HIRO WAS HOLDING Taro’s wrist, and so he felt it the moment the pulse stopped. He seized the abbot’s hand and said, ‘Do something!’ but the abbot held his hand up in a soothing gesture.
‘Wait,’ he said.
Hiro opened his mouth to speak, but then he felt a twitch beneath his fingers, and it came from Taro’s wrist – he felt as if he had lifted a dead chick from a broken nest after a storm, and it had come back to life in his hand.
Taro opened his eyes and smiled at him with something like the old light in his expression. ‘Am I alive?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Hiro. ‘But you scared me, you idiot.’
‘Sorry,’ said Taro. He turned to Hayao, who was sitting to one side. ‘I’m glad to see you again,’ he said. ‘Hana. . . did you keep her alive as you promised?’
‘Yes,’ said Hayao. ‘I fed her with water and honey.’
‘Good,’ said Taro. ‘Good.’
‘Where did you go?’ asked the abbot.
‘I don’t know,’ said Taro. ‘I can’t remember. But I remember what to do.’ He put his hands on the rock, palm down, and pushed himself up into a position roughly approximating standing, and then he accepted Hiro’s arm under his as he staggered off the rock. ‘Take me to my mother,’ he said. ‘And someone get me some blood.’
‘As an offering?’ said the abbot.
‘No,’ said Taro. ‘The blood is for me.’