THERE WAS A SHIP
Scribe Figaro
Chapter Twelve
Down Like Lead
The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirr'd;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard.
Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.
I.
In 1582, Naraku watched from the main tower of Azuchi as the castle gates collapsed beneath the forces of a kitsune who had, some years ago, convinced quite a hell of a lot of people that he was Akechi Mitsuhide. The bulk of his forces, under Kohaku, were too distant to aid him, as Naraku was supposed to trust Akechi and be astonished by his betrayal.
The oracle-book was strangely silent on the matter of the Shikon Jewel and his taijiya advisor, and as Naraku watched the torches and spears bob up and down in the courtyard, he found himself rapt with expectation. Imagine being a fan of a popular play, knowing it inside and out, but one day witnessing a performance, much like every other, except the copy was a lost edition, where the next-to-last scene was being performed for the very first time. He knew how it was going to end, but how was it going to get to the end?
Softly, slowly, the kimono tented outward on his chest, and quietly the cloth gave way, and the hard steel, tip down, pierced him fully, and he felt Sango's shoulder against his spine, driving her sword into him, straight through the heart he had kept in his own chest for so many years, and the sharp steel, and her hands on the hilt, were so intimate, so sensual, so honest.
"Sango," he said, and he said the name as a father who has seen his child for the first time after a long journey. He reached behind his back, gripping her hands, and pulled the sword a few more inches, so its guard was flush with the skin. She lowered her hands, and he turned to her, and gripping her shoulders, leaned into her, and she made not a sound, not a gesture, not a the slightest look of surprise or discomfort or pain, as her sword penetrated her breast, and he took her face in his hands and kissed her.
"I have been waiting so long for you to betray me, Sango. The anticipation has driven me near mad with desire."
In her right hand she held the Shikon Jewel. Naraku embraced the jewel and her hand with his left hand.
"Make a wish, Sango."
The jewel glowed brighter than any light had ever shone before.
II.
On a wooded hill, far from anything real, they sat and waited for the end of all things and the beginning of all things. The world before them collapsed upon itself, and began anew.
"It's sort of boring to watch, isn't it?" Onigumo said.
"Yeah."
She was young again, very young, perhaps no older than nine years, innocence again intact. Naraku gave her that much.
Beside her, Onigumo, in his early teens, old enough to be rational, and cynical, but still on the beginnings of his path toward sociopathy, and farther still from being a demon, pressed his hands on his hips and stretched his back idly.
"There was a ship, you know," Onigumo said.
"I know there was."
"In the 12th year of Tenmon, you went with your father to the port of Yokohama, to travel secretly and illegally to Ryukyu, in hopes of securing some medicine there to save your mother's life. It was a test of both your skills, and you likely would have succeeded if not for the storm that held the ship in port long enough for the authorities to catch up and execute everyone aboard."
"We escaped," Sango said.
"You did. You were seven years old at the time, and you disappeared in the crowd like a shadow. And when you met up with your father on the cliffs over the port, what did you do, Sango?"
"I cursed the sea."
"You cursed the sea, Sango."
"And so the sea cursed me."
"Indeed."
"Will this happen again?" Sango asked.
"Probably. We've already done this six times now. I'm running out of ways to kill you people."
"Six times?"
"Probably more. There may have been times before then that I can't remember. That's what the jewel does, you know. Fixes history. Makes everyone forget, except those closest to the jewel, and even then, only if their minds can handle remembering. You were never able to, you know. The monk tried once, to remember, but he found it difficult to deal with. I've killed him four times, I believe. He's killed himself once. You usually kill yourself."
Onigumo pressed a hand to his temple.
"You people are never satisfied with the way things go. I think, twice, one of you managed to kill me. But it wasn't good enough, because maybe Kagome died this time, or Kohaku died that time, or someone got some teeth knocked out, or who knows what. It's never, never good enough for you people. For all I know we've done this final battle a thousand times, a million times, and only in the last few was I able to remember."
"I want to remember this time," Sango said. "I want to tell everyone what happened. What we've been doing."
"You'll regret it. And it probably won't make a difference anyway."
"You're lying. It's doing something, our using the jewel, isn't it?"
Onigumo smiled.
"Yes. Each time you wish on the jewel, and we return to the place where things went wrong, I find the fragments of the jewel I hold are much darker, and much more powerful. It was only the last few times that I noticed."
"So we've been fighting ourselves all this time. Making you more powerful."
"Yes. But still, you will regret knowing this."
"I might. But that's my choice to make."
"That's true."
"So this is it, Onigumo? Thirty years of suffering, befouling myself, killing, and dying. That's my penance, isn't it? To clean the jewel. To stop it from becoming more powerful. To correct our continual misuse of the Shikon no Tama. Just so I could get to this point, and understand what we've been doing, and tell everyone when we return to the place where things went wrong this time."
He shrugged.
"Life's a bitch, and then you do not die," he said.
"What are you, then, Onigumo? My savior? My protector? My advocate? I don't even know if any of this was real. Did this happen, or was it all a dream?"
"Since only you will remember, it makes little difference whether it was a dream or not, I imagine. Personally, I think you should not think of it as a dream, because if it was, then all this is a product of your own mind, and that might very well mean you are insane."
"I guess it doesn't matter."
She stood.
"Next time we meet, I will kill you without hesitation, Sango. But I want you to know I enjoyed this intimacy. I had fun defeating you."
"I am going swimming," she said.
She walked to the shore, to the river, to the lake, to the sea, and waded in, and her kosode pooled around her ankles, and her knees, and her hips, and when she was so deep she could not touch the bottom she slipped out of the garment and she began to swim.
She did not turn back. For days and hours she swam, and she longed for Onigumo's voice, and she longed for the dry shore, and she longed for the brackish mud between her toes, and she faltered and gasped and gagged, and she slipped beneath the waves, her eyes half-lidded, light dancing before her, and Houshi-sama's hand gripped her wrist tightly.
Author's Note: Is good, yes? It took me two years to get a rhythm on this story. I hope it's worthwhile. I'm going to think for a while about the epilogue. Thanks very much for reading so far.