Eric van lustbader chi.., p.40
Eric van Lustbader - China Maroc 02, page 40
Twisted now to his right, delivering a boar to that side, and quickly, again, feeling three ribs give as the heat on his face became almost unbearable, the chain beginning to stop the blood flow to the brain and Jake knew that this was strictly shunt-ended, very little time before the sparkling lights sprang up before his eyes and the lack of oxygen clouded his judgment or, worse, affected his coordination.
The Yakuza slipped to his knees, bringing Jake down with him. But his training was extraordinary and even with three ribs shattered he would not let go, he was still positioned directly behind Jake where it was very difficult to get anything done against him.
Time was critical now. Lungs burning and he was experiencing consciousness slippage, aware of the sunlight filtered onto one leaf, suprareal; the sighing of the breeze like the chattering of animated spirits, playing hide and seek amid the trees; cloud, blue-gray, in the shape of a samurai at the charge and …
I’m not getting any air!
Stop daydreaming and get on with it! he berated himself. Tried four different types of leg atemi but the Yakuza slipped away each time, doggedly keeping his strength in the tautness of the manrikigusari. Jake suspected that he was slowly drowning in his own blood. But that would be little consolation if he was able to hold on long enough to keep the air out of Jake’s bursting lungs.
Seconds now rather than minutes and Jake did the only thing he could, arching backward, putting all his weight excruciatingly on his neck for the instant when it became the fulcrum for the back somersault.
Used an elbow atemi with both fists clenched together, consciousness wavering in and out of focus, jamming down, down in a sharp motion that shattered the Yakuza’s sternum.
The man arched up, his fingers white as bone as they slid along the wet links of the chain and Jake, slamming his left elbow at the side of his neck, smashed the flat of his right hand against his adversary’s cheek. Heard the sharp snap of the cervical vertibrae as they gave way beneath the enormous pressure.
A nacreous blackness and he saw the ant making its laborious way through a field of stalks.
Then he became aware that the field of stalks was the hairs on the back of his hand. Head hanging down, the manrikigusari hanging around his shoulders like the weight held aloft by Atlas.
“Jake-san!”
Mikio by his side. “Are you all right?”
It hurt too much to nod his head and his tongue was so dry it felt swollen enough to fill his mouth.
At Mikio’s silent urging, they moved off, edging around to the far side of the Justice stone. Surrounded by box tree and silver juniper.
“There are four more,” Mikio said. He kept looking at his watch as if he were late for an appointment. “We must hold them off.”
Jake noticed that he had taken the manrikigusari. “How good are you with that?” He was testing the raw flesh around his neck.
Mikio gave a grim laugh. “It depends on whom you speak to.” He gave Jake a look, “Don’t worry, kyujutsu ka, we’ll be drinking Kirins at my favorite bar in the old quarter of Kyoto an hour from now.”
Jake said nothing but he wondered if that was going to be so. He badly needed some rest and there was no telling how badly Mikio was wounded. He watched their immediate environment. He listened.
He heard a sharp clack and jump slightly. Mikio put a hand on his knee. “It is only the shishi odoshi.”
Jake looked around, saw the bamboo and stone “deer scare” not twenty meters away. Originally created by farmers to keep their crops from being eaten by animals, the shishi odoshi was now a common element in the modern Japanese garden. A wide length of bamboo filled part way with water and as the liquid’s weight tipped it over, its end would strike a stone, making the loud clacking noise. Emptied of water it would rise back up again to be refilled and strike the stone once more.
In the changeless harmony of the eternal garden, the shishi odoshi’s metronomic sound might be the only outward manifestation of the passage of time.
To Jake, every clack that reverberated through the foliage brought them that much closer to the end of the overwhelming peace of the garden. Here beneath the willowy branches of the evergreens, the Chinese Judas, amid the aspidistra and plantain lily, the lacy ostrich fern, the okame bamboo grass, he was never more acutely aware of the beauty of the world. Wiping the sweat from his face, he was determined that they would not die here, not today, not for a long while.
Clack, clack, the shishi odoshi spewing out the water on the back of the striking stone. The changeless western face of the Justice stone, bulging out toward them, then running away in a wide arc down toward the Japanese maple and the cryptomeria.
Glimpse of black, pin stripe, a suit sleeve? and Jake saying, “Brace yourself, Mikio-san, here they come.”
Mikio used the manrikigusari on the leading man, tumbling him so that the shuriken he was about to release clattered to the stone path.
At the same time, Jake was up and running toward the breadth of the Justice stone. It was imperative to split these four up. In a bunch, Jake knew, they’d have little chance against a massed assault.
Took three with him—obviously with Mikio wounded they figured Jake was the most dangerous. They came at him from three different directions at once. Expected him to run but he stood his ground. Deliberately made himself appear confused; he was careful not to move so that when he did it would come as a shock, gaining him a fraction more time.
And when the one on the left was close enough, he began his attack, a flat-handed atemi that Jake watched come at his face. At the last instant, he dropped to one knee, swiveling his body to his left as he did so. With his right hand he reached up, caught the cuff on the man’s extended right sleeve and, using his own forward momentum, pulled hard across his own body and down, throwing the Yakuza into his companion, rushing Jake from the right.
Now, as Jake rose to his feet, the man in the center grabbed him from behind over Jake’s shoulders. Jake kept his body moving to his right, jamming his left hand upward under the Yakuza’s armpit, and threw him off.
The first man was on him again and Jake, seeing the shuriken in his hand, allowed him to stab forward with it. His left hand flashed out to meet the blade, bypassed it, locked around the Yakuza’s wrist, pulling toward him using his own momentum combined with his strength to pitch him forward.
As the Yakuza stretched out, bending, Jake’s right hand came up, slashed down onto the back of the man’s exposed neck. He collapsed into a heap.
Jake kicked out at the third man, rocking him back, while eying the short sword the second man had unsheathed. He rushed at Jake, the sword extended in front of him. He began to kiai shout but Jake slammed the heel of his hand into the Yakuza’s chin. His other hand blurred up, deflecting the blade away and down.
But the Yakuza had kicked out and Jake felt a searing pain along his hip. His left leg went numb and he collapsed against the curving face of the Justice stone.
The Yakuza slashed down and Jake rolled. Heard the scraping crash as blade encountered rock, saw the bright blue sparks.
Jake reached out, curling his fingers into the front of his adversary’s jacket. In close quarters the sword was no good at all, neither would be the man’s potentially lethal foot atemi.
Surprising Jake, the Yakuza immediately dropped his weapon, landed a double kite just above Jake’s heart. Jake doubled over, had the presence of mind to roll out of the way of the atemi he knew would be aimed at the back of his neck.
The Yakuza followed closely, sensing victory. The edges of his hand were extended and Jake could see that his karate training had been extensive. He struck and Jake used a tenkan, jamming the heel of his hand against the Yakuza’s elbow. At the same time Jake twisted his torso, giving him the added leverage, swinging himself and the other man around, slamming him to the ground.
The Yakuza, half-stunned, nevertheless grabbed up the hilt of the short sword and, in the same motion, slashed upward. The blade came within a hair’s-breadth of severing Jake’s neck.
Used his feet to take the Yakuza down but his position was bad and the man was wielding the sword with deadly force. So Jake did the only thing he could. Using irimi to bring the man toward him down and, at just the right angle, smashed the top of his head against the immutable face of the Justice stone.
He was staring at the limp form when the blow landed on the side of his face. Jake reeled, sliding down the side of the stone. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision, but nothing would quite come into focus. His depth perception was gone. His arms felt weighed down with lead, his leg was burning with the pain inflicted by the foot atemi.
The last of the Yakuza stood over him with his fallen compatriot’s sword in his hand. He lifted the gleaming blade and Jake knew there was nothing he could do to stop him. He saw his own death reflected in the shining perfect blade of the wakizashi, felt the cold pressage of the flat, arcing blow that would sever his head from his neck.
The blade began to blur, picking up momentum. At the moment it struck through his skin, flesh and bone, he knew, it would be at the height of its speed.
It was so close now that Jake could see the meeting of the two planes of the blade or thought he could—a hairline so intensely white as to be blinding. it was like looking into the face of God.
Then something funny happened to the Yakuza’s body. It ballooned outward at its center, perhaps six centimeters above the heart, and Jake was covered with a heavy, wet heat. A stench like that of a charnel house suffused him so that he began to gag.
Then the full weight of the Yakuza crashed into him, into the Justice stone, smearing its face with blood, guts and shards of shattered bone. I he stink or steaming feces was overpowering and Jake, without conscious thought, began the difficult process of crawling away from it. He felt buried in filth. It was difficult to breathe and he began to pant.
He felt someone begin to pull him away and he rolled face upward. A cloth passed across his face, wiping away the flecks of blood and flesh. Jake looked at the dead Yakuza, saw the rear end of a black anodized steel bolt stuck through what remained of the man.
He raised his gaze, saw the beautiful woman in the exquisite persimmon-colored kimono who had helped tend to him at Mikio’s house, kneeling beside him, a bloody cloth in one hand.
It was only after a stunned and silent moment that he realized she carried in her other hand a Mitsui Jujika-1000 compressed-gas powered crossbow.
Bliss knew what it was like to be in the arms of Buddha. As she approached the Container Terminal at Kwun Tong she saw that Fung the Skeleton was not present. She saw this not with her eyes but with her mind.
Her qi, part of which was now always within da-hei, the great darkness, made her aware of this fact. Spread upon the sea of quickening night, her spirit tapped into the vibrations of the universe.
Who was that crying in the street? She was forever aware of the wailing of the dead, massed, an army that took up a continent. Who were they? Her countrymen, the dead of China, calling to be free.
How did she know this? What was it like to be in contact with a spirit? Bliss, in the bow of the walla-walla she had hired, closed her eyes, listened to the voice of Shi Zilin. It was in the whisper of the wind fluttering the tendrils of her hair, in the lapping of the waves against the small craft’s sides, the bubbling of its wake. It was in the cries of the sea gulls, greedily circling a fishing trawler.
The earth moved and Shi Zilin spoke. They were one and the same, interchangeable. The qi of the planet rose and fell as it inhaled and exhaled. She felt this as she heard him speak. There were no words but rather impulses akin to the way one’s brain automatically sent messages to one’s extremities to move. One was never aware of the process, only the end result. It was mysterious, magical, awesome, even. Therefore, it was not something one could share with another human being. Often, Bliss wondered what she would do when Jake returned to Hong Kong. What would she tell him? How would he perceive the changes in her. How would they affect him?
She gave a little shiver in the predawn darkness. Already, in the east, a line of palest pink had begun to color the oyster gray as night paled.
‘Tell me where, miss,” the boatman said. “Exactly.”
Bliss pointed and when there was no reply, turned around. Caught him staring at her with a kind of fright. What is it that he sees? she wondered. Perhaps I am branded, a scar struck along my cheek. And, unconsciously, she put fingertips to flesh, ran them along the smooth surface. She laughed at herself but it was an uneasy sound, itself making her shiver all over again.
She wished Jake were here beside her. Not to tell her what to do or even to reassure her. For the first time since their reuniting, doubts about the two of them lay like clouds across the horizon.
His history haunted her. She knew of his first wife’s suicide, the death of Lan at the Sumchun River; knew, too, of Jake’s second wife, Mariana. Her murder in the Japanese Alps had brought Jake back to Bliss for good. But neither of his marriages had been particularly happy ones.
Jake was married to his work, whether that be with the Quarry, in the past, or the yuhn-hyun in the present. His was a wholly obsessive personality and this very obsession had caused, his closest friends felt, his estrangement with those he loved most in the world.
Bliss knew this to be only part of the story. She thought of Jake’s specialness. She had trained with the same martial arts and philosophical master Fo Saan, who had trained Jake. She therefore knew with great intimacy the extraordinary talents Jake possessed. It was his heightened qi, his ability to enter into a semimystical state known as ba-mahk, she believed, that set him apart from most people. It was this, she believed, that was most responsible for estranging him from his family.
Now Bliss wondered how their relationship would be affected. Her own qi was expanded within da-hei. It was here that Zilin spoke to her. She wondered if she were the guardian of the Jian’s spirit, or if his qi had become hers. She wondered if he were guiding her in some way and, if so, to what purpose.
“Here, miss,” the boatman said as they touched the pier. But he would not take the money they had agreed on before setting out. He would not even meet her eyes nor answer her questions. Clearly, all he wanted was for her to get off his boat.
This Bliss did, gaining access to the dockside via a rusted metal staircase that ran up the concrete bulkhead from the lower quay. She could smell the diesel fumes from the airport. To her left was the Container Terminal itself and, beyond, a seemingly endless line of godowns—warehouses filled with all manner of licit and illicit goods awaiting transshipment to virtually every country on the globe.
Fung the Skeleton’s boat lay at anchor perhaps three hundred meters down the quay. It was a slim, sleek-looking craft with enough horsepower to outrun the most modern of the police launches. It was painted the color of deep water at night and was almost invisible.
Its captain, she learned by questioning a crew member, was known only as the Malaysian. She had been there less than twenty minutes when he appeared. He was a dark-skinned man with an athletic build running to fat. He had a great, curling mustache shining with wax.
He was young, no more than his mid-thirties, Bliss judged. He wore a pair of knock-off Guess jeans, a muscle T-shirt that looked ludicrous on a man of his bulk.
The same man whom Bliss had questioned stopped the Malaysian, spoke to him for a minute. The Malaysian nodded, dismissing the man. He came across the pier to where Bliss was waiting.
He squinted into the sunrise, said, “You looking for the captain of this boat?”
“I’m looking for Fung the Skeleton.”
The Malaysian took a hand-rolled cigarette out of a pocket of his jeans. It was half-crushed. He spent some time trying to straighten it out, somewhat more lighting it. He sucked in some smoke, then said, “We have nothing to talk about,” as he exhaled.
“I’ve got something to sell,” she said.
“You?” He gave a laugh and shook his head. “You’ve got nothing I’d be interested in buying. Unless …” His eyes swept over her body.
“Opals,” Bliss said.
“You’re wasting my time.” He began to turn away.
“Fire opals from Australia,” she said. “Are you familiar with them?”
He took another drag on the cigarette. “Sure. Everything’s got a price and I know ‘em all.”
She noted his attitude. He liked to feel superior. “Familiar enough to know what this’s worth?” She handed over the opal.
The Malaysian grunted, took a look at it. Turned it over. Held it up to the light. Then he turned his head and spat. Dropped it back into her palm. “That all?” he said. “Go on. Get outta here.”
“Not just this one,” she said, unfazed. “One hundred more just like it.”
“Same quality?” She noticed that he wasn’t so eager to leave now.
She nodded.
“You got a price in mind?”
Bliss looked at him, saw what she needed in his face. If he saw even a tiny chink in her front now, he’d roll right over her. “I’ve got a price.” Put an edge into her voice.
“Let’s hear it. If it’s—”
But she was already shaking her head. “Not you,” she said. “I’ll tell it to Fung the Skeleton.”
“Who?”
“Are you interested in the opals?”
“Only if the price is right.”
“What are you going to tell Fung when I sell these to his competition.”
The Malaysian said nothing.
“Opals are Fung’s specialty.”
The Malaysian contemplated the dying end of his cigarette. “I don’t know you.” His icy eyes met hers.
Bliss held the opal out to him. “Take this to Fung, “she said. “Maybe that will ease your mind.”
The Malaysian flicked his butt into the water. He seemed to have made up his mind. “Get on board,” he said, ignoring the jewel. “We sail in three minutes.”
