“Thank you.”
I inhale and send smoke to join the fog.
“You have come a long way,” the man states.
“Yes.”
“And your pilgrimage has come to an end.”
“Oh? Here?”
He smiles and nods. He turns his head toward the temple.
“This is our temple,” he says, “where we worship the new bodhisattva. He awaits you within.”
“He can continue to wait, till I finish my cigarette,” I say.
“Of course.”
With a casual glance, I study the man. He is probably a very good karateka.I am very good with the bo. If it were only him, I would bet on myself. But two of them, and the other probably just as good as this one? Kokuzo, where is your sword? I am suddenly afraid.
I turn away, I drop the cigarette, I spin into my attack. He is ready, of course. No matter. I land the first blow.
By then, however, the other man is circling and I must wheel and move defensively, turning, turning. If this goes on for too long, they will be able to wear me down.
I hear a grunt as I connect with a shoulder. Something, anyway . . .
Slowly, I am forced to give way, to retreat toward the temple wall. If I am driven too near it, it will interfere with my strokes. I try again to hold my ground, to land a decisive blow. . . .
Suddenly, the man to my right collapses, a dark figure on his back. No time to speculate. I turn my attention to the first monk, and moments later I land another blow, then another.
My rescuer is not doing so well, however. The second monk has shaken him off and begins striking at him with bone-crushing blows. My ally knows something of unarmed combat, though, for he gets into a defensive stance and blocks many of these, even landing a few of his own. Still, he is clearly overmatched.
Finally I sweep a leg and deliver another shoulder blow. I try three strikes at my man while he is down, but he rolls away from all of them and comes up again. I hear a sharp cry from my right, but I cannot look away from my adversary.
He comes in again and this time I catch him with a sudden reversal and crush his temple with a follow-up. I spin then, barely in time, for my ally lies on the ground and the second monk is upon me.
Either I am lucky or he has been injured. I catch the man quickly and follow up with a rapid series of strikes which take him down, out, and out for good.
I rush to the side of the third man and kneel beside him, panting. I had seen his gold earring as I moved about the second monk.
“Boris.” I take his hand. “Why are you here?”
“I told you—I could take a few days—to help you,” he says, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Found you. Was taking pictures . . . And see . . . You needed me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Grateful, but sorry. You’re a better man than I thought.”
He squeezes my hand. “I told you I liked you—Maryushka. Too bad . . . we didn’t have—more time . . .”
I lean and kiss him, getting blood on my mouth. His hand relaxes within my own. I’ve never been a good judge of people, except after the fact.
And so I rise. I leave him there on the wet pavement. There is nothing I can do for him. I go into the temple.
It is dark near the entrance, but there are many votive lights to the rear. I do not see anyone about. I did not think that I would. It was just to have been the two monks, ushering me to the terminal. I head toward the lights. It must be somewhere back there.
I hear rain on the rooftop as I search. There are little rooms, off to either side, behind the lights.
It is there, in the second one. And even as I cross the threshold, I feel that familiar ionization which tells me that Kit is doing something here.
I rest my staff against the wall and go nearer. I place my hand upon the humming terminal.
“Kit,” I say, “I have come.”
No epigon grows before me, but I feel his presence and he seems to speak to me as he did on that night so long ago when I lay back upon the couch and donned the helmet:
“I knew that you would be here tonight.”
“So did I,” I reply.
“All of your business is finished?”
“Most of it.”
“And you are ready now to be joined with me?”
“Yes.”
Again I feel that movement, almost sexual in nature, as he flows into me. In a moment he would bear me away into his kingdom.
Tatemae is what you show to others. Honne is your real intention. As Musashi cautioned in the Book of Waters, I try not to reveal my honne even at this moment. I simply reach out with my free hand and topple my staff so that its metal tip, batteries engaged, falls against the terminal.
“Mari! What have you done?” he asks, within me now, as the humming ceases.
“I have cut off your line of retreat, Kit.”
“Why?”
The blade is already in my hand.
“It is the only way for us. I give you this jigai, my husband.”
“No!”
I feel him reaching for control of my arm as I exhale. But it is too late. It is already moving. I feel the blade enter my throat, well-placed.
“Fool!” he cries. “You do not know what you have done! I cannot return!”
“I know.”
As I slump against the terminal I seem to hear a roaring sound, growing, at my back. It is the Big Wave, finally come for me. My only regret is that I did not make it to the final station, unless, of course, that is what Hokusai is trying to show me, there beside the tiny window, beyond the fog and the rain and the night.
24. Mt. Fuji in a Summer Storm
End