Chapter 23 Dark Water
Mayor Mag insisted that Wataru stay clear of the Swamp of Grief until his wounds healed. He was assured that the curative properties of Tearsheaven would have him back on the road in ten days or less.
While he recuperated, Wataru walked around town and toured the facilities where they made the tears. He even learned a bit of the craft himself. It rained in Tearsheaven every day—for about an hour in the mornings and evenings. This kept the town reservoirs full, and there was always more water than they could distill in any given day.
The lustrous, silky white cloth used in the refining process was also spun locally. It was woven from threads made from the fiber of a peculiar grass called huhulune, and was quite valuable. Everyone who worked on the tears had to wear clothes made entirely of this indigenous grass. Clothes made from huhulane were very expensive—one outfit, for example, would cost an entire year’s salary in a place like Nacht.
When she had been working, Satami was a weaver in one of the workshops. Weaving the fibrous turf was a taxing chore, requiring great focus of mind. More than half of the weavers were women. These days, when Sara was not by her mother’s bed, she would be in the workshop, where some of her mother’s friends took care of her. Wataru would wave and say hello whenever he saw her, but she would shyly run away, or hide behind a nearby adult. She never warmed up to him no matter how much he tried.
There were few children in Tearsheaven. Most of the residents had come alone, and many of them went for weeks without having contact with the outside world.
“It makes sense, if you think about it,” Bhuto had said. “The people here…their family and friends couldn’t cure what ailed them. Or, even worse, they’re here because they lost family and friends in the first place. They come to us with two burdens: sadness and loneliness.”
Bhuto had been born in Nacht. A drifter by profession, he was a hired hand in the direct employ of Mayor Mag.
“It was about five years ago, I guess. Ran into somebody at a gatehouse wanting to go to Tearsheaven, and too afraid to make the journey alone. So I helped him along the way.” He had ended up staying in the town. “There are lots of women here, so most of the men are busy doing strong-work, like carrying water. They needed more people for guard duty. The mayor asked me to stay.”
He seemed like a nice enough person, but Wataru had no doubt that when push came to shove, Bhuto could shove pretty hard.
“I’ve been a drifter since as long as I can remember, so it doesn’t bother me too much being alone. Funny, isn’t it? Loneliness isn’t such a bad thing, but mix in a little anger and sadness, and it can become the worst punishment in the world.”
It was a little after noon. Bhuto was puffing on a cigarette, while Wataru dangled his feet from atop a town gate.
“Not that being a watchman is all that demanding a job. If you see someone on the road, you ask if they’re a visitor to Tearsheaven. If they are, you open the gate. If they’re not, you wave them along. That’s about it. It’s just an excuse to sit out in the sun.”
Shortly, an individual riding an udai approached the gate.
“Ooy!” Bhuto called out. “Have you business in Tearsheaven?”
The rider took one hand off the reins and waved, calling out, “I’m a traveling merchant! Have you business with me?”
“You got tobacco?”
“All kinds, my friend. All kinds.”
The traveling merchant was an ankha man, and his goods included cakes and toys as well as cigarettes. A carved wooden figurine caught Wataru’s eye. It was a simple doll, but he thought the smiling face was cute.
“Can I buy this?” he asked. “For Sara,” he explained to Bhuto.
Bhuto smiled. “You’d make a good brother!”
The traveling merchant dismounted. Between cigarette puffs, he proceeded to make small talk. There had been a strange occurrence over in the woods north of Lyris, he said. Apparently, a curious silvery cyclone had appeared out of nowhere and took a good chunk of forest with it.
Bhuto listened to the story intently, his face blank, but never once betraying the fact that he had heard of the cyclone before—and that it had carried the boy sitting next to him all the way to Tearsheaven. The watchman of the town of sorrows knew the value of tight lips.
“By the by,” the traveler said, finishing his cigarette and mounting his udai. “Have you heard the rumors of folks selling counterfeit tears?”
Bhuto leaned forward, his expression suddenly intense. “What?”
“Just something I heard in Arikita, haven’t seen it myself. Someone out there is selling tears made in a place that’s not Tearsheaven, and for a fine price. Of course, any price would be too high—I hear that these false tears have claimed a few lives already.”
“Something’s got to be done about that,” Bhuto said severely.
“Someone is out there selling counterfeit tears…” Wataru said, thinking aloud. “Is there any way of distinguishing them from the real thing?”
As far as he knew, tears looked just like water. Put them in a bottle with a convincing label, and no one would be able to tell the difference.
“Of course there is,” Bhuto answered. “It’s simple. Fish can’t live in real tears. A guppy in a bowl of tears would die by the time you counted to ten. Not that it’s poison, mind you. It’s too pure for them, you see. Our buyers always use the fish test to prove what they’re getting is the real deal.”
“Then these counterfeit tears are even worse!” Wataru exclaimed, standing up. “They must be adding something to kill fish.”
“Yet that’s not the case,” the traveling merchant said, shaking his head. “The Highlanders in Arikita are a tough bunch, and not ones to be easily taken in. The moment they heard that a patient had died in an unusual manner, they confiscated the remaining tears, and had a look. They found no poison in it at all. The only thing they discovered was a bit of medicine used for their brew.”
Bhuto snorted in response. “If the branch in Arikita is on the move, then this is no passing affair.”
They rushed to tell Mayor Mag. He greeted the news with wide, rolling eyes, burbling, “If this is all true, then the future of the whole town is at stake!”
Wataru left the mayor’s office with a heavy heart. Out on the street, he caught sight of Sara. She was running as fast as her legs would carry her from the workshop toward the town gate.
“What’s wrong?” Wataru called out, running after her. The little girl didn’t look around, but continued straight for the gate.
“Oy there, Sara! What’s the matter?” Bhuto called down from his perch.
“Where’s the udai?” she asked, breathlessly. “I heard an udai came to the gate.”
“Ah, that was a traveling merchant, my girl. He’s left already.”
Sara’s head drooped. She looked so forlorn that Wataru merely stopped and looked at her, lacking the right words to say.
Bhuto leaned out from atop the gate and called down to her gently. “Don’t worry, if your father’s udai came back, I would shout the news so loud you’d be able to hear me no matter where you were.”
So she was hoping it was her father…Wataru felt an ache in his chest. “Now, Sara,” Bhuto said, pointing to Wataru. “This gentleman here has something for you. I wonder what it is?”
Wataru hurriedly fished the wooden doll out of his pocket. Kneeling so his eyes were on a level with Sara’s, he handed it to her. “Here.”
For a while Sara stood, arms behind her back, staring at the tiny doll. “That’s for me?” she said, looking at Wataru’s face at last.
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Its face reminded me of yours.”
Hesitantly, the little girl reached out her fingers and touched the doll. Wataru gently pressed it into her palm.
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “What’s his name?”
Wataru blinked. “Uh…I don’t know.”
“He wants you to give the doll a name,” Bhuto suggested to Sara.
“Tochee,” Sara said, patting the doll on her head with a finger.
“Tochee? That’s a nice name.”
“It’s my sister’s.”
Sara’s younger sister. The one who died of the plague.
“Mom says that Tochee became a star, and she’s never coming home. But Dad will come home. He will, won’t he?”
“Just you stay happy and healthy, and I’m sure he will,” Bhuto assured her. Wataru stood with his hands clenched into fists, watching the little girl run back to the workshop.
It was two days later that the word came: Yacom had been spotted near the Swamp of Grief.
Wataru prepared to leave for the swamp immediately. His leg was almost healed, and Mayor Mag lent him a swift udai. He also gave him a set of what looked like paddles. The udai could wear them on its hooves like snowshoes for crossing wet terrain.
“Put these on, and your udai will never get snared in the swamp.”
Wataru had no script for what he would say when he met Yacom. He only knew how much Sara missed her father, and how much pain she felt. If he could only get that across, things would work out. They had to.
As he passed through the woods and approached Lili Yannu’s hut, he noticed that the windows were boarded and no smoke came from the chimney. Wataru knocked on the door and the windows, but he got no response.
Maybe they had left together? He tried waiting around, but no one came. Wataru mounted his udai again, and set off toward the lake. He couldn’t imagine anyone going there voluntarily, but who knows? If you make your living in the swamp, perhaps a trip to the lake is a requirement.
The swamp water was jet black, even under the midday sun. Not a single ripple marred its dull matte surface. Knowing that all the impurities from the town’s rainwater had been dumped here, Wataru couldn’t help but feel something horribly unclean lurked beneath the surface. It was as if the water itself was a giant living thing, like an amoeba, silently waiting. If anyone approached, thought Wataru, the creature would lash out with a giant tentacle like a pseudopod. Once it had devoured its prey, it would settle back, perfectly still, pretending to be a great black lake once again.
Even evil and filth needs to sustain itself with energy from somewhere.
Wataru chided himself. Why do I make these things up? Is it just to scare myself? He gave himself a rap on the head with his knuckles, and urged his steed to hurry forward toward the deserted shore.
Just then he heard a faint sound coming from the underbrush at the edge of the lake.
—Kee…
Wataru stopped his udai and listened. Had he been hearing things? Had it been a bird or an animal of some kind? But nothing lived here in this swamp.
—Kee keee, kuh kuh kuh.
It was definitely some sort of animal. It sounded weak. Wataru looked around. Then he heard it again, close.
A clump of reeds just ahead of him rustled suspiciously. For the briefest of moments he caught a glimpse of something that looked like a red wing.
Wataru got off his udai, and drawing his Brave’s Sword, he slowly approached the clump. Brushing aside the reeds with his empty hand, he found the red wing immediately. To his surprise, it wasn’t a bird. Instead of down and feathers, he saw scales—deep crimson scales. And at the tip of the wing, there was a claw as big as Wataru’s own hand.
It’s a dragon.
Wataru was so startled he forgot to breathe. A dragon was lying on its side, half submerged in the water of the Swamp of Grief. Its wings and forelimbs moved weakly. It seemed to be in pain.
The dragon’s dark eyes blinked, and its long mouth snapped open. Fangs glowed white like pearls in its maw.
“Oh? A man-child!” the dragon said, raising its voice. “Yer a good manchild, aren’tcha? Help a dragon out?”
Wataru was stunned. Here was this magnificent, fantastical beast—albeit lying on its side half submerged in mud—and it spoke in a voice that was plain, almost childish.
“What’s the matter?” Wataru asked, stepping closer to the dragon, careful not to step in any puddles. The dragon lashed out a long, forked tongue and made a short barking sound. Wataru froze.
“Touch the water and you’ll regret it!” the dragon warned.
“It’s fine, I’m wearing boots. As long as I don’t lose my footing…”
The dragon assessed the youngster in front of him. “I see. Good manchild, you’ll put that sword away won’t you? Promise not to bite.”
Wataru sheathed his sword and took another step closer. Gingerly, he reached out a hand, and touched the dragon near the neck. The scales were dry and warm to the touch. A bit like Kee Keema’s shoulder.
“Are you wounded?”
The dragon lowered its eyes mournfully. “I was doin’ a few loop-de-loops and kinda got carried away, see. Lost my balance…and ended up like this.”
Now that’s funny. So dragons make mistakes too.
“So you fell? Well, you’re lucky that the ground you landed on was so soft…”
“Lucky?!” the dragon cut him off. “This swamp water is like some kind of numbing potion! As soon as I landed in it, I felt my body freeze up. And now I can’t move, ’cept for the front half of my body. My neck, these two hands—the smallest ones I’ve got. And this mud is too wet for me to dig in my claws! See?” he said, groping futilely at the mud. “What’s a dragon to do?”
It became obvious to Wataru that this dragon was young—just a kid. Still, he was over six feet long. How was he going to drag this creature out of the water? Then he had an idea.
“If you could somehow get a foothold, do you think you could drag yourself out of the water?”
“Sure,” the dragon said, nodding. “And if I can dry my wings, I’d be able to fly out.”
“Wait a second, okay?” Wataru said, dashing back to his udai. He pulled two paddles from the animal’s hooves and brought them back to the prone dragon. “Here, put these on your hands. They should allow you to grab onto the mud.”
The dragon did what he was told, and though his progress was slow, he began to inch out of the water. “Yerrrsh!” he said with great effort. Wataru imagined his face would have turned beet red, if it wasn’t red already.
Finally, his wings emerged from the water. The parts that had been submerged hung limp, as if anesthetized. The sight sent a shiver down Wataru’s spine.
“Just a little farther!” Wataru put a hand on his back and pushed. Finally, most of the dragon was out of the water, leaving only his tail dangling in the murky blackness.
“Just a bit more!”
“Yoik?” The dragon’s eyes opened wide. “Gah! It’s a kalon!”
“Huh? What?”
The dragon twisted and turned, trying to shake his tail. “A kalon! A kalon’s eating my tail!”
Wataru looked to the lake to see the stillness of the water disturbed by a thrashing where the dragon’s tail disappeared beneath the surface.
“What’s a kalon?!”
“The only fish mean enough to live in this lake! Oh, they’re fierce eaters!” The dragon scraped at the mud with both arms. “Ack! It’s pulling me in! It’ll eat me alive!”
Wataru saw that it was true. Even as he struggled, the dragon’s body was slowly sliding back into the lake. The paddles on his forelimbs left skid marks on the mud. The waves on the water’s surface were growing larger by the moment.
“I’ll deal with that fish!” Wataru said, drawing his Brave’s Sword.
The dragon shook his head, pushing Wataru away from the water with his wing. “No, no! That little sticker of yours won’t dent the kalon’s skin. You’ll have to cut off my tail!”
Wataru looked back and forth between the dragon’s panicked face, and his tail, drawn taut as a fishing line.
“Cut…your tail?”
“What did I just say? Look, I’ll tug real hard to pull it out as far as I can. Then you cut it—as close to the water’s edge as you can get. Got it? As close as you can! Cut off too much and it’ll hurt something fierce and I’m no big fan of that. When I give the signal, you cut as swiftly as you can. And make it a clean cut—I want that sword all the way through the first time, got it? The first time!”
“Wait!”
“Wait?! Wait and the kalon’ll eat me alive! You got your sword ready? Get a good footing, now. Ready? I’m going! One, two, three!”
Then the dragon yanked on his tail with every ounce of his strength. In a daze, Wataru lifted his sword and aimed for the tail right where it emerged from the water, a trembling taut cord of energy.
Snick!
Wataru felt the blade connect. The dragon howled. The lake water erupted with waves, and through the spray, Wataru saw something like a great round saw blade arc above the surface, before disappearing into the dark depths.
“That hurt!!!” The dragon thrashed with its forelimbs on the mud. Great tears fell from its eyes. “I said as close to the water as possible! You cut practically half the thing off!”
Wataru sighed, unsure what to say. “What was that thing?” he said at last.
“What was—I told you! A kalon!”
“I mean that thing like a round saw blade. Was that its mouth?”
“Nah, just the back fin. Its teeth are much, much longer than all that. Believe me, I know,” he added, glancing back at his tail.
The severed section was about as thick as a large carrot. Red blood seeped from the wound. Wataru was worried at first, but before his eyes, the wound slowly began to close, and the blood stopped quicker than the dragon’s tears.
“It’s cold,” the dragon muttered, shaking. When he shivered, the grass around him shivered as well. “Think you might give me some room?”
Wataru took a step back.
“A bit more room than that. Say, back by that udai of yours.”
Wataru did as he was asked, and from a distance, he watched as the dragon took a deep breath, and, angling his neck back toward the lake, he breathed.
Wrrrooooooooarrr!
Wataru’s mouth gaped open. A great jet of flame came from the dragon’s maw, like a giant-sized flamethrower. The heat wave washed over the dragon, pushing its way up the slope to Wataru. He felt it on his skin like a dry wind—a moment of heat, followed by a faint singed smell.
That’s my hair burning.
“Dry at last, dry at last,” the dragon said gleefully, and gave his wings a mighty flap. His eyes were dry too. “You okay up there? Thanks a bunch. Your sword wielding could use a little work, but the long and the short of it is, you saved my life. And I thank you for that.”
“I d-don’t know about that,” Wataru stammered, his knees knocking together. The dragon moved lightly up the slope toward him.
“Where’d you come from, anyway? Where’re you headed to? You’ve got an udai. You a traveling merchant?”
“Uh, yeah, something like that.”
“Hrm. Then I’ll give you something you’re sure to appreciate in return for helping me out.”
The dragon lifted a claw—small in comparison to his large body—and plucked a bright red scale from the back of his neck.
“Here, take this.”
Wataru took the scale. It looked like it was cut from a precious gem.
“Bring that to Lyris, find yourself a good craftsman, and have him make you a flute. A wyrmflute! Blow upon it once, and no matter where you are, I’ll hear it. I’ll come flying and give you a ride on my back. We can go wherever you like.”
But there was a catch.
“Wyrmflutes are fragile things. You’ll only get one use of out it, so use it wisely, eh?”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure! And with that…”
The dragon waved goodbye, and began to slowly beat his wings. Gradually his speed increased as he went from an idle to full throttle.
The dragon’s thick hind legs were just lifting off the swampy ground when Wataru shouted, “Hey! What’s your name? I’m Wataru!”
“And I’m Jozo!” the dragon yelled back, his wings beating ever faster. “Descendant of the great firewyrm!”
Jozo took off. Wataru lifted his arms to shield himself from the mighty swirl of wind. The dragon was little more than a speck of red against the blue sky by the time the wind calmed down.
Wow! A real dragon! The only time Wataru had heard mention of a dragon in Vision was when Kutz had told him the story of the firewyrm. He hadn’t even suspected that dragons were things that spoke, flapped their wings, and fell out of the sky. Amazing.
He was so absorbed in thinking about the dragon that he didn’t bat an eye when he saw the small udai cart stopped at the edge of the lake. The flat bed of the cart was filled with small bottles. The rider had walked away, down to the edge of the Swamp of Grief. His hands were moving, doing something.
His hands are in the water!
Wataru shouted out, “You there! Stop! Don’t touch the water!”
His warning rang out like a bell across the lifeless lake. The man at the water’s edge shot upright and whirled around to look in Wataru’s direction.
Wataru galloped his udai out toward the water. As he approached, he saw the man snap to attention. He was wearing a hood that concealed his face.
Even as Wataru drew nearer, the man didn’t retreat. Wataru could feel his eyes observing him through the slit in his hood.
“Are you lost?” Wataru asked, dismounting. “If you’re thirsty, I have drinking water. Believe me, you don’t want to touch the swamp here.”
The man was wearing sturdy leather boots, a tight-fitting, long-sleeved shirt and pants, and a leather jacket with many pockets—typical traveling merchant garb. Wataru looked closer, and saw that the man was wearing sturdy gloves. In one hand he held a bottle much like the ones stacked in his cart. The rim of the bottle was damp.
“The water in the swamp is like an anesthetic…” Wataru began. Then suddenly a little spark ignited deep down inside of him.
The bottles on the cart. The hooded man. The lake water.
—There are counterfeit tears about.
—People have died.
What Wataru knew and what he was seeing suddenly came together. His eyes opened wide. The next moment, the hooded man was hurling the bottle at him.
Wataru moved aside in the nick of time. The man turned to run, heading back toward his udai cart.
“Wait!” Wataru shouted, drawing his Brave’s Sword almost by reflex. When the man heard the sword being drawn, his boots came to a sudden halt on the wet ground. He turned. “Brazen lad, you think you can wave your sword about and threaten me?”
The voice was clearly a man’s, and by his tone, it was clear he wouldn’t hesitate to harm Wataru.
“More than that, I’m taking you in.” Wataru yanked up his shirt sleeve, revealing his armband. “By the authority of the Highlanders!”
The hooded man laughed. “Now this is a surprise! What has the branch fallen to, giving a firewyrm band to the likes of you. Tell me, boy, do you take the band off when your mama sings you to sleep at night? Come now, admit it. You’re lying. That’s no real armband. You’re playing at being a Highlander!”
Wataru didn’t budge. “And you’re gathering water from the swamp and selling it as tears! Well, your medicine is killing people. Do you know exactly what you’ve done?”
The man clapped his hands together and laughed out loud. “I think it’s you that needs to consider your position here, boy.”
Swiftly reaching under his jacket, he pulled something out and pointed it at Wataru.
It was—a gun. It had more curvy parts than any real-world guns Wataru had seen, but its purpose and function were clear.
Wataru took a step back, and the hooded man came a step closer. “Ah, you know what this is? Impressive! Not many people know a magegun by sight. The latest from Arikita. Far better than a sword in any fight. The moment you lifted your blade, I would take you down with the merest twitch of my finger.”
“I know guns,” Wataru replied quietly. It was hard to keep his voice calm with his heart racing wildly.
“Then you’ve saved me a lot of tiresome explanation. Boy, if you value your life, you’ll be quiet and do as you’re told. I’m leaving here now. When I leave, you’ll forget you ever saw me, and you’ll tell no one. You wouldn’t want to waste your life at such a young age and make your mama cry, would you?”
Wataru took a half step to the right. The barrel of the magegun followed him precisely.
“Don’t think you can just turn around and flee. It’s not the kind of thing you can run away from. Look, I’m giving you a chance because you’re just a kid. A stupid one, it seems.”
“I’m no kid, I told you, I’m a Highlander. I have a responsibility to the people of Tearsheaven, and a responsibility to the people whose lives will be taken by your fake tears.”
“Bah!” the hooded man spat. “What’s the point protecting a town like that? The biggest collection of crybabies in history.”
“You don’t know what they’ve been through! You know nothing!”
“You’re wrong there. I know plenty about Tearsheaven. See, I was stuck in that accursed place until just recently.”
The hooded man put a hand on the saddle of his udai. “Sorry, but I’ve got no more time to waste chatting with you.” He then pulled on the reins and made to jump into the saddle. Wataru charged.
Eyes wide, the man brought the magegun around until it was pointed straight at Wataru. He fired.
Bang!
Before Wataru had time to duck, a brilliant flash of light filled his eyes. There was smoke and the zing of metal against metal. Wataru stood unharmed.
“Huh?”
It was just like before. The Brave’s Sword in his hand had moved on its own, slicing from left to right in front of him, knocking the bullet from the magegun out of the air.
Startled, the hooded man glanced down at the revolver in his hand, then lifted the barrel again. “I don’t know what kind of trick you pulled, but that’s your last chance!”
The gun fired again. Stay calm. Wataru let the sword do its work. The blade leapt in his hand again, knocking aside the bullet. The shot whizzed through the air and into the lake—a cold splash of water landed on his cheek.
“How many bullets do you have in that gun?” Wataru asked, slowly closing the distance between him and the hooded man. “Want to try firing them all and see what happens?”
The man growled and nimbly leapt astride his udai. Then, pointing the barrel of his gun at the rope attaching the harness on the udai to the cart, he fired.
Wataru watched the man move—everything seemed to be in slow motion, and there was a voice ringing in his head.
Wataru, use the Brave’s Sword.
It seemed like the voice was somehow coming from the sword—from the gemstone fixed to its hilt. The voice ran up Wataru’s fingers, up his arm, and echoed in his head.
Use the sword. Not only guns may fire bullets.
Without hesitating, Wataru lifted his Brave’s Sword and aimed for the man’s arm.
The sword moved again on its own. Swiftly the tip cut a cross in the air, then returned to the center of the cross. As the blade moved, Wataru recited the words he heard in his mind.
“Great Goddess, send the power of your holy spirit into the void!”
The gem on the hilt of the sword glowed. A white light shot from the tip of the blade, straight toward the man. The bullet of light impacted the man’s right shoulder. He screamed and fell to the ground.
The startled udai galloped off, nearly trampling the fallen rider in its haste. Wataru ran to the man. His cheeks burned with excitement and exertion. Who knew the Brave’s Sword could do this! Who knew it had such power!
The man lay on the ground, groaning, hand clapped over his wounded shoulder. His hood had slipped off in the fall, revealing his nose and unshaven chin.
“A Highlander with a mageblade…?” the man grunted, his voice tinged with bewilderment. “And a child! Who…who are you?!”
Wataru knelt by the man, hardly hearing his words. That chin. His nose. He had seen them before. They seem so familiar they looked like, like…
Impossible.
Wataru’s logical mind pushed away his instinctual understanding of what was going on, but it couldn’t stop the racing of his heart. His left hand slowly reached out toward the man’s hood. No, don’t take it off. You don’t want to see. You’ll regret it, said a little voice inside him. But he didn’t stop.
Wataru ripped off the hood.
The face was his father’s—the living image of Akira Mitani, right before his eyes. Those eyes, always cool and collected, sometimes seeming devoid of any feeling at all.
No way!
The man was glaring at Wataru with hatred in his eyes. His teeth were clenched as a result of the pain of his wound.
“Who are you?!” Wataru managed to ask. His tongue was numb in his mouth.
“What’s it matter who I am?” The man said, gritting his teeth. “I’m just a man. I don’t expect a kid like you to understand, but I’m not a bad man. I’m just someone doing what he can in search of happiness.”
“No. I know you who you are. You’re Yacom!”
For the first time, a shadow of fear passed over the man’s features. He turned his eyes away from Wataru.
“You’re Yacom! You abandoned your wife and Sara and ran off—or tried to run off—with Lili Yannu, now banished to the Swamp of Grief…” Wataru figured it out. “You’ve been selling those counterfeit tears to support her, haven’t you? That’s how you made the money to build her a house, isn’t it?”
Yacom’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How do you know about me and Lili? Who told you those stories?”
“No one told me stories. I’ve met Lili myself, and I’ve met your wife Satami. I know Sara too. I know how much she misses her father. That’s all.”
Yacom, covered with mud, sat up, holding a hand over his wounded shoulder. Something Wataru had said turned the man’s eyes as dark as the water of the swamp.
“Who are you to say that? You’re just a kid,” he muttered, the fight gone from his voice. “Don’t tell me. I know what I’m doing, I know I’m being selfish. I know that.”
“Then why…”
Yacom faced him, looking so much like Akira Mitani it sent a stab of pain through Wataru’s chest.
“What you don’t know, boy, is that people have feelings that don’t obey logic. Satami’s not a bad woman. She’s a good worker, and a gentle soul. But when I met Lili I fell in love. I knew I could never go back. Once you know true love, how could you settle for anything less?”
“How do you know that your love with Satami is false, and your love with Lili is true?” Wataru asked, his voice tense.
Yacom’s mouth curled in a faint smile. “You’ll understand when you become a man.”
“I don’t want to understand!” Wataru shouted so loud it surprised him. His heart leapt in his chest, threatening to burst out of his mouth.
This isn’t my father. This is Yacom—Yacom the traveling merchant. Not Akira Mitani. He’s a different person. Even if they look the same, even if he’s doing the same thing, hurting the same people, he’s not Dad. He’s not, he’s not.
“Love is the most important thing a person can know,” Yacom said, his tone like that of a preacher giving a sermon. “If you should win love once, you’ll know it is harder than death to let go. Of course, I can guarantee you’ll never meet your true love.”
Wataru let his gaze drop to the mud beneath his feet. “What about how Satami feels? What about the love she feels for you? Isn’t that real? If what you said is true, then won’t it be harder than death itself for Satami to give up her love?”
Yacom shook his head. “Satami doesn’t love me. She was only clinging to me for a livelihood.”
“How can you just decide that?!”
“You seem to be making a lot of decisions about other people’s affairs yourself, boy.”
Wataru didn’t back down. “What about Sara, then? What about the love she has for her father?”
“That’s different. That’s the love between a parent and a child.”
“You’re a coward. You’re making up logic just to suit your own whims. Did you know that every time an udai passes by Tearsheaven, Sara runs out as fast as her little legs will carry her. She thinks it’s you coming home. Tell me you can look her in the eye and say what you just told me.”
For a moment, Yacom fell silent. Then, suddenly, his uninjured right hand moved swiftly, scooping up a clump of mud from the ground and flinging it at Wataru. The young boy ducked to the side, but the wet mud left a trail across his cheek. “Are you crazy?!”
Yacom’s eyes were blazing. Hatred shone from them, just as it had when he first drew his magegun.
“Kids…kids…kids!” Yacom shouted. “What’s so special about kids! She wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for me! Just being someone’s kid doesn’t give you the right to latch on to them for your whole life! Bah!” Yacom was raging now. “A life that depends on someone else is not even worth living. I’ll kill her myself, with my own hands if I have to. Satami too! If she can’t live without me, then I’ll spare her the trouble!”
Wataru felt his breath catch in his throat. His cheeks were burning. He looks just like Dad. No, he is Dad. That voice in my ears isn’t Yacom’s, it’s his. This is Akira Mitani talking to me, saying these things.
—I’ll never abandon you, Wataru.
—If I didn’t exist, you never would have been born.
—I’ll just pretend you weren’t born. It never happened. I wasn’t there.
—I won’t abandon you. I’ll erase you.
That’s what you want, isn’t it Wataru?
Wataru felt dizzy. His legs buckled beneath him. The anger in his heart seethed like magma, yet at the same time, it felt impossibly distant, like his mind and his heart were at opposite ends of the galaxy.
I’m going to fall.
Wataru stuck out his hands, searching for something to hold on to. There was nothing. He wobbled and lurched to one side.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” he heard Yacom asking. His voice sounded muted, like he was hearing him from the other side of a window. It wasn’t just Yacom. Everything seemed turned down: the chill of the Swamp of Grief, the gloomy breeze; it was as though a translucent wall separated him from his surroundings. Like he was inside a fishbowl looking out at the world outside.
“You should go home,” Yacom said, a slight smile playing across his lips. “Go home and ask your dad. Ask him which one of us is right—you or me. He’ll say I’m wrong, of course. But, boy, he is lying. It’s not the truth. It’s not what he really thinks. If he had to make a decision that would affect his entire life, the only life he gets, he’d come to the same conclusion as I have. You’d be abandoned. And what of it? He gave you your life. You should be grateful for that. And if he wants to throw you out, well, you’ll just have to live with it, won’t you?”
Everything went black.