course not. This fellow should forget this sonnet business and apply himself to the stage. My brother tells me he’s quite an accomplished actor.”

“Your brother—Guy, with the one ear, or David, who smiles like a rabbit?”

“No-no,
Gaston
, the big strong one, who chose the stage against all advice.”

“Gaston,” Gonji repeated, rolling his eyeballs.

He recalled something he hadn’t thought of in years: his twelfth summer—the song of a lark—an indiscretion—the certainty of young death—

Gonji smiled. “Listen to this—

‘The soft white blossom—

Her eyes, markers of my grave.

My heart yearns for time

As shadows stretch and move:

The lark remembers my duty.’”

“That’s very interesting,” Paille declared. “What does it mean?”

“It is
waka
poetry,” Gonji replied proudly. “And that was my death poem—composed a bit prematurely, as it happens.”

As they neared the Ministry Paille questioned Gonji about his origin and background. The samurai spoke wistfully of Japan, of his father, the
daimyo
Sabatake Todohiro-no-Sadowara; of
bushido
and its seven basic principles: justice, courage, benevolence, politeness, veracity, honor and loyalty; of the samurai’s profound sense of duty; of Gonji’s repudiated heritage—but not the details of the duel over star-crossed love fought with his rival half-brother....

“This code of
bushido
is marvelously clean and simple,” Paille said. “But it can never be espoused here in eclectic Europe. Oh, no indeed. I’m afraid you’ll have to exempt yourself from its precepts here if you’re to retain your sanity. And as for duty—” he chortled “—as I’ve said, you’ve found it. You’re destined to be the great warrior-liberator who will help end monarchic tyranny. Your Western half has caused you to come here seeking fulfillment of that destiny.”

“No,
monsieur
wild-eyed poet, I’ve not come to find death in a radical social...upheaval—”

“Oh, good word,
oui
, your French is improving already—”

“—but,” Gonji continued, drowning him out, “but to seek a thing of legend called the Deathwind.” He explained the quest he had been set by a dying Shinto priest.

“Mmm,” Paille mused. “The Deathwind....”

“You’ve heard the legend?”

“Indeed, I know it well. Look about you. The Deathwind is our ever-present companion, the whispering breeze that serenades us when we’re alone in the dead of night, reminding us of our helpless, teeth-gnashing mortality.” Paille ended with a great theatrical flourish and flutter.

Gonji sighed. “What I need is a concrete explanation, something I can touch. Not more of your airy poetry.”

“If you have to ask what the Deathwind is, then perhaps you’ll never know—
oooh!
” Paille felt his tender jaw, which yet bore the bruise of Gonji’s punch on the night of the wyvern battle, when the fleeing samurai had tripped over the drunken artist.

“What happened there?” Gonji asked in amusement.

“Oh, the brigands jumped me the other night. Must have been three or four of them, but I escaped with only this souvenir.”

Gonji suppressed a laugh. “So you’re a fighting poet, then?”

“My purpose is to inspire others in the fight for freedom, but when the occasion warrants I can take care of myself.” He looked about cautiously. Then he produced a dagger from inside his tunic, winking at Gonji.

They stopped before the Ministry of Government and Finance, an imposing stone edifice with huge granite columns guarding its portals, which housed the Chancellery of the Exchequer and sundry bureaucratic offices. Children played on the steps without, waiting for parents on business. The Ministry was the nexus of commerce in Vedun, a short distance from the square and the bell tower and chapel, whose twin peaks fingered the steely sky. A large banner bearing Klann’s coat-of-arms now hung limply against the Ministry’s facade.

Gonji wondered at the curious appointments: the beast of fable and seven interlocked circles, two of which were blackened out. And as if the thought had spurred him, Paille began to blazon the crest aloud:

“Per bend sinister, Azure and Argent; in dexter, a basilisk (or something still less wholesome, perhaps) rampant-regardant, Or; in sinister, seven interlocked circles, two of the same Purpure; motto...incomprehensible.”

“You can blazon such devices, eh?” Gonji said, eyes sparkling with interest. He remembered the other coat-of-arms he had seen several days past. “Listen, Paille, do you know another from these parts, a green-and-red field, with a gold cross at the bottom—”

“Indeed I do,” the poet answered with arched eyebrows, “as do all in these environs. Of late it hung here in this very spot. The Rorka crest....” He set one foot on a hitching rail and puffed up his chest, then with eyes closed recited rapidly: “Per fess engrailed, Verd and Gules; in chief a lion, Argent, passant-guardant; in base a cross, Or (a hideously garish coloration, that); motto: ‘In Vita Sicut in Morte’—‘In Life as in Death.’ That is, presumably, at the breast of the Lord. ‘In Life as in Death’ indeed...,” Paille scowled.