This is it, thought Taro. It was all a plot, ever since the pigeon, to bring us to this place to die.
Another man dropped to the ground behind them, and then more stepped out from the trees. Taro registered the peculiar detail that they all appeared to be wearing the loose robes of monks.
He backed against Hiro, and felt Hiro do the same – both of them covering their rears. Hana closed in with them. All three unsheathed their swords, Taro’s of course in his hand long before his friends had drawn theirs. Oshi was opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
From the shadows of the trees ahead of them stepped an old man. He, too, appeared to be a monk. He was ancient, his head shaved and his eyebrows bushy, as if growing longer to compensate for his bald pate. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, and in one hand he held a staff. He seemed to be leaning on it as he moved, yet something about the heaviness of it made Taro think it might be a weapon, as well as an aid to locomotion.
The monk spat on the ground at Taro’s feet.
‘We have been aware of your coming for some time,’ he said. ‘We smelled the stink of corruption.’
Taro stared. ‘What?’ He’d been expecting. . . he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Perhaps gloating at how easily he had been duped, how simple it had been to forge the message from his mother and so bring him here to die. He hadn’t been expecting this.
‘This is a holy place,’ said the monk. ‘We do not allow the tainted here.’
Oshi spread his hands. ‘It is not the samurai’s fault,’ he said, indicating Hayao in his cart. ‘He’s haunted – we only brought him here to see if you could help. . .’
‘Not him,’ said the monk. ‘Him.’ He pointed to Taro. ‘We don’t allow the spirits of night in this place.’
‘It’s daytime,’ said Hana. ‘Spirits of night don’t go about in daytime.’
At this the monk frowned. ‘That is strange, certainly. But we are not mistaken. This one is a kyuuketsuki.’
Oshi gasped and took a step away from Taro, and at that moment the monks attacked. The old man, suddenly lithe and nimble, was in front of Taro in a flash. Taro brought his sword up just in time – and caught the staff as it hushed down through the air towards his temple. His arms ringing with the blow, he staggered back, aware of Hana and Hiro fighting too, their swords darting and circling.
Taro attempted to centre his qi, got himself into a better stance. He focused on the old man’s eyes, reading his movements. His sword snapped left, blocked a strike – counter-struck at the man’s arm. But the monk was quick, and he was never where Taro thought he would be. Clash. Block, parry – strike. The sword and the staff seemed locked in a complicated sequence of preplanned movements, so impossible was it to gain any advantage. He was aware of Hiro, behind him, struggling too – he could hear his friend panting for breath, and that made him afraid because he knew how strong, how hard his friend had become.
He heard a small gasp from Hana and turned to see that she’d been disarmed – she stood quite still, composing herself, as the monk she’d been fighting stepped forward and picked up her sword.
No, he thought. No, we can’t die here, just when the mountain is in sight. . .
Then a burst of pain in his head, flashing – just for an instant the forest scene before him transformed into a night-time sky, a constellation of bright stars in blackness.
He put one hand to his head, felt blood. With the other he jerked his sword, blade biting into the staff just as it was about to sweep his legs out from under him. He heard Hiro swear angrily.
There was an intent, serene expression on the monk’s face. Taro had never seen anything like it. This man must be four times his age, and yet he was holding Taro – a trained ninja – at bay with seemingly no effort at all. The monk gazed back, his expression neutral. He met Taro’s next strike easily, then seemed to lose patience for a moment. He flicked the staff and Taro’s sword went flying, landing among moss and leaves to his left.
Taro took a deep breath. He glanced behind him and saw that Hiro, too, had lost his sword. The three of them, Taro and his two friends, stood in a tight circle, surrounded by armed monks. Oshi stood over to the side, an expression of pure confusion on his face.
‘Now, vampire,’ said the monk. ‘Explain yourself. Why do you come to our mountain?’
Taro opened his mouth, but he was winded – no words came out. He was still stunned that the monks had so readily identified him.
‘What about these others?’ said the monk, gesturing to Hana and Hiro. ‘The girl is of high birth, I hear it in her voice.’ He turned to Hana. ‘Did he hurt you? Did he bite you? How did he make you follow him?’
Hana gave a shocked laugh. ‘Did he – What? No. He’s our friend.’
‘He’s a bloodsucker.’
‘No. I mean, yes. But he doesn’t kill. He didn’t choose this. It – He was just a peasant boy, and then the ninjas—’
Taro glared at her, and she stopped talking.
The monk swung his staff in the air, as if unsure what to do.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked one of the others – a fat man with a red face. ‘Kill him. He is a spirit of night. He is evil.’
But still the old monk hesitated. ‘I will allow him to explain himself before he dies,’ he said. He turned to Taro. ‘Talk,’ he said. ‘Tell me why I should not destroy you for the corrupt spirit you so certainly are.’
‘If I still had my sword,’ said Hiro, ‘I’d gut you for that.’
The monk smiled. ‘It is well that we beat you, then,’ he said. ‘Not that it was difficult.’
Hiro scowled. Taro gave his friend a wan smile. He could always rely on Hiro.
He cast his eyes towards his sword. It was too far – he would never reach it. And anyway, the monk was too fast. He wouldn’t stand a chance. Tears welled up, threatened to spill over. He could feel the earth below his feet, the cool breeze on his face. He could smell pine needles, and his own sweat.
‘I’m a vampire,’ he said, trembling. ‘It’s true. But I’m not evil, I swear it. I know that most vampires kill, but I was taught not to. I was. . . made like this by a good man. His name was Shusaku, and he died trying to protect me. When he saw that I could stand the sunlight, he said. . . he thought. . . he believed that there was something different about me.’ He stopped, breathing hard. ‘I learned from him to feed on the blood of animals when possible, never to kill if I could help it. I’m just trying to find my mother; I haven’t seen her for so long. . .’
Gradually he realized that there was a very strange expression on the monk’s face. He trailed off.
‘Shusaku?’ said the monk. ‘Endo no Shusaku?’
Taro nodded.
‘And he’s dead?’ The monk put a hand to his chest.
‘Yes. He died in Lord Oda’s castle. We were – well, we were there.’
The monk rubbed his forehead with his hand. He took a long, deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘More sorry than you can know. Still, if Shusaku thought you were special, perhaps. . .’
To Taro’s surprise, Oshi came to stand nearby. ‘The boy can see ghosts,’ said the priest. He pointed to Hayao again, curled up in the cart, for all the world like he was sleeping. ‘I brought this samurai to seek your help with the gaki that is haunting him. The boy can see her. He near keeled over dead with fright the first time we met. I’ve never met anyone who could see them before – save for the haunted party, of course. I should say that makes him special.’
Taro stared dumbly at Oshi, grateful beyond words.
The monk continued to run his hand over his brow. ‘I know why you’re here, then,’ he said to Oshi eventually. ‘But what about the boy? What’s a vampire doing approaching the holy mountain – even a vampire turned by Shusaku?’ He turned to Taro and inclined his head, waiting.
Taro fumbled for the message in the sleeve of his cloak. ‘I had – I came – I wanted to—’
‘Taro is looking for his mother,’ said Hana. ‘She sent him a message, saying she was at the monastery on Mount Hiei. We thought perhaps it was a trap, but—’
The monk had gone pale. ‘Taro?’ he said. ‘You’re Taro?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say?’ The old man stooped and picked up Taro’s sword, returning it to his hand. ‘We have been waiting for you for so long,’ he said. ‘Your mother had quite given up hope.’