guarded shattered red gates. Patched, crumbling walls and peeling paint revealed that merits here had not been rewarded generously.
As Sasaki passed one of the gates, something caught his attention. He turned in, stepping over one splintered half and around where the remainder hung precariously from broken hinges. The red spirit wall just inside was undamaged. Perhaps it continued to block the passage of evil spirits, whom the Chinese believed able to travel only in a straight line, but it hadn’t slowed the Japanese soldiers within. The three pavilions of the house flanked a paved courtyard and were linked by low verandas with blue tiled roofs. There were four soldiers. Three of them sat on the steps of the veranda on the right, passing a wine jar back and forth and making bawdy comments, heavily slurred, on the attempts of their companion to rape the woman who lay on the stones of the courtyard. She was motionless under him, moved only by his clumsy thrusts. But for her ragged sobbing, Sasaki would have thought her dead. The soldier had drunk too much. He stroked at her for a moment, then lay still, as though he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing there, then the jeers of his fellows would rouse him and he would begin again.
In addition to the woman, there were two other Chinese there. On the floor of the yard near the woman and her attacker, a boy, perhaps six, clawed his way up the wall against which he appeared to have been hurled. He had probably lain there, unconscious, for some time. Awake again, he fought back to his feet, clutching a shard of shattered tile to his narrow chest. From the way his left leg twisted, Sasaki was sure it must be broken. The boy made no sounds as he struggled to rise. The soldiers were too drunk to notice.
The piece of tile was an unintentional gift of the adult Chinese male who clung to the roof of the veranda above. Sasaki wondered if he had hidden there while the woman and child were attacked, or had only crawled to the spot moments before, on his way to exact vengeance. Perhaps this was evidence that the behavior he sought was not alien to the Chinese. Sasaki stood in the shadows, unmoving. None of them had seen him.
The man on the roof had something with him. It might be a club or a sword, perhaps even a rifle. From the way he clutched it Sasaki knew it was a weapon. He and the man on the roof watched the child rise and begin a tortured journey to where the woman and soldier lay. Each time the boy put weight on his injured leg he let out a small gasp, but even that was insufficient to attract the attention of the soldiers. If the man on the roof intended to attack, his victims could hardly have been less alert.
At last the boy reached the coupled figures. He raised the jagged tile in tiny fists and brought it down with all his might. He was too young to understand mortality, his own or his enemy’s. To the neck and the blow might have caused a serious wound, maybe even a fatal one. To the back and it was only painful, but it succeeded in gaining the soldiers’ notice at last.
The rapist jerked with a spasm born of pain instead of pleasure and cried out. He swung out behind him in reflex. The blow tumbled the boy across the stones to where he struggled faintly but did not rise again. The tile protruded from the man’s back and he roared and stumbled to his feet and awkwardly tried to reach it. His companions doubled over in drunken merriment, grabbing their sides at the humor of his plight. Two of them actually fell off the veranda and lay on the ground, wheezing besotted laughter into the stones of the courtyard floor. The third clambered unsteadily to his feet and weaved to the woman. He clumsily began to unbutton his trousers so that he might take up where his friend had left off.
The wounded man finally jerked the bloody tile from his back. He turned with a curse and flung it at the boy. His aim was wild and it skittered to Sasaki’s feet. The man didn’t
As Sasaki passed one of the gates, something caught his attention. He turned in, stepping over one splintered half and around where the remainder hung precariously from broken hinges. The red spirit wall just inside was undamaged. Perhaps it continued to block the passage of evil spirits, whom the Chinese believed able to travel only in a straight line, but it hadn’t slowed the Japanese soldiers within. The three pavilions of the house flanked a paved courtyard and were linked by low verandas with blue tiled roofs. There were four soldiers. Three of them sat on the steps of the veranda on the right, passing a wine jar back and forth and making bawdy comments, heavily slurred, on the attempts of their companion to rape the woman who lay on the stones of the courtyard. She was motionless under him, moved only by his clumsy thrusts. But for her ragged sobbing, Sasaki would have thought her dead. The soldier had drunk too much. He stroked at her for a moment, then lay still, as though he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing there, then the jeers of his fellows would rouse him and he would begin again.
In addition to the woman, there were two other Chinese there. On the floor of the yard near the woman and her attacker, a boy, perhaps six, clawed his way up the wall against which he appeared to have been hurled. He had probably lain there, unconscious, for some time. Awake again, he fought back to his feet, clutching a shard of shattered tile to his narrow chest. From the way his left leg twisted, Sasaki was sure it must be broken. The boy made no sounds as he struggled to rise. The soldiers were too drunk to notice.
The piece of tile was an unintentional gift of the adult Chinese male who clung to the roof of the veranda above. Sasaki wondered if he had hidden there while the woman and child were attacked, or had only crawled to the spot moments before, on his way to exact vengeance. Perhaps this was evidence that the behavior he sought was not alien to the Chinese. Sasaki stood in the shadows, unmoving. None of them had seen him.
The man on the roof had something with him. It might be a club or a sword, perhaps even a rifle. From the way he clutched it Sasaki knew it was a weapon. He and the man on the roof watched the child rise and begin a tortured journey to where the woman and soldier lay. Each time the boy put weight on his injured leg he let out a small gasp, but even that was insufficient to attract the attention of the soldiers. If the man on the roof intended to attack, his victims could hardly have been less alert.
At last the boy reached the coupled figures. He raised the jagged tile in tiny fists and brought it down with all his might. He was too young to understand mortality, his own or his enemy’s. To the neck and the blow might have caused a serious wound, maybe even a fatal one. To the back and it was only painful, but it succeeded in gaining the soldiers’ notice at last.
The rapist jerked with a spasm born of pain instead of pleasure and cried out. He swung out behind him in reflex. The blow tumbled the boy across the stones to where he struggled faintly but did not rise again. The tile protruded from the man’s back and he roared and stumbled to his feet and awkwardly tried to reach it. His companions doubled over in drunken merriment, grabbing their sides at the humor of his plight. Two of them actually fell off the veranda and lay on the ground, wheezing besotted laughter into the stones of the courtyard floor. The third clambered unsteadily to his feet and weaved to the woman. He clumsily began to unbutton his trousers so that he might take up where his friend had left off.
The wounded man finally jerked the bloody tile from his back. He turned with a curse and flung it at the boy. His aim was wild and it skittered to Sasaki’s feet. The man didn’t
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