depths to his meditations.
Always in the evening, when Gonji’s meditation was at its end, the boy would come and bring him his meal, keeping respectful silence until sure of his welcome. Then he would ply Gonji for more tales of the quest. Of the many roads to high adventure.
Then, one night, the boy unexpectedly inquired about that tragic venture of the Wunderknechten into the haunted province in the French Alps.
Gonji was taken aback. The subject had been taboo among the survivors who had accompanied him back across the sea. But somehow, he thought, the boy’s innocent curiosity might prove a potent emetic. At some point, they would have to reopen the wound again.
And so he did.
When he had finished, his story having found form in the words of merciful gallantry such tales must, out of necessity, be couched in, he found that he had indeedexperienced something of a catharsis. A fine film of sweat had broken out, his palms cold and moist, his throat dry. But he relaxed into a sense of purging, his guilt diffused.
The boy, a helmsman’s mate of about fifteen, poured him wine. He’d grown pale and somber during the telling of the tale, and Gonji was glad that he’d spared the lad any effort at objectifying the details that filled his nightmares.
The boy brought him his covered tray and, lifting the lid, said, “You left my brother to be feasted on by devils. You’re evil, and you belong in Hell—”
The boy grabbed the pistol from behind the tray’s lifted lid. The gun’s heavy report echoed in the small room. Gonji’s pistol-proof cuirass shattered on impact. Imploded. Shards of steel lodged in his chest.
Gonji knew staggering pain. Vertigo, as he bowled over. The door crashed in under Buey’s battering shoulder. An outcry—another—
Then burning blackness…
* * * *
Bright faces and happy banter greeted Gonji’s first lucid moments since he’d been shot. His companions alternated between giving thanks, jostling one another to dispel their pent-up anxiety and nervous tension, and filling him in on the latest news.
Gonji, for his part, was glad to see those who were still among the living. But his attention span was short, and he still seemed bewildered to be conscious, his senses focusing again, slowly, weakly.
He took a sip of water from Father Jan Sebastio and caught sight of Luigi Leone’s red-rimmed good eye. “You’re always so emotional, Leone-san,” the samurai said in a parched voice, the others laughing and nudging the raw-boned Italian brigand.
“I never said I wanted to be a bloody samurai,” Luigi replied, evoking more mirth.
“I dreamed…about the witch, Domingo Negro,” Gonji rambled, his companions nonetheless listening intently. “How is Nichiyoobi?” he thought to ask, the association at once dredging up memories of the black mare he had named after the witch.
“Spiteful as ever,” Orozco said, smiling toothily, his long mustache twitching.
Gonji’s face flashed sudden pain, then softened to a placid set as he found a more comfortable position. He nodded gingerly. “Perhaps the witch came from the netherworld to aid me in my distress.”
Sebastio grunted bluffly. “You know I can’t sanction talk like that, Gonji-san. More likely it was the prayers of those who love you—”
“Or the masses Father Jan celebrated every day in your name,” Luigi added.
“Kuma-san,” Gonji asked of the priest, his brow knitting, “did we ever send anyone to look after the well-being of Pablo Cardenas’ family?”
They looked uneasily from one to the other. Gonji was obviously still only tenuously in touch with reality, with time. His mention of the solicitor from Spain whose life had been lost in the battle at the mystical fortress in Africa was an irrational stroke.
“Of course,” Sebastio answered. “Months ago.”
Gonji bobbed his head, satisfied. Then he turned his attention to Orozco. “I hope, Carlo-san, I’ll never again hear you mention that damned
Always in the evening, when Gonji’s meditation was at its end, the boy would come and bring him his meal, keeping respectful silence until sure of his welcome. Then he would ply Gonji for more tales of the quest. Of the many roads to high adventure.
Then, one night, the boy unexpectedly inquired about that tragic venture of the Wunderknechten into the haunted province in the French Alps.
Gonji was taken aback. The subject had been taboo among the survivors who had accompanied him back across the sea. But somehow, he thought, the boy’s innocent curiosity might prove a potent emetic. At some point, they would have to reopen the wound again.
And so he did.
When he had finished, his story having found form in the words of merciful gallantry such tales must, out of necessity, be couched in, he found that he had indeedexperienced something of a catharsis. A fine film of sweat had broken out, his palms cold and moist, his throat dry. But he relaxed into a sense of purging, his guilt diffused.
The boy, a helmsman’s mate of about fifteen, poured him wine. He’d grown pale and somber during the telling of the tale, and Gonji was glad that he’d spared the lad any effort at objectifying the details that filled his nightmares.
The boy brought him his covered tray and, lifting the lid, said, “You left my brother to be feasted on by devils. You’re evil, and you belong in Hell—”
The boy grabbed the pistol from behind the tray’s lifted lid. The gun’s heavy report echoed in the small room. Gonji’s pistol-proof cuirass shattered on impact. Imploded. Shards of steel lodged in his chest.
Gonji knew staggering pain. Vertigo, as he bowled over. The door crashed in under Buey’s battering shoulder. An outcry—another—
Then burning blackness…
* * * *
Bright faces and happy banter greeted Gonji’s first lucid moments since he’d been shot. His companions alternated between giving thanks, jostling one another to dispel their pent-up anxiety and nervous tension, and filling him in on the latest news.
Gonji, for his part, was glad to see those who were still among the living. But his attention span was short, and he still seemed bewildered to be conscious, his senses focusing again, slowly, weakly.
He took a sip of water from Father Jan Sebastio and caught sight of Luigi Leone’s red-rimmed good eye. “You’re always so emotional, Leone-san,” the samurai said in a parched voice, the others laughing and nudging the raw-boned Italian brigand.
“I never said I wanted to be a bloody samurai,” Luigi replied, evoking more mirth.
“I dreamed…about the witch, Domingo Negro,” Gonji rambled, his companions nonetheless listening intently. “How is Nichiyoobi?” he thought to ask, the association at once dredging up memories of the black mare he had named after the witch.
“Spiteful as ever,” Orozco said, smiling toothily, his long mustache twitching.
Gonji’s face flashed sudden pain, then softened to a placid set as he found a more comfortable position. He nodded gingerly. “Perhaps the witch came from the netherworld to aid me in my distress.”
Sebastio grunted bluffly. “You know I can’t sanction talk like that, Gonji-san. More likely it was the prayers of those who love you—”
“Or the masses Father Jan celebrated every day in your name,” Luigi added.
“Kuma-san,” Gonji asked of the priest, his brow knitting, “did we ever send anyone to look after the well-being of Pablo Cardenas’ family?”
They looked uneasily from one to the other. Gonji was obviously still only tenuously in touch with reality, with time. His mention of the solicitor from Spain whose life had been lost in the battle at the mystical fortress in Africa was an irrational stroke.
“Of course,” Sebastio answered. “Months ago.”
Gonji bobbed his head, satisfied. Then he turned his attention to Orozco. “I hope, Carlo-san, I’ll never again hear you mention that damned
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