Sunday, May 06, 2007

(The Assassin's Bamboo Brush) Goodbye to a nice house and an ugly job

The young waiter treaded easily and casually along the way to his house. As he neared the musical trickle of a river, the path began to become slippery and treacherous, with the occasional sharp rock. Soon, he had arrived at the river. It flowed down an easy incline at the foot of a mountain. Its banks were lined with weeping willows, but looking up, it was easy to see that its flow pitched up sharply several hundred metres upstream, into a series of waterfalls dancing between any gap available in the creased but violently sharp grey rock.

It is a wonder in itself how a mountain could exist on a somewhat small island which was where the waiter lived and worked, but it was even more strange that the climate in the area was perpetually drizzly and depressing; foggy in the evening and misty well into the morn. The now retired waiter, having chosen this spot near this ridiculously unstraightforward waterfall had mist all day long. In fact, had you stood further downstream, it would have been difficult to see his house at all.

He toed the door open gently, and hopped in with his grounded leg. His light straw sandals went into a small rack on the left, inside the small entry-way; which was built like a small wooden tunnel. It ended abruptly in a sharp drop into the river itself. You see, his house was built straddling the river, and so had no solid floor, but stepping stones were scattered about randomly. Needless to say, all his guests had to have a certain degree of agility to not get wet. All fixtures in the house, were either on the wall, or hung from the ceiling’s support beams like the furniture.

Due to the situation of the house, its shape was somewhat long and windy, but the young waiter, having built it years ago, had no problems getting around. He hopped between stones to reach his bed; a large round concave cushion suspended by ropes and woven rattan from the ceiling. He took in a deep breath, hands behind his head. The burning time candles indicated that he had about two hours before he had to leave to meet his friends. Most of them would probably be late anyway, himself included. It was a bad habit which ironically had saved their lives several times. He did have a lot of loose ends to tie up before finally retiring for good, though, and had no choice but to coax himself out of bed. He hopped the all to familiar path from his bed to the ‘hiding stone’. Lifting the faux stepping stone just enough, he pulled out the oiled waterproof bag under it. From it, he retrieved his trusty wakizashi (the short katana in the dai-sho) and a snow white mask, from which his name, Shiro, was partially derived. He cursed silently at the waterproof bag keeping water in instead of out for the umpteenth time, then held both items in each hand. ‘No weapons’ was the arrangement, but he doubted they would keep it anyway, especially Nichirasu. Akamaru probably forgot already. Whatever. Orophin-san would be a little annoyed at being the only one who followed the original arrangement, but he’d get over it. Shiro slid the weapon into his belt near the small of his back. As for the white demon mask, he resolved to burn it. It was time for the death of Shiro the assassin. Picking up his travelling bag and some gold from a suspended chair, he snuffed out the candles and the burning incense stick, then looked back to check again before closing the door behind him.

Several kilometres of easy walking brought him to the back of the nearby village. He easily found a nearby tree to climb and leapt over the small fence. Immediately, he was enveloped in almost pitch blackness. The numerous trees shaded the better portion of the graveyard, and on top of that, it suddenly seemed to get very cloudy. Glancing around slightly nervously, Shiro allowed his eyes to get used to the light level. He got off the tombstone on which he had landed, whispering an apology. He could feel his pulse throbbing through his neck and into his brain. Despite being an experienced killer, and a non-superstitious one at that, he could not stop the fear which was currently breathing its cold breath down the back of his collar. He did not believe in haunting or vengeful ghosts. Instead, he had chosen this place for the death of Shiro the assassin as a gesture of respect for those whose lives he had taken.

‘Nothing personal.’ He reached for some matches.

Pale wraith-like fingers of fog combed the stones. He could hear every restlessly rustling leaf in the still of the night, feel the soft mushy ground below his feet, smell the disquieting vapour which the mud exuded, see the flickering offering candles which had flames that seemed to turn green when he wasn’t really looking. The shadows they cast seemed to dart about between the stones. Or was there really something moving about? He thought he heard a scratching or scrabbling sound. It then became a rattling, then a clink. A high pitched screech confirmed that the cemetery gates were being opened. The sounds may have been made by a human, but he did not want to be seen nonetheless. Whatever he came here to do, he had to do fast. He darted behind a large tombstone for cover, whispering another apology, then at the first chance, clambered silently over the fence and disappeared. The caretaker was greeted be the sight of a white mask, grinning at him as it went up in green flame. With a howl he went back the way he came.