by Garrett W. Vance
Editor’s Note: This is the sequel to “All God’s Children in the Burning East” (Ring of Fire III, available from Baen Books) about the Japanese expatriates in southeast Asia who intend to emigrate to Europe. It continues in 1632 & Beyond Issue 3, Disturbance at the Nishioka House.
Nihonmachi, Phnom Penh, Kingdom of Khmer
1635
Nishioka Momo stood in the middle of their modest little dwelling on the outskirts of Phnom Penh’s Nihonmachi (“Japanese Town”). She stared at the empty crates their Dutch friends had provided for the upcoming move. Where to start? How does one begin packing up a life to take to some far, unknown place? She had been too young to remember much about when she and her parents had been driven out of their native Japan, and she hadn’t been able to bring anything when they left Ayutthaya, simply abandoning all their possessions as they fled the flames of their burning village into the night.
She and her husband Yoriaki had lived here in Cambodia for five years, ever since the cruel pretender king of Siam had driven them out of the Nihonmachi that once lay beside the slow, warm waters of the Chao Phraya River on the southern edge of the great Siamese capital of Ayutthaya. Phnom Penh was a different kind of place. Her husband faced dangers on the river that were unknown back in the Siamese capitol. The Nihonmachi they found here was pleasant enough, a thriving community, but somehow, to her and to many of her fellow refugees, it wasn’t home, and she had feared it never would be. Now she would never know.
Their daughter Hana had been born here in Phnom Penh. Momo’s parents, who had known much pain and persecution in their lives, had died here, succumbing to one of the mysterious wasting sicknesses that infested the torpid waters of the Mekong River. She gazed at their modest shrine perched on the wall, their funeral urns placed on the shelf beside a crucifix and a small statue of Mother Mary to keep them company. The porcelain figurine actually depicted Kannon-Sama, the kindly goddess of mercy, but the secret kirishitan of Japan used her as a substitute for the Mother of God. It had come all the way from Japan with them, and was the one thing her mother had insisted on carrying with her when they had been forced to desert their home on that terrible night.
She took a moment to bow her head in prayer for guidance. When she opened her eyes a sense of resolution filled her. There. She would begin with them, her beloved parents. They had never cared for this place in life; at least she could take their ashes away from it. She reverently removed the urns from the shelf, holding them against her breast as tears formed in her bright brown eyes. Oh, if only we had never come here! Father and Mother would still be alive, spoiling their granddaughter, filling all their lives with the gentle warmth of their love.
Her parents were given only a handful of years to spend with their granddaughter. Little Hana, which meant flower, was just shy of three years old when they passed. Hana had cried and cried at being separated from them during their illness, having to go stay a few doors down with their friends the Nakatas and their children so as not to catch the sickness herself. The last Hana had seen of her O-Jiichan and O-Baachan was when they waved at each other across the front garden just a few days before the end. Momo was glad that Hana was too far away to see them weeping as they bid what they knew in their hearts was their final farewell to their little flower. Mother had gone first, Father following her not long after. Momo had thought old Mori might be on the mend, as he had always been a robust fellow, but after losing his life’s love he shrank back into himself, preferring to follow his beloved Sakura to the next world. Momo, unable to hold them in any longer, burst into tears . Large, salty drops fell on the ceramic urns until they looked as if they had been left out in the rain. When they had run their course, Momo wiped her face on the soft sleeve of her yukata and returned to the task at hand.
So now they would move again, to an even more distant land, far, far away, nearly on the other side of the world that Blom insisted was round. His homeland, Europe, more specifically a region called the Germanies. At least this time they were leaving by choice. Well, mostly. She had her doubts about it all, but as usual the men had decided everything. It was off to Europe, and away we go! At least it would be to Christian lands, friendly to their Catholic faith, or so Blom had promised them. Even so, Phnom Penh for all its faults wasn’t that different from Ayutthaya, the place she had grown up in and missed to this day. Phnom Penh was still in Asia with architecture and customs that resembled those she was accustomed to in Siam, and Catholicism thrived here, even boasting two Japanese priests, Fathers Nishi and Chinzaemon! Perhaps she would miss it after all, at least a little.
According to Blom, they were headed to a magical sort of place called Grantville, a town said to be from far in the future and from an even farther-away land across a great western sea, a country that doesn’t even exist yet. Somehow, Grantville and its people had managed to move through space and time. They had been told by their Dutch friends that it was a miracle of God, but she wasn’t so sure.
She didn’t tell Blom or her husband this, but the very idea filled her with dread, as it did the other wives of Nihonmachi who would be making the move. It sounded like the work of kitsune, the enigmatic fox spirits that haunted the forests of Nippon, mysterious tricksters that could not be trusted! The Thai, Laotian, and Cambodian wives held similar fears. Every culture had legends of strange spirits lurking on the outskirts of civilization, waiting for a chance to trouble mankind. Now they would be heading into the very heart of such an eldritch territory. It would be their new home! The thought sent a cold wave through her despite the day’s heat that beat down on their thin walls. She whispered another prayer to holy Mother Mary to look after her parents in Heaven, and to protect her and her little family from whatever evils they might encounter on the journey ahead.
* * *
Nishioka Yoriaki paddled down a narrow tributary through bulrushes that grew higher than a man’s head. The heavy tops leaned out over the water, nearly making his course a tunnel. He kept a sharp eye on the wall of vegetation. Crocodiles often lurked there, hidden in the shadows of openings in the reedy wall. He had been told by the locals not to fear them, that they very rarely went after humans, but there had been days where two or three of them had followed him down the narrow waterways, perhaps attracted by the aroma escaping from his load of bento lunches despite the sturdy banana-leaf baskets Momo wrapped them in. For reassurance he glanced at the hidden compartment built into the side of his narrow little boat where his katana was kept safe and dry should it ever be needed. He had been forced to use it several times, not on crocodiles, but on far more dangerous creatures—his fellow men, who quickly learned to fear the ex-samurai turned bento lunch merchant and his flashing sword. Over the months and years since his arrival on the scene, Yoriaki gained enough of a dangerous reputation that the local gangs of thugs left him alone—mostly . . .
The marsh was a vast maze of rivulets, confusing to anyone who might venture into them. Yoriaki had mapped them in his first weeks here in order to find the best paths from his home to his customers on the main river. After his first encounter with bandits he took precautions, never going to and fro the same way on the same day, and always checking to make sure no one was watching him on his return journey.
This would be his last trip in the little boat, more to say farewell to the customers who had supported him over their years here than out of an actual need of funds. Blom and his rich uncles were bankrolling the journey ahead with the promise that they would be shareholders in whatever businesses the once again relocated Japanese, formerly of Ayutthaya, started in Europe. Blom had some big ideas, and Yoriaki thought they were good ones.
In his own case, they would be once again banking on the talents of his beloved Momo, whose knack for cooking was unparalleled in any nation. This was according to their clientele, who came from all over the world, so Yoriaki had come to believe it must be so. He himself enjoyed his wife’s cuisine with a never-ending gusto. The zeal with which her loyal aficionados gobbled up her bentos did much to establish the theory as fact.
Yoriaki gave a heavy sigh. It would be difficult to tell his dear regulars that today he was bringing them their last taste of his wife’s talents. There would be long faces at every stop. Even so, he couldn’t help but feel buoyant at the prospect of such a grand adventure ahead—Grantville! The town from the future, full of wonders and the wisdom of ages yet to be! Such was the stuff that dreams were made of, and Yoriaki relished the prospect. They would be leaving in a few days, and he could hardly wait.
* * *
Momo heard the jangle of the cowbells they had attached to the bamboo gate leading out to Yoriaki’s little pier. Their house and small garden were on a stagnant tributary at the edge of Nihonmachi, deep in the great marshes bordering the Mekong River.
Yoriaki had cut a path through the bulrushes to the water so he could pilot his little boat out to the main river course to sell the bentos along its busy docks and anchored ships. Momo was rightfully afraid of crocodiles and snakes coming to call, so a sturdy bamboo fence had been erected along the shore. It was strange that the bells should ring now. Her husband wasn’t due home for hours. There were never any visitors from the water side, and whatever had caused those bells to ring was no reptile. No, she feared something much worse, a danger of the two-legged variety. Yoriaki had warned her of bandits, and she knew he took great pains never to lead any home. Still, the bells had rung.
Trying to stay calm despite a growing sense of alarm, she went to the big, red-lacquered tonsu cabinet taking up most of a wall and pulled a shining wakizashi blade out from one of its many drawers. Yoriaki had insisted she always keep it handy, especially after the massacre that drove them from their former home on that bloody, terror-filled night. Many who had escaped found refuge here, and all of them vowed never to be complacent again, since no place was ever truly safe.
She gripped the elegant blade carefully by its hilt, careful not to touch the deadly sharpness of its curved steel. The wakizashi was the smaller sibling of the katana, ideal for a lady, according to her husband. She gave it a well-practiced swing to remind her of its weight. Yoriaki, always with a warrior’s sensibilities, made sure she knew how to use it once they were married, and taught her well. This very blade had saved her life on the river shore when a lone Thai soldier accosted her as she was launching Yoriaki’s bento boat to make her escape from the burning village. He thought he would enjoy a bit of rape before killing the pretty Japanese woman, but had instead been treated to her blade plunged deep into his gut—surprise!
Momo hurriedly crossed herself and prayed to God the Father such dire action would not be required of her on this day. Thank the Lord Jesus and Mother Mary that little Hana was not at home right now. She was off attending school at their community’s church under the wise tutelage of Father Nixi, who had come all the way from Ayutthaya with his flock of refugees. Her beloved daughter would be safe there, and she whispered a fervent prayer on her behalf just to make sure. Then she looked up, scanning the translucent white ricepaper windows for any shadow of movement, her bright brown eyes now sharp and glinting with the same cold steel as her blade. If someone was here to trouble this house, she would see to it that they came to regret it!
* * *
Yoriaki was nearing the main river course when he began to feel a funny pricking of his nerves. He had learned to trust his instincts during his career as a samurai warrior, and he still did so now—he was being watched! Making sure not to telegraph his awareness to whomever was hiding in the reedy expanse’s dimly lit byways, he went on alert, scanning his surroundings for any hint of movement. A bird called loudly nearby, except that Yoriaki was fairly sure it was no bird. “Kuso,”he cursed under his breath.
He was about to reach for his hidden katana when two things happened.
First, another boat, quite a bit larger than his, entered the narrow tributary, completely blocking his way forward. Second, a smaller boat came out of its hiding place within the wall of vegetation behind him. This was a trap!
He realized someone must have been spying on him ever since he entered this course, or they would not have known where he would exit. This set a chill down his spine, as that meant they might have even followed him from his home!
“Hey, Samurai!” a mocking voice called out to him from the larger boat.
It came from a sallow-faced fellow who appeared to be the leader of the seven rough-looking men standing behind the boat’s low gunwales. All were dressed in ragged clothes that may have once been finery, purloined from hapless victims. Each man wore a black scarf on his head and carried a long, curved dav sword.
Yoriaki took a moment to turn his head to see the other boat, similar to his own, edging close behind him. It bore four more of the bandits, all grinning at their own cleverness.
Yoriaki gave a polite bow of his head to the leader.
“The Black Skull Gang, I presume?” Yoriaki inquired in perfect Cambodian. He had always had a knack for languages, which served him well when dealing with his intercontinental customer base.
The leader grinned. The dark gap where his right front tooth should have been would have looked comical on a face less feral.
“That’s right! You remember us!” he called back, his voice full of blustering pride.
“I do indeed. Fortunately for you, our acquaintance was brief.”
The Black Skull Gang, a notorious band of river pirates, had been among the first of the local scoundrels to accost him as he began his trade up and down the river. They had first beset Yoriaki with demands of tribute, which he politely refused.
Then they sent a small band of men to attack him and force his compliance. That did not end well for them. He let one of his assailants live to run free and spread the word, as the rest lay dead, drenched in their own blood at his sandal-clad feet. Since then they had left him alone. That is, until now.
They had come for him in much larger numbers this time and seemed quite confident, despite his well-earned reputation. These were the most dangerous kind of man. They had nothing to lose and so feared nothing, which lent them a swaggering confidence Yoriaki intended to disabuse them of, if it came down to it. He would try peaceful means first, remembering that his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ always admonished men to turn the other cheek when slapped. He hated disappointing his Lord, but he had a feeling this was going to end with a lot more than a sore cheek.
Yoriaki smiled and bowed his head magnanimously at the leader and his crew, using the gesture to distract them from his changing his grip on the sturdy paddle in his hands. He had his ear cocked for any movement from behind, but that group had come to a halt, waiting to see what played out between their prey and their master.
“Well, since we meet again, perhaps I can interest you in my bento lunches? They are quite delicious, highly sought-after items up and down the city’s shores. For old acquaintances such as yourselves, I will even sell them to you at half price, a true bargain!”
The leader grinned back, feigning appreciation.
“How kind of you to offer, Samurai! Yes, your wife’s cooking is well known, perhaps even famous around here. Momo, that’s her name, isn’t it?”
With great effort, Yoriaki kept a nonchalant smile on his face. They know her name! I have never told anyone in this town her name before! A darkness spread through him then, a burning rage combined with a frigid fear. Momo!
Yoriaki cocked his head at the leader’s words and stared deeply into his dark eyes.
“Just what is it that you want of me, Black Skull?”
“Well, the way I see it is you owe us, and quite a bit more than a discount on lunch. First there is the matter of several years of unpaid tribute to our organization, and then the rather messy situation caused by the demise of my men whom you killed when they came to collect it. The word on the river is that you and your kin will be leaving us soon for parts afar, and so we decided we had best settle accounts now.”
“I see. I am a simple man, and I lead a simple life. I have no wealth to speak of, subsisting daily on the very modest earnings of my trade. I will gladly give you the few coins I carry on my person and will even throw in a free lunch for you and each of your crew, if you will kindly leave me in peace.” Yoriaki spoke in a polite, conciliatory tone, but knew that it was probably in vain. These lads had blood on their minds—his. He also had an awful feeling that there were more of these thugs visiting his home at this very moment. He needed to end this, and fast, so he could hurry back to Momo’s side!
“Not good enough, Samurai. We have plenty of coin, and have already eaten our fill today. No, I think what I would like from you is that nice shiny sword of yours, the one you used to chop up my poor friends! Give me the blade, and we will call it all good and part ways peacefully.”
Of course, the foul creature was lying. Yoriaki decided it was time to bring the encounter to an end, preferably swiftly.
“My sword? Hmm, I seem to have misplaced it! Besides, even if I could find it, what would a slimy son of a toad like you do with a gentleman’s weapon? It is far too fine a blade to be sullied by the filth of your grimy claws, you scum-dwelling, shit-eating, bottom feeder.”
Yoriaki allowed himself a small smile as his words had their desired effect. The leader let out an incomprehensible scream of rage and catapulted himself over his boat’s low gunwale to land in the bow of Yoriaki’s flat-bottomed boat. His foe was an experienced waterman and stayed on his feet despite the bobbing caused by his landing. Yoriaki shot up from his bench with lightning swiftness, swinging his paddle through the air in a blur. It flew above the man’s half-raised sword to connect with the side of his face, which caved in with a sickening crunch. For a brief moment the Black Skull leader stared at Yoriaki with a look of abject shock as most of his teeth spilled out of his mouth in a froth of bubbling blood, the entire left side of his face having been crushed into a jagged mass of flesh and bone. The momentum of the blow tipped him over sideways and with a gurgle that might have been a protest he pitched into the water with a splash.
Yoriaki was himself an able waterman and kept his balance as more of the enraged bandits poured into his sturdy little craft, which was narrow enough that they could come at him only one at a time. He deftly turned sideways and went into a crouch with a foot placed on each side of the bench, then smacked the assailant closing on him from aft in the same way he had their leader—smack, crunch, splash. The man in the bow managed to get a pretty good swing in with his dav whichYoriaki blocked with his paddle, but it left a deep nick in the hardwood.
That won’t do! he thought grimly. He jammed the wide head of the paddle deep into his opponent’s now unprotected gut. The man expelled all his air in a gasping wheeze and fell backwards into his comrade behind him, knocking them both off their feet. That pause in the fighting gave Yoriaki the chance he needed. The gang’s leader seemed to have survived despite the vicious damage Yoriaki had done to him and was trying to pull himself out of the water back into the boat. Yoriaki looked at him and let out a jovial laugh.
“Hey, I just remembered where I left my sword! Silly me, I’m so forgetful these days!”
He swiftly reached down to trigger the rather clever mechanism that opened the door to his katana’s hiding place. It popped open with a click as he dropped his trusty paddle, which had proved to be quite a formidable weapon in his capable hands.
“Here it is! It is a beauty, isn’t it? Made in Japan!” he proclaimed as he swung the katana briskly through the muggy air to plunge it into the leader’s left eye until he felt the tip bump against the back of the man’s skull. “Sharp, too!”
That was the end of the Black Skull’s leader. His hands went limp, and he slid silently back into the black water, never to rise again.
“Now, who’s next?” Yoriaki called out cheerfully.
These men were not only thugs, but also hard-bitten enforcers. Their fighting skills were considerable, and they were rightfully feared by many. The grisly deaths of their comrades only served to enrage them further. They came at Yoriaki, snarling menacingly with their swords flashing. Even so, Yoriaki felt no fear at all, his mind and body in perfect harmony as he performed the deadly dance that came as naturally to him as breathing. His katana swung about him with cyclone swiftness, driving back the thrusts of his foes’ blades with unstoppable force, clearing the way for him to slit their throats and open their bellies. Hot blood gushed from fatal wounds, filling the bottom of his boat with a thick pool and the close air of the marsh with an iron stench.
The battle was over in a few minutes. Only one Black Skull remained alive, shuddering in agony in the bow of his boat, unarmed, his blade gone along with the hand that once grasped it.
Yoriaki used the scarlet-stained tip of his katana to prod the man’s chin up to face him. The man was definitely alive, but the eyes that met Yoriaki’s gaze were dark and dead, the eyes of a cold-blooded serpent.
“Momo. My wife. What do you know of her?” The tip of his sword went into the man’s flesh a fraction deeper, causing blood to well up beneath its pressure.
The bandit surprised Yoriaki by letting out a hoarse chuckle, despite the pain and deadly danger that faced him.
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she? We’ve been watching her. We know where she lives. We’ve got men there now, paying her a little visit. I’m sure they are having a wonderful time. They said they were going to have a little fun with her first, then—”
The rest was cut off—literally—as Yoriaki drove his blade deep into the man’s neck and through the bottom of his tongue with a powerful thrust. He wiped the blood off his sword on the dark brown sleeve of his simple workingman’s yukata robes, then shoved the dead man out of his boat. A quick glance around confirmed that the Black Skull Gang had all met their demise at his wrathful hands.
Yoriaki wasted no time. He placed the katana back in its compartment and once again took up his oar. In a few moments he had his boat turned around, his movements nearly a blur as he paddled as fast as he could back to his home.
“Momo!” He cried out in a voice fraught with fear and desperation, but there was no one to hear or answer him, except the lonely cries of the marsh birds.
To be continued in Issue 3, Disturbance at the Nishioka House . . .
