Cloud of Sparrows (10 page)

Listen.

Listen.

Blood, not water.

Your blood.

She turned a furtive glance upon him. He was looking out at the garden. Neither his face nor his posture nor any aspect of his demeanor suggested what he might be thinking. He was, as always, an enigma to her.

He had come into their lives for the first time only four months earlier. That was at the San Francisco mission of the True Word. She had been serving soup to the poor and the homeless when she noticed a man standing at the entrance of the dining hall.

His trail rider’s clothes were filthy. The black hat on his head looked like it might once have been white. Hair streamed down his back and over his shoulders like a savage Indian’s. The face was gaunt, with sunken cheeks and dark circles under the eyes. The stubbly growth of beard was uneven, as if he’d hacked at it with a knife. In his obvious need, he seemed like any other of the dozens of unfortunates to whom she daily tendered care. Except that he did not eagerly push into the serving line, nor gulp hungrily, nor fix his whole attention upon the food she dispensed. He was stillness itself there in the frame of the doorway. The only movement was in his eyes. They slowly scanned the men seated at the tables and standing in line. His arms hung loosely at his sides, in readiness somehow, rather than inert. That’s when she noticed the bulge at his right hip under the jacket caked with dirt.

She asked Sister Sarah to take her ladle at the soup pot and went up to the stranger.

As she neared, he removed his hat politely and nodded to her. “Ma’am.”

“You are most welcome to join us for supper, Brother Christian.” Emily used the mode of address followers of the True Word applied to all newcomers. Brother, because, as Zephaniah said, are not all men brothers? Christian, because, though they may not realize it, are not all men, be they sinner, saint, or heathen, Christians in the grace and forgiveness of the Lord our God?

“Obliged, ma’am,” the stranger said, nodding again in a kind of short bow. “Grateful to you.” His words had a fluid twang to them. Texas, she guessed, or somewhere near there.

“This place is blessed with the peace of the Lord, Brother Christian.” She held out her hand to him. “Violence shall not enter here.”

He looked at her and blinked several times before comprehending. “No, ma’am,” he said. He undid the leather cord that held the bottom of the holster to his thigh, unbuckled it from his waist, and handed it to her with the gun still in it.

She almost dropped it. “‘I commend you to God, and to the word of His grace.’ ” The gun was very large, and very heavy.

“Thank you,” he said.

“We say ‘amen’ to the words of the Gospel,” she said.

“Don’t know the Gospel, ma’am. Don’t know what to amen.”

“I commend you to God, and to the words of His grace. These are true words. Acts 20:32.”

“Amen,” the stranger said.

She smiled. His meekness was promising. No doubt he had done wrong, probably with the very weapon she now held. And perhaps with the other, whose handle she saw tucked at the left side of his belt. Yet no one was beyond the mercy and protection of the Lord. “And that,” she said, gesturing with her chin.

He looked down at the handle of the weapon, as if surprised to see it. “Forgot about it.” For the first time, he smiled. “Haven’t had it long.” It was more of a small sword than a big knife. He put it down on top of the gun and holster Emily held in her arms.

“Your money is better spent on instruments of peace,” Emily said.

“Amen,” the stranger said.

“Those were merely my own words,” she said, “not Gospel.”

“Didn’t buy it, either.” He smiled again, an odd smile. His lips curved up and his eyes narrowed.

“Where, then, did it come from, Brother Christian?” Won at gambling, Emily thought, or worse, stolen. She was offering the stranger an opportunity to make a small confession, and so take the first step at beginning life anew in the mercy and grace of the Lord.

“Bowie knife with a ten-inch blade,” he said. Then, realizing he had explained nothing, added, “Was a parting gift.”

Very well, there would be no confession for the moment. She had done her duty by opening the way for one. She said, “What is your given name?”

“Matthew,” he said.

“I am Sister Emily, Brother Matthew. I am pleased to welcome you to sup with us, in the protection of the Lord.”

“Thank you, Sister Emily,” Brother Matthew said.

The memory of those more promising times brought tears to her eyes so suddenly, she was unable to keep them from spilling onto her cheeks.

Reaching over Cromwell, Stark gave Emily his handkerchief. She covered her face with it and wept in near silence, her shoulders trembling with barely suppressed sobs. He was surprised to see such emotion coming from her. Her demeanor with the preacher had always been distantly polite. One who didn’t know otherwise would never guess they were betrothed. It just went to show how little he knew about women. Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. Stark’s heart pumped blood through his body, that was all. Otherwise, it was a dead man’s heart.

Stark said, “You ought to take rest, Sister Emily. I’ll watch over Brother Zephaniah.”

Emily shook her head. After several deep breaths, she was able to speak. “Thank you, Brother Matthew, but I cannot go. My place is with him.”

Stark heard the rustle of clothing in the hallway. Someone was approaching. The four samurai outside bowed low. Moments later, Lord Genji appeared in the doorway with the captain of his bodyguard. He looked at Emily and Stark, then said a few words to the samurai. The four men bowed again, uttered a single syllable that sounded like “
Hai!,
” and rushed off. Stark noticed that everyone around Genji said that word frequently. He guessed it meant yes. People were unlikely to say no much to someone who could exterminate them and everyone they knew on the slightest whim.

Genji smiled and greeted them with a slight bow. Before they could struggle to their feet, he was seated beside them on his knees, apparently in complete comfort. He said something and waited. It seemed to Stark that he was looking at them as if he expected a reply.

Stark shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lord Genji. Neither of us speaks Japanese.”

Amused, Genji turned to Saiki and said, “He thinks I spoke to him in Japanese.”

Saiki said, “Is he a fool? Doesn’t he recognize his own language?”

“Apparently not the way I speak it. My accent must be even worse than I thought. However, I did understand him. That’s something to be glad of.” Genji switched again to English and said to Stark and Emily, “My English is not good. I apologize.”

Stark shook his head again. All he could think of to say was what he had already said. “I’m sorry,” he began. Then Emily interrupted him.

“You’re speaking English,” she said to Genji. Or he was trying to, at least. Her eyes, still wet with tears, widened in surprise.

“Yes, thank you,” Genji said. He smiled like a child who had pleased an important adult. “I regret the offense to your ears. My tongue and my lips have great difficulty with the shapes of your words.”

What Emily heard was a string of strange syllables in the general rhythm of English. “Yeh-su, san-kyu. I lee-glet-to zah offen-su to yo-ah ee-ah-su. My tahn-gu ahn my rip-su ha-bu glate difficurty with zah shay-pu-su of yo-ah wod-zuh.”

She struggled to separate one blurred sound from the next. If she could puzzle out even a few words, she might have some idea of what he was talking about. Had he used the word “difficulty”? She thought it might be a good idea to repeat the word in her reply.

Enunciating carefully, she said, “Any difficulty can be overcome if people try hard enough.”

Ah, so that’s how the word was pronounced, Genji thought. “Difficulty,” an “el” with a flip of the tongue toward the upper palate, not an “ur” with a soft growl in the throat.

“Difficult but not impossible,” Genji said. “Sincerity and persistence go a long way.”

His accent was strange and severe, but there was a consistency to it that made the words clearer the more of them she heard. He was also a quick learner. This time, his “difficult” was much closer to hers.

“Lord Genji, how on earth did you learn our language?”

“My grandfather required me to study it. He believed it would be useful.” In fact, Kiyori had told him it was an absolute necessity. He had seen Genji in conversations with English speakers in prophetic dreams.

Those conversations, Kiyori had said, will one day save your life.

Genji had been seven years old. He had said, If your dreams are true, why should I bother to study? Prophecy says I will speak English, so when the time comes, I will speak it.

Kiyori had laughed loudly. When the time comes, you will speak it, because now, today, you will begin learning it.

The Shogunate’s prohibition against outsiders was still in force in those days. Native speakers were unavailable as tutors. So Genji’s studies had been confined almost entirely to books. Words on paper were one thing. On the tongue and in the ear they were quite another.

Stark said, “You understand him.”

“Yes, with an effort. Can you not, Brother Matthew?”

“Not at all, Sister Emily.” For Stark, Genji spoke in strings of indecipherable syllables. What Emily heard as English came more slowly, with utterances in smaller groups, more murmured than clipped. It was a difference leading to no increase in comprehension for him, no matter how closely he listened.

Genji spoke very slowly. “Perhaps if I speak very slowly?”

Stark heard, “Pah-ha-pu-su i-fu-aye su-pee-ku-be li-shrow-ree?” All he could do was shake his head again.

“I’m sorry, Lord Genji. My ears are not as wise as Sister Emily’s.”

“Ah,” Genji said. He smiled at Emily. “It’s ironic, I know, but you will have to translate my English for Mr. Stark into English he can understand.”

“It will be my privilege,” Emily said, “and a temporary one, I’m sure. It is only a matter of becoming accustomed to each other’s idiosyncrasies.”

Genji blinked. “You have sped up your speech a little too much for me, Miss Gibson. I could not follow that time.”

“My apologies, Lord Genji. I was carried away by my enthusiasm.” She considered rephrasing her statement using simpler words. Looking into the gentle warlord’s eyes, she decided against it. She thought she saw there a soul of high sensitivity. Condescension would not escape his notice. He would be insulted. Worse, he would be hurt. Emily repeated her previous words with care.

Saiki knelt at the doorway a short distance away. He was far enough not to intrude on the discussion. He was also just one stride away from inserting himself between his lord and the outsiders, and decapitating Stark, if it became necessary. The need did not appear imminent. Nevertheless, Saiki maintained his readiness. Though the woman seemed harmless, he watched her as well.

A small crowd stood behind Saiki. The four guards had returned carrying a Western-style bed. With them were Hidé and Shimoda, bearing additional furnishings. The maid, Hanako, arrived with a silver English tea service upon her tray. They all looked with amazement at the scene before them.

“Lord Genji is speaking the outsiders’ language,” Hidé whispered.

Saiki maintained his watch. Without turning, he said softly, “Keep losing discipline, Hidé, and you will spend your coming nuptials in the stables instead of in your bride’s embrace.”

Nuptials? Hidé wanted to laugh. That would never happen. Their lord had made an offhand comment, nothing more. Only a humorless old coot like Saiki would take it seriously. He turned to share his amusement with Shimoda. His friend was smiling quite a different kind of smile. Next to him, Hanako, her usually pale cheeks crimson, stared down at her tray. Hidé’s jaw dropped open. Why did he never know what was going on until it was too late?

Saiki shuffled forward on his knees. “Lord, the appurtenances for the outsiders.”

“Bring them in.” To Emily and Stark he said, “Let us move aside while this room is furnished more suitably.” Both of them, he saw, had considerable difficulty rising. They had to bend into vulnerable positions and push themselves from the floor with their hands, somewhat like toddlers just learning how to stand. Stark was up first and quickly went to Emily’s assistance. Did all outsiders treat their women with such excessive deference? Or was it only missionaries? In any case, it was admirable of the man to behave with such gallantry toward a woman so difficult to look upon. It was easy to be kind to beautiful women. Ugly ones required considerably more willpower.

Bed, chairs, and tables were installed sooner than it took Stark to get full circulation back into his legs. Cromwell remained unconscious when they lifted him into the bed. The blankets on the floor were soaked black, and blood still flowing now stained the fresh linen beneath the wounded man. The color of the fluid as well as its odor told Stark the bullet had torn through Cromwell’s intestines as well as his stomach. Poisons and acids from those organs were even now spreading into his living flesh.