Chapter Thirty

 

 

The following day was dull and oppressive, without a breath of wind to stir the trees around the ville. It seemed to be trapping the layers of pollution that hung over the peaked roofs like an orange fog, catching at the back of the nose and the throat, making the eyes burn and water.

 

Hideyoshi looked in at breakfast to tell them the kite flying exhibition had been abandoned because of the inclement weather.

 

"But the basho for the sumo wrestlers will go ahead as planned."

 

"What time?" Ryan asked, his mouth full of scrambled eggs and undercooked hash browns.

 

"An hour or so. Do not hurry your food. That is bad for the soul of the inner man. Take time to chew and digest all properly. That way there will be balance within the body."

 

He stalked out, the tip of his sword's sheath scraping on the wooden floor.

 

Only the outlanders were left, sitting together at the long table, with silent servants standing against the high walls of the dining room.

 

Ryan lowered his voice. "First chance we've had to talk about it," he said.

 

"Their plan to move in on Deathlands?" J.B. asked. "Gotta stop them."

 

"Agreed." Jak was munching a huge honey-filled doughnut, ignoring the stickiness that trickled over his chin.

 

"Need the grens," Ryan said. "They keep weapons in that What they call it?"

 

"The yagura ," Mildred answered. "The corner tower where they store ammo, arrows and stuff."

 

"That's it." He looked at the Armorer. "Before they have this wrestling contest, you and Jak try and get along there. Shouldn't be a problem. They're amazingly trusting. Let us go where we want. These new men he's letting in as sec men worry me bound to be one or two ronin spies among them. They get at any plas-ex or grens, and it'll be goodbye time for Mashashige and his merry men. Just get three or four grens, J.B., and make them timers. Then, when we find the right moment, we'll head for the gateway and blow it on the way out."

 

"Sure." J.B. wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Get that honey off your chin, Jak, and we'll go to it."

 

 

 

"GAIA! THAT'S triple spectacular," Krysty said admiringly, stopping at the entrance to the room where the competition was to be held.

 

Seats were arrayed in a large circle, with a couple of aisles between them. At the center of the room was a raised platform, covered in what looked like very fine sand. It was contained within a loop of thick rope that was coiled several inches high, making the arena into a sort of pit.

 

Bright satin ribbons were tied to posts at each corner of the basho area.

 

Hideyoshi had seen the outlanders come in and scurried to greet them, rubbing his hands together with excitement. "This is such a thrilling thing for us all. After the bitter sadness of the dying, we have this visit today from some of the top rikishi in all of the country."

 

"Are the rikishi the wrestlers?" Mildred asked.

 

The samurai hardly seemed to notice that he was actually having a discussion with a woman.

 

"Yes. One is called Konishiki, after one of greatest sumo fighters. And he came from a foreign country. One of the greatest yokozuna of all times."

 

"That means a champion?" Mildred asked.

 

"Yes. The original Konishiki was a fine champion. Very big, big man."

 

Mildred scratched the side of her nose. "I believe I've heard of him. Was he one of the real top fighters around just before skydark?"

 

Hideyoshi nodded. "Yes, he was."

 

"I saw him fighting on teevee," she said.

 

The samurai gasped, eyes wider than pinwheels. "You saw the great Konishiki himself? No. That cannot be, Dr. Wyeth. He passed to the land of spirits during the long winters. That was fully every bit of eighty years ago. How could you have seen him fight?"

 

Mildred swallowed, seeing the trap that yawned in front of her. It was better to explain nothing than to try and fail to explain everything, Trader used to say. She knew that because John Dix had told her.

 

"I once was in a ville where the baron had a nuke generator and he had a working vid machine. Konishiki came from the island of Hawaii, didn't he?"

 

"Yes," he replied, his voice still heavy with suspicion.

 

Inspiration sharpened her already excellent memory. "And his real name was Salevaa Atisnoe."

 

Hideyoshi gaped again. "That is, I believe, true. But the stories were vague and difficult to believe in. You saw him on a vid! How was he?"

 

"Magical. He had the grace of an eagle and the speed of a striking cobra and the power of of of something immensely powerful."

 

"I so envy you, dear lady." He forgot himself so much that he actually clasped Mildred by the hands.

 

Behind them Yashimoto had entered the room with the shogun. As soon as he was aware of their presence, Hideyoshi was overcome with embarrassment and let go of Mildred's hands as though they'd become red-hot.

 

"Where is the small one with poor sight and the cripple with hair like snow and eyes like rubies?" the second-in-command of the ville asked, sneering.

 

"The white-haired cripple could probably beat the best of your sumo wrestlers in a hand-to-hand," Ryan snapped angrily. "And they'll both be along soon."

 

"That frail child beat Konishiki!" Yashimoto grinned. "Stupe gaijin . The age of miracles is long past. As easy for a mouse to defeat a lion."

 

Doc changed the subject. "Why are the ribbons different colors at the corners of the basho ?" he asked. "Do I detect some sort of symbolism?"

 

"They are the pointed parts of the compass," Mashashige replied. "And also the seasons of the year. Black is the north and winter. Red is summer and the south. Green is spring and the east, while the west is white and is the fall."

 

Krysty had started to walk down toward the basho arena, staring up at the fluttering ribbons. She was about to climb the shallow flight of steps that led onto the actual fighting surface, when Hideyoshi stopped her with a shout.

 

"No!"

 

"No, what?"

 

"No, it is not allowed. The surface of the basho has been purified and sanctified by salt by the visiting priests. If a woman sets foot there, then it is defouled."

 

"Defiled," she corrected. "Though I guess that 'defouled' is nearly as good a word. You think I might suddenly have my period all over the religious salt?"

 

All three of the Japanese men took a step backward in perfect synchronicity. Yashimoto actually started to draw his sword, then thought better of it and resheathed it.

 

"That is not the way a guest talks," Mashashige said very quietly.

 

Krysty nodded. "Guess that's right. And I apologize for it, Shogun."

 

"Apology accepted."

 

"And I'll be very careful not to go and step all over your nice clean basho ."

 

 

 

RYAN AND COMPANY were given seats in the front row, in places of honor, close to the shogun and his aides. It was only when the fighting began that the seats of honor were also the seats of danger.

 

The sumo wrestlers were all enormously large people, almost like muties. The smallest was about five feet ten inches tall and tipped the scales at just over three hundred pounds. He was known by his fighting nickname, "Little Tiger."

 

But some of the bigger men at the basho dwarfed him. The legendary Konishiki was a good six and a half feet tall and weighed four hundred and seventeen pounds.

 

Each bout followed the same ritual.

 

The two huge men, swaddled like hogs in diapers, waddled up onto the dais, bowing to the corners and scattering handfuls of salt on the surface of the basho , while a small, wizened priest with a sort of fan carried out a short Shinto service.

 

Then the wrestlers would squat on their own side of the roped arena, looking, as Ryan remarked, like linemen in football just prior to the snap.

 

But there were innumerable false starts, where one or the other would stand up and strut around, trying to psych out his opponent. Konishiki was particularly good at this aspect of sumo.

 

"Wouldn't fancy meeting him in a dark, narrow alley," Ryan whispered to Jak.

 

The teenager was watching the fights with intense professional skill. "Reckon good little one could still beat them," he said. "Weight against them."

 

"You reckon?" Ryan said thoughtfully.

 

"Sure."

 

"Like to try it?"

 

Jak shrugged, his long white hair moving about his narrow skull like sea spray. "Wouldn't mind."

 

"See what I can do." Ryan sat back, smiling to himself. It might be another blow in his feud against Yashimoto. But the moment had to be right.

 

Eventually both the fighters would decide that the time had come and they would charge together, slapping, pawing and pulling, trying to grab each other by the cloth bindings around their thighs and loins. The object of the match was to either throw your opponent from the basho , over the layer of rope, or push or pull him out or throw him off his feet so that he fell in the middle of the basho .

 

Generally speaking, the bouts were decided within about ten seconds, more often than not by one of the fighters staggering out from the ring.

 

That was when the honorable front-row seats could become positively dangerous, with several hundred pounds of out-of-control wrestler landing in your lap.

 

Konishiki's opponent in the final bout contrived to hurtle from the raised platform, straight at Ryan, who had been anticipating something of the sort and was able to get out of the way before being injured by the huge man.

 

The incident raised much laughter from the watching Japanese, led by Yashimoto.

 

Ryan resumed his seat as Konishiki was still walking arrogantly around the ring, slapping his chest, calling out what seemed to be some sort of challenge in his native tongue.

 

"You were nearly caught out there, gaijin ," Yashimoto mocked. "Our men are too big and strong, and all you can do is try and skip from their path."

 

"I got a man could beat that lump of overblown lard," Ryan called.

 

"Yourself?" Mashashige asked, instantly fascinated by the idea of a contest between one of the top visiting sumo and one of his guests.

 

"No. Not me."

 

"Me," Jak said, taking his cue, standing and shrugging off his jacket. "I'll beat him." He pointed at the puzzled Konishiki.

 

"You will die," Yashimoto said, forcing out the words between tears of merriment.

 

"We all will one day," the albino replied.

 

 

 

IT TOOK more than an hour of argument and bickering before the bout was finally agreed.

 

The owner of the traveling sumo circus was extremely reluctant to allow her most valued wrestler, Konishiki, to compete against someone who stood only five feet five inches tall and would hardly have shifted the scales much above one hundred pounds.

 

"The gaijin will die and he is guest of honored shogun, Lord Mashashige," said the manager, a chubby woman with pebble glasses. "It will be a bad joke and cause loss of face to my fighters."

 

"We set aside all responsibility," Ryan insisted. "Jak will fight on your rules and terms. No weapons. Winner throws loser out of the basho or topples him on his back. That it?"

 

"That is it," the woman agreed.

 

The shogun had taken her to one side and engaged in a long whispered conversation. Shortly after, Yashimoto had approached her, and there had been the chink of jack changing hands.

 

And it was agreed.

 

But with reservations.

 

Konishiki had strode down to confront Jak. The wrestler was wearing a flowing robe, with foxes embroidered all over it in gold-and-silver threads. He had pointed a strong, stubby finger at the young man.

 

"You know might die?" he asked.

 

Jak nodded. "Sure. Be good clean fight. Best man win." And he shook hands, his own white fingers disappearing inside the hamlike hand of the sumo star.

 

 

 

IT PROVED IMPOSSIBLE to find a sumo costume anywhere near small enough for Jak. One had to be improvised by the sewing women of the ville, from a length of stout white linen. It was then wrapped around Jak's waist and knotted in the approved manner.

 

"Looks like a chicken against a rhinoceros," Doc muttered, as everyone took their seats again. "Not quite a balanced fight."

 

"But who would you put your money on, Doc?" Mildred asked. "My jack goes on the chicken."

 

He smiled at her. "I rather think that I must perforce agree with you, ma'am."

 

Ryan had taken the chance to snatch a few quick words with Jak before the commencement of the bout.

 

"Gotta keep clear of him."

 

The youth had grinned, red eyes flashing with excitement. "Sure, sure. No worry, Ryan. Looking forward."

 

"If it looks like he might be trying to crush you or do serious injury, then I'll"

 

Jak had held up a hand. "No. No need. Just watch and enjoy, Ryan."

 

Now the proceedings were ready.

 

The priest had pattered out the ritual, and both men had scattered salt to the corners of the basho area.

 

Ryan weighed up the protagonists, trying to figure whether he'd made a serious mistake in pitching Jak in against the vast bulk of Konishiki.

 

The sumo giant wasn't just fat. There was layer upon layer of hard muscle, and he had already shown evidence of his speed and agility in the earlier fights. Jak was as lean as whipcord, his body deathly white, hair knotted back with a length of red ribbon that had come from little Issie.

 

The geisha was sitting in the third row, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand, held against her painted rosebud mouth, her whole body tense with worry for Jak.

 

Now Konishiki dropped into his three-point kneeling position, matched by Jak, whose eyes never left his gigantic opponent.

 

Three times they did this, and twice the sumo wrestler broke and stood, slapping at himself, his fringed belt swinging as he walked around. The third time, not to be outfaced, Jak rose and copied him, getting a muffled giggle of laughter from some of the audience.

 

The fourth time was for real.

 

Konishiki was faster than any person that size had the right to be. He moved up and across the basho , which seemed to have shrunk to the size of a tablecloth, grabbing at Jak to smother and destroy him. The big man was already grinning with anticipation of his easy victory.

 

Only Jak wasn't there to be smothered and destroyed.

 

He'd dived onto the floor, rolling to the side of the advancing Konishiki, coming up into a crouch as the wrestler started to turn to face him. He hurled himself at the back of the man's huge legs, catching him off-balance, making him stagger to one side, his bulk and momentum carrying him toward the raised rope that marked the edge of the arena.

 

Yashimoto was on his feet, fingers digging into his own cheeks, as he saw the colossus stumble.

 

Jak was up again, as nimble as a monkey, vaulting onto Konishiki's back, his hands covering the startled man's eyes, blinding the giant.

 

The sumo star reached up to pluck him off and dash him to the floor, breaking every bone in the lad's body, but once again Jak wasn't there.

 

He had hopped off behind Konishiki, pushing him with his shoulder in the small of his back, hastening his rumbling charge toward the edge of the basho . Finally he stooped to catch at Konishiki's left foot, heaving it off the ground for a vital couple of seconds.

 

Like a maddened bull, the monstrous figure roared out in blind rage, swinging a clubbing forearm to try to strike Jak to the sand. But he was too slow, too off-balance. Pivoting on one leg, he reached the rope and caught his right foot on it.

 

Jak let go of his other foot at the crucial moment, letting gravity do the rest.

 

Hopelessly out of control, Konishiki gave a last despairing cry before tumbling facedown, over the rope and out of the arena, nearly crushing Yashimoto as he fell.

 

There was the unmistakable snap of bone as he dropped, his leg crooked under him, the knee joint popping open.

 

The sumo giant gave a thin scream and fainted.

 

J.B. stood and grinned. "And that, friends, concludes the entertainment for the day."