Kusanagi by Clem Chambers Page B

sank into the box and turned. Two lugs at the front flicked out.
    â€˜Wait!’ cried Davas.
    Jim lifted his hand off the sun and spun the circle as if to unscrew it. It clicked and lifted out. He tried to lift the lid by the lugs.
    â€˜No!’ cried Davas. ‘Don’t! Stop!’
    Jim pushed the lugs in and two lugs at the back popped out. The lid lifted a little and Jim began to slide it off.
    Davas barged him violently and Jim skidded away from the table.
    â€˜What did you do that for?’ he panted.
    â€˜These things can be sabotaged, booby-trapped.’
    â€˜Right,’ said Jim, going back to the box. ‘But not this one.’
    â€˜At least stand to one side of it,’ said Davas, still hanging back.
    â€˜OK,’ said Jim, and moved to the left of the box. He lifted the lid. Inside, there was a dark red burgundy mass. Nothing shot out; nothing exploded.
    They peered in.
    â€˜What is it?’ wondered Jim.
    â€˜Beeswax,’ said Stafford. ‘It’s used to pack something precious so it won’t rattle around.’
    Around what appeared to be the locking mechanism there was a circle, to the right of it a square, and a long thin rectangle at the bottom of the box. Stafford touched the ancient wax surface of the square. It was fixed solidly to the inside of the box. He took out a pocket knife, put the blade into the corner of the square-shaped mass and tried to push the blade into it. The wax was hard, like the grout between two bricks.
    â€˜Let me have a go,’ said Jim. He pushed his two thumbs into the corner. There was a cracking sound. The cube of wax sank in at one end and popped out at the other. Jim prised it free.
    Davas was still standing back, his arms folded.
    Jim twisted the wax block as if it was a loaf of bread. It shattered. Within, there was a tearing of paper. Then he saw a flash of emerald and gold. He pulled out a green necklace. ‘Wow.’ He held it up. It was a string of deep green stone fingers, like a Native American necklace of bear claws. It was held together with a gold chain woven with highly detailed floral patterns. He opened the necklace and went to put it on.
    â€˜Don’t do that,’ said Davas.
    Jim put it on. ‘What do you think?’
    â€˜Very regal,’ said Stafford.
    Davas shrugged.
    Jim turned back to the box. He pressed down on the circle of wax and heard another dry crack. He pushed and prodded the area until the circular wax cake popped out.
    Davas and Stafford craned their necks and stood almost on tiptoe to watch him. Jim broke open the wax and unwrapped a mirror, with a knob in the form of a flower bud on the reverse. He looked at himself in the polished silver face: he saw a blurred distorted image of himself, but he looked kind of handsome and heroic in a cartoony smudgy way. Behind him, Stafford and Davas looked like two awed schoolkids with some visiting dignitary. He laughed. ‘Nice mirror,’ he said, and laid it on the towel. Davas picked it up.
    Jim put a thumb at each end of the oblong and pressed hard; the block flipped up and out and almost fell out of the box. Jim caught it. He twisted the wax block, which broke, paper tearing beneath.
    Davas put the mirror back on the towel. ‘Dear God,’ he said, as Jim pulled a Japanese sword from its crumbling wrapping.
    â€˜Kusanagi,’ said Stafford.
    â€˜What?’ said Jim, removing the sword from its plain but beautiful scabbard. He held the blade up to the failing light from the window. The sky was leaden and a wind was blowing down the Thames. A funny bleached light highlighted the object, giving it a strange thick outline. He grinned, experiencing a flash of aggression. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘What a cool thing.’ He turned to Davas and Stafford, held up the scabbard and slid the flashing blade back into it. ‘What do you think they’re worth altogether?’ He put the sword down.
    Davas and