Mythworld: Invisible Moon (11 page)

“Well,” said Herald, “I guess it’s The Jennings
Duo
, now.”

O O O

At Soame’s, they were sitting and enjoying Glen Beecroft’s one man performance of an original play called “
I Don’t Know What It Is Either, But Here It Comes Again”
, when Meredith noticed June standing behind the door to the private residence, which was just barely cracked. He caught her eye, and motioned for her to follow.

Discreetly, she slid out of her seat as Glen was getting to a part in the play having to do with alligators, which had pretty much riveted everyone to their seats, as with each pass he was eyeing people on the front row of chairs like cream puffs. Delna was keeping him in check with tossed biscotti, but Meredith wondered if she wasn’t leaving just as it was about to get interesting.

When she stepped through the Kawaminami’s door, Meredith saw June waiting at the bottom of the library staircase, a single candle lit. Slowly she descended, and then walked across to the broad, dark Edwardian table and chairs where they had nabbed Bristol, his stamp still sitting open next to a pile of books.

“June?” Meredith said, “You wanted to talk?”

He nodded and set the candle, dripping, on the table, and then moved out of the light to a chest near the wall.

Meredith couldn’t quite make out what he was doing; he lifted something, wrapped, from the chest, then turned to face her as he removed the cloth from the object he’d retrieved.

“June? What are you doing? What is that?”

Wordlessly, June stepped from out of the shadows, cradling gently in his hands …

… A
sword
.

A larger, longer version of the one they’d found with Fujiko’s body, the sword overlapped thoughts of Richard Chamberlain which rushed through Meredith’s head; Gaijin-San, the Dutch trader shipwrecked on Japanese soil in the novel
SHOGUN
, become one with them in culture if not in blood. And there was much blood in
SHOGUN
, spilled by the very kind of sword June held before her.

Folded more than five hundred times, the metal edge could slice through concrete, raw steel, a tree, for God’s sake; an ancestral sword, the hilt made of gold formed in the shape of a dragon, braided through with red silk, and cased about with onyx of the deepest black. It was stunning in its beauty.

It also bore, along the edge, a slight staining the color of rust …

… Although she was pretty sure it wasn’t rust.

June stepped closer, and, kneeling, proffered the blade to her.

“June? Wh … What do …? I don’t understand …”

“I have betrayed you, Meredith. My life is yours.”

She pulled him to his feet, shaking in fear and disbelief.

What the hell was he talking about?
“What the hell are you talking about, Junichi?”

He slumped into one of the Edwardian chairs around the table, his head in his hands. “There is something I should have told you when you first arrived from Vienna. I did mean to tell you, but there always seemed to be something that got in the way, or the circumstances were not quite right, or …”

He shook his head sadly. “Excuses. Just excuses. In truth, it just became easier to pretend there was nothing to tell, and after a time, your father became more and more of a memory, and it became less and less important to keep the vow I made to him.”

“Vow?”

“To tell you what he told me, on the night before he … Before he was killed. To tell you what I promised to tell no one else.”

“What is that, June?”

“Vasily Strugatski was
not
your father.”

Meredith slumped into one of the chairs across from him, which was not terribly dignified, but was more dignified than having her knees buckle underneath her. He took the look in Meredith’s eyes as permission to continue; to be honest, she had no idea what her eyes were saying—she was just content that she could still focus.

“Vasily came to me one night, when I was alone. Often, he had dined with me and Fuji, and he spent a lot of time with Shingo. But on that night, he came before dinner and asked to speak to me alone.

“We came here, to the library, and he told me a story of two young lovers, kept apart by circumstance …”

Meredith nodded. “Vasily and Elena.”

June looked at her, stricken. “No—Elena and
Michael
.”

“
What?
”

“Before the Strugatski family settled in Vienna, before Vasily, your mother was in love with another man—Michael Langbein.”

“But … But, I thought they met
after 
…”

“They met, Meredith, several years before you were born. They met, fell in love, and planned to marry.”

“What stopped them?”

“His family forbade it. They would never allow him to marry a Gypsy—and to keep them apart, he was sent off to school.”

“That’s when he went to Oxford.”

June nodded. “Did you know them well, Michael’s family?”

She shook her head. “They died when I was still a child.”

“Mmm. A greater shame, then, that they had interfered so in their son’s life. Elena and he had pledged to remain faithful through Michael’s ‘exile’, but years apart can dull any love, and Elena never expected to fall in love with another man.”

“My father.”

“That’s right. The letters that her friends could smuggle in from Michael were growing fewer and farther apart—and the gulf between the last was broad enough to allow your father, Vasily, to capture her heart.”

Meredith nodded numbly, listening. “How did Michael come back into Mother’s life?”

“She had been with your father for almost a year, when Michael returned to Vienna, to discover why she no longer answered his letters. He found her where he had last seen her, in the market, and with one glance, they fell in love all over again.

“When your mother returned home that night, Vasily could tell something was amiss. He questioned her, and the whole truth of it came spilling out. She swore to be faithful, that they had only spoken at the market, had not even touched, but Vasily could see that it was something which ran deep inside her, and so, he sought out Michael Langbein.”

“He went looking for him? And he didn’t kill him?”

“That would’ve killed your mother—and large as he was, Vasily was a gentle soul. He merely wanted to speak to the man who once had wanted the woman he had, and perhaps did still.”

June stopped, thinking. After a moment, he met Meredith’s eyes.

“That was when he made the mistake.

“He loved your mother, and bore no ill will towards Michael. And perhaps in their tearful protests that they were no longer in love, he saw the glances and gestures at each other that were deeper than a youthful fling which may be forgotten in time. And so, he told them that he was going to go out drinking, and would not be back until morning.”

“He left them there? Alone?”

“For Elena’s sake, he allowed them the one night together—that one night, and no other. This was his mistake; a choice made of love, but a mistake nonetheless.”

“And Elena—my mother—became pregnant, didn’t she?”

June looked at Meredith, eyes brimming, then nodded gently.

“Is that why he left?”

June nodded again. “It wasn’t for shame, Meredith, and it wasn’t to avoid killing them to avenge the family honor. He left because the child, a daughter—you—was not his own, but Michael’s. He left to allow the family to be together as a family, and in doing so, took all of the shame upon himself, and let Michael have everything that he had desired in his life—a loving wife, a child, a home.”

“All those letters he sent to my mother …”

“He loved her, Meredith. He couldn’t stop loving her, and that’s why he forgave her.”

“But, how could he? How … When it was she who betrayed, not …”

“That is the nature of forgiveness. When you forgive, you take the weight of the sin—and its consequences—upon yourself. This is what your father did; and to make certain that he would never go back on that decision, would never destroy the lives of you and your mother …”

“He left.”

June nodded. “He left.”

“It wasn’t just Mother, though—that bastard Michael did this to him, too.”

“Meredith,” said June, “that ‘bastard’, the man whom you carry so much anger for, the man who raised you, is your real father. He may have cheated with your mother against Vasily, but only that. Vasily was your mother’s husband, not your father. When he left, it was to make room for the man who was.”

That took a few swallows to choke down.

“But, the letters …”

“He still considered Elena his wife, and you his daughter. He did love you, Meredith, and wanted you to know him. Your grandmother never gave Elena the letters to her because Vasily asked her not to.”

“Did they know why he left—the real reason?”

“Your grandfather suspected, but Vasily could not be certain. It was never really discussed in any of the letters—that’s probably why they never spoke of it to you. They did agree with Vasily, though, that it should be your choice whether to show the letters to your mother—perhaps he thought that Elena and Michael would tell you the truth, then. I cannot say.”

“Was he ever … Would he have ever told me, if I had come to see him before he died?”

June nodded and took her hands in his own. “Yes, yes—that’s why he chose to tell me. He wanted to tell you when you were old enough, and choosing parts of your life outside of your parents’ influence. He … He hoped that you would still choose to love him.”

Meredith blinked back tears, silent.

“He feared that some event or circumstance would prevent you coming together, so he took me into his confidence and made me vow to tell this only to you, should he not be able to. It was a sadly prophetic discussion, for the next morning, he was found dead.”

“Did he give any hint that he knew something might happen?”

June pulled back his hands and shook his head slowly. “Not in so many words, though the expression of fear is clue enough that he at least had his suspicions.”

Dazed, Meredith stood up and walked across the cold room, hugging herself. In the reflection of the dark paneled windows, she could see her hair was almost entirely grey, and her hips broader. Her breasts also seemed more pendulous, and her face thicker, though all of that could have been distortions in the glass. She hoped they were. She wanted to be a pretty bride for the son of this man, whom she loved so much in that moment. Meredith turned back to June.

“I’m glad he told you. I’m glad to know.”

Junichi bowed his head, respectfully, and it was then she remembered why he’d brought her to the library.

“June? What does any of that have to do with you? You kept your word to Vasily, but,” she said, nodding her head at the sword on the table, “why did you offer me your life?”

Hearing this, he lost posture, as if waking from a pleasant daydream to a lecture from the headmistress. “Meredith,” he began, “when your father died, there were no witnesses, and no suspects. There was not even enough evidence to begin an investigation. However, when I looked more closely at his body, I realized that I knew what kind of instrument could sever a head so cleanly.”

Against her will, Meredith shuddered, and forced herself not to look at the sword.

“Although George’s dog led the sheriff to several places in town, including my library, he never took the men to the chest where the sword was usually kept. I looked there, and I found it missing. I never looked again until this morning, when the katana was found at Fujiko’s side.”

“What are you trying to tell me, June?”

“I … I think Fujiko killed him, Meredith. I think she killed your father.”

It suddenly seemed as if the snow outside had ceased to fall, until Meredith realized that it was merely the eternity between instants she was sharing with June.

“But why? Why would she possibly want to? And how could she? Vasily was a huge man—there’s no way a woman as small as …”

June stopped her, a horribly loving smile on his face. “Fuji is the one who taught the art of the sword, the way of the Samurai, to
me
,
”
he said tearfully. “The sword was her birthright, not mine—and now, it is Shingo’s.”

Meredith thought about that a moment, the image of that tiny woman and the immenseness of her father, sparring. It still seemed too impossible.

“June, tell me this—why, even if she could, would Fuji kill my father?”

He shook his head and turned away, standing half in shadow. “I do not know. There is also this,” he said, offering her a crumpled paper with a trembling hand. It was the paper that had been found in Fuji’s hand. Meredith opened it and read the few simple lines written on it:

For June, and my Shingo, I am sorry to die
—

For Vasily, it is only right
—

My life for his

“What if you are wrong?” Meredith exclaimed. “What if she didn’t …”

June turned, his eyes flicking to the rust-colored staining on the blade, then rising to meet hers. Meredith swallowed, hard; they both knew that it was blood, and that it was neither fresh, nor extremely old. Probably less than a year. Probably about as old as the week of her father’s death.

June stepped back over to the table and again took up the sword, offering it to her. “It is my responsibility, Meredith. Please, help me to restore the honor of my house.”

“But why? Whatever Fuji did was her choice, not yours. If she killed my father, it was her sin. Are you …” Meredith paused, another fear creeping into her thoughts. “Are you trying to tell me that
you
killed her?”

“No—her decision to end her life was her own. But the shame is as great as if I had struck the blow myself.” He bowed deeply again, and stretched forth the sword.

Meredith took it from him, and threw it across the room.

Startled, June stood up, a look of confusion and pain on his face. He looked at her for an explanation.

“I’m not going to
kill
you, June! Have you looked outside, lately?” Meredith strode to the window and yanked back the drapes. “It’s still snowing. We just lynched your librarian, yesterday, and half the town has gone missing. In Canada, buses are eating people. Airplanes are turning into dragons. The cars in town have eaten most of the band, and I think Glen and Delna are turning into trolls. My father, who isn’t really my father, is dead; my stepfather, who’s really my father, has also been killed. One of my close friends kills
herself
, and you want me to kill
you
because you feel bad about her killing herself and someone else? And what about Shingo? We could be in the middle of the end of the world, here, and he just lost his mother less than a day after he decided he wanted to marry me—and you want me to go back out there and tell him that not only are you—his father—dead too, but that I’m the one who killed you? Render unto me a freaking
break
, Junichi.”