Scanning the corridor, she grabbed each corpse and dragged it into her bedroom, struggling with the weight. Blood wiped from the floorboards with a scarlet tabard, staining golden tigers red. Hefting one of the nagamaki, she rucked up the outer layer of her j?nihitoe and slit the eleven layers underneath, all the way up to her thighs. She wiped the needles clean, reinserted them into her hair, staring at her reflection in the looking glass. Finally the face of the girl she knew—the vacuous, servile mask torn away and left bleeding on the floor.
In the distance she heard a low roar, a rumbling that shook the earth. Looking through her tiny window, she saw flames lighting the sky, daubed upon the clouds in clumsy, orange strokes. She heard faint cries. Iron bells. Running feet. Looking around the room at the bodies, slowly cooling, these men who had thought her a mouse. A fool. A whore.
She smiled.
And picking up the box Ichizo had brought her, now lighter than it had been before, she stepped into the corridor and locked the door behind her.
44
THE HAMMER FALLS
There comes a point where the bite of cracked ribs amidst every breath, the searing kiss of salt in fresh wounds, or the throb of bamboo shards beneath your fingernails makes you want to sing. Where any absence of new pain feels for one delirious moment like the greatest gift you’ve ever received, and it seems you should blubber thanks through swollen lips at the men who’ve stopped hurting you, if only for that wonderful, shining moment. Where the thought of one more blow, one more second of fresh agony becomes so terrifying you’ll say anything, do anything to avoid it.
But the boy wasn’t there yet.
“Whoresons.” Bloody drool spilled over his lips, gathering below his chin to drip onto the floor. “Whoresons, the both of you.”
Seimi stepped into the dim light, licking the yellowed rubble lodged in his gums. The yakuza’s face was calm, spotted with stray flecks of blood.
“How did you know where the money was being taken?” His tone was that of a man asking for the daily specials, or directions to the sky-docks. “How did you know where we were moving it?”
“Your father told me.” A ragged, bubbling gasp. “When he was done swallowing.”
Seimi grinned, sipped a cup of red saké with rock-steady hands. Hida stood by the doorway, arms folded, scratching at one cauliflower ear. A lukewarm bottle of liquor sat on a table beside a collection of tools; a hammer, pliers, tin snips, blades of varying lengths. A stained rag. A handful of bamboo slivers. Five bloody toenails.
The boy was naked save for his trousers, wrists bound with thick rope, suspended from a hook in the ceiling just long enough for his toes to touch concrete. His ankles were chained to the floor, a lonely globe casting a circle of pale light on bloodstained ground.
Seimi hefted the hammer. Its claw head was dull, rusted iron, the wooden handle grubby and unfinished. He patted his palm with the business end and sat crossed-legged in front of the boy, smiling up into swollen eyes.
“Where’s your friend? The one with the iron-thrower?”
“Your mother’s house.”
“What’s his name?”
“She’s never asked. She doesn’t talk with her mouth full.”
Seimi looked over his shoulder and smiled at Hida, shook his head. He grasped the boy’s ankle with his left hand, lifted the hammer with his right. The boy curled his toes up instinctively, breath coming quicker. Teeth gritted. Muscles taut. Sweat rolling through the bloodstains and glazing his lips a watery red.
Seimi slammed the hammer down on his smallest toe.
The sharp crack of metal on flesh, the wet scrunch of splintering bone. Seimi felt the impact through the floor, heard the boy scream through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, listened to the wail trail off into silence as the boy’s breath ran out, the sharp intake of oxygen into empty lungs, the whimper bubbling over split lips.
“How did you know where the money was being taken?” He lifted the hammer again, stared up into glistening tears. “How did you know where we were moving it?”
“You cowards. Miserable, gutless—”
The hammer fell again. The scream became a roar, the openmouthed howl of a wounded animal. The boy thrashed against the ropes, sawing skin raw, head flailing, muscles stretched, tendons standing out sharp in his throat. His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m g-gonna kill you.” Teeth clenched. Spittle flying. “Fuck you!”
Seimi’s voice was heavy as a brick in a wriggling burlap bag, cold as the river water it was tossed into.
“No, little boy. Those nights are done. It’s us fucking you now.”
He brought the hammer down.
Again.
And again.
When Seimi stood and picked up the pliers, he saw Hida turn and leave the room without a sound. He had to stop halfway through his routine to get more saké. There were threats and pleas, showers of bloody spit, brief periods of unconsciousness ended with handfuls of salt. The smell of burning hair. The sound of snipping. And clipping. And screams. Big and bright and beautiful.
But finally, the boy arrived.
That blessed place, where the absence of new pain is the greatest of all gifts. And the man who stays his hand, even for a heartbeat, becomes the god at the heart of your world.
And at last, in that wonderful, shining moment, he sang.
45
TEN THOUSAND YEARS