Read Online Cloud of Sparrows by Takashi Matsuoka - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Takashi Matsuoka
Tags: Fiction, Historical
Ads: Link
way back to Tsukiji.
3
Quiet Crane
Mists shroud the forest ahead and the sea behind. At the same time, the faraway peak of Mount Tosa is as vivid as a spring sky. Ahead, snipers hide among the trees and shadows. Behind, submerged assassins close in, hanging on driftwood.
What use is distant clarity?
SUZUME–NO–KUMO
(1701)
C romwell woke from dream to dream. Now Emily’s face hovered above, her golden curls drifting toward him. She seemed weightless, and so did he. Was it a dream of shipwreck, then? They were underwater. The Star of Bethlehem had gone down and they were both drowned. He tried to look for flotsam, but his vision would not leave Emily.
“The Star is unharmed,” Emily said. “It lies at anchor in Edo Bay.”
So in this dream she perceived his thoughts. The world outside of dreams would be a better place if all minds were as open books. Then there would be no need of pretense or of shame. Sin, repentance, and salvation could occur at once, in the same moment.
“Rest, Zephaniah,” Emily said. “There is no need to think of anything at all.”
Yes. She was right. He tried to touch her hair, but he had no arm to raise. Cromwell felt himself grow lighter. How was that possible, if he was already weightless? Thoughts did not adhere. His eyes closed and he left this dream for another.
Emily paled. “Is he dead?”
“He’s drifting in and out of delirium,” Stark said.
They had brought Cromwell into the guest wing of the palace. He lay on a bed of thick cushions spread on the floor. A middle-aged Japanese man, whom they presumed to be a doctor, examined Cromwell, applied a strong-smelling salve to the wound, and bandaged it. Before he left, the doctor called a trio of young women over to the bedside. Showing them the salve and the bandage, the doctor gave brief instructions, then bowed to Emily and Stark and departed. The young women retreated to the edge of the room and waited there on folded knees, still and quiet.
Emily sat at Cromwell’s right side on a cushion three feet square. Stark sat on a similar cushion to the left. Neither of them was comfortable on the floor. They lacked the arts of seated posture in which their Japanese hosts were clearly well practiced. Stark could make his legs bend, but he couldn’t keep them there for long. He shifted from one position to another every few moments. For Emily, her long skirt and voluminous petticoats made it that much more difficult to arrange her limbs in an acceptable posture. Finally, she settled herself on one hip and extended her legs out to the side, careful to keep them covered with her skirt. It was how she used to sit at picnics in her childhood, not entirely appropriate here, but the only way she could manage.
“We bring nothing with us but the word of Christ,” Emily said. She wiped the sweat from Cromwell’s face with a cool, wet towel. “Why would anyone wish us harm?”
“I don’t know, Sister Emily.” Stark had seen the glint of metal on the roof an instant before the assassin fired. He dove for the ground before the sound of the gun reached his ears. If he had not done so, the bullet would have struck him instead of Cromwell. Stark’s alertness was the preacher’s misfortune. That and enough bad luck of his own. After missing Stark, the bullet went in one side of the palanquin and out the other. It should have struck Emily, but somehow it had not. Instead, upon exiting, it bore a hole straight into Cromwell’s belly. Gutshot. Men sometimes took weeks to die when they were gutshot.
“He looks so peaceful,” Emily said. “His brow is unfurrowed and he smiles as he sleeps.”
“Yes, Sister Emily, he looks very peaceful.” The more Stark thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he had been the assassin’s target. Money would have changed hands. A hireling would have gone on the roof to kill a man he had never seen. Mutually incomprehensible languages posed no barrier. Stark had no doubt money bought
3
Quiet Crane
Mists shroud the forest ahead and the sea behind. At the same time, the faraway peak of Mount Tosa is as vivid as a spring sky. Ahead, snipers hide among the trees and shadows. Behind, submerged assassins close in, hanging on driftwood.
What use is distant clarity?
SUZUME–NO–KUMO
(1701)
C romwell woke from dream to dream. Now Emily’s face hovered above, her golden curls drifting toward him. She seemed weightless, and so did he. Was it a dream of shipwreck, then? They were underwater. The Star of Bethlehem had gone down and they were both drowned. He tried to look for flotsam, but his vision would not leave Emily.
“The Star is unharmed,” Emily said. “It lies at anchor in Edo Bay.”
So in this dream she perceived his thoughts. The world outside of dreams would be a better place if all minds were as open books. Then there would be no need of pretense or of shame. Sin, repentance, and salvation could occur at once, in the same moment.
“Rest, Zephaniah,” Emily said. “There is no need to think of anything at all.”
Yes. She was right. He tried to touch her hair, but he had no arm to raise. Cromwell felt himself grow lighter. How was that possible, if he was already weightless? Thoughts did not adhere. His eyes closed and he left this dream for another.
Emily paled. “Is he dead?”
“He’s drifting in and out of delirium,” Stark said.
They had brought Cromwell into the guest wing of the palace. He lay on a bed of thick cushions spread on the floor. A middle-aged Japanese man, whom they presumed to be a doctor, examined Cromwell, applied a strong-smelling salve to the wound, and bandaged it. Before he left, the doctor called a trio of young women over to the bedside. Showing them the salve and the bandage, the doctor gave brief instructions, then bowed to Emily and Stark and departed. The young women retreated to the edge of the room and waited there on folded knees, still and quiet.
Emily sat at Cromwell’s right side on a cushion three feet square. Stark sat on a similar cushion to the left. Neither of them was comfortable on the floor. They lacked the arts of seated posture in which their Japanese hosts were clearly well practiced. Stark could make his legs bend, but he couldn’t keep them there for long. He shifted from one position to another every few moments. For Emily, her long skirt and voluminous petticoats made it that much more difficult to arrange her limbs in an acceptable posture. Finally, she settled herself on one hip and extended her legs out to the side, careful to keep them covered with her skirt. It was how she used to sit at picnics in her childhood, not entirely appropriate here, but the only way she could manage.
“We bring nothing with us but the word of Christ,” Emily said. She wiped the sweat from Cromwell’s face with a cool, wet towel. “Why would anyone wish us harm?”
“I don’t know, Sister Emily.” Stark had seen the glint of metal on the roof an instant before the assassin fired. He dove for the ground before the sound of the gun reached his ears. If he had not done so, the bullet would have struck him instead of Cromwell. Stark’s alertness was the preacher’s misfortune. That and enough bad luck of his own. After missing Stark, the bullet went in one side of the palanquin and out the other. It should have struck Emily, but somehow it had not. Instead, upon exiting, it bore a hole straight into Cromwell’s belly. Gutshot. Men sometimes took weeks to die when they were gutshot.
“He looks so peaceful,” Emily said. “His brow is unfurrowed and he smiles as he sleeps.”
“Yes, Sister Emily, he looks very peaceful.” The more Stark thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he had been the assassin’s target. Money would have changed hands. A hireling would have gone on the roof to kill a man he had never seen. Mutually incomprehensible languages posed no barrier. Stark had no doubt money bought
Similar Books
