true love story no. 57

Home Stretch

2011-12-09T09:55:00.001-05:00

Where was I? Was I ever actually here?

Coming down to the wire of this First Semester in Several Decades, and not doing too poorly, either. I think. Perhaps. Well, regardless, it's been incredible and I might actually be fractionally smarter because of it. The Program™ at Big U. is intense. It is focused. It challenges.

Frankly, it has kicked my ass up one side of the street and down the other. But that's what I joined for, and since I'm still standing (figuratively, of course, as I eschew Marko's standing desk solution) I kinda feel as though this will all work out for the best.

It's a bit of Achnacarry, which is what I wanted and needed all along.

I actually got pulled aside by the program director the other day, and he commented that I was doing rather well, and that he had high hopes for my future.

Those of you (hi Dad!) who may have some vague recollection of when I used to blog will realize that this news is happy news, since it means he thinks I'll be working before too much longer and that I will do well at it. Work, after all, is what I've been yearning for since... well, let's not go all the way back there.

Oh, and since I missed it (due to this foolish foray into Higher Education), to all those 99%ers: go screw. This is the second time I'm building myself from scratch. Yes, I took a foolish major for my undergrad, but I fought and clawed and learned and became an entrepreneur. I leveraged what I knew and applied it to what I didn't yet, without bitching, because, well... you know... work. You work. Sometimes you work and it pays off, and sometimes you work and it doesn't. But you work.

So stop bellyaching. You pays your money and you takes your chances.

There - incoherent, but there. Now I need to write one more paper and then... I dunno. Beer, probably.

I. Am. Alive.

2011-11-14T11:53:00.001-05:00

At some point I decided to lay aside my charts and compass and just navigate by instinct. There's a destination awaiting me, somewhere, and what's most important is that I survive the trip. Spending hours poring over a tattered map won't help when what I need to to is trim sail and follow that star.

Big U. has been an awakening, too. It's tough on so many levels - I am bruised in some surprise places - and it's taken me a while to adjust to things. There is still some chafing.

What's most important is that I survive, and to some measure thrive here. The long days of inanity have been forcibly replaced by a severe regimen of thinking and more thinking. And much reading and writing (alas, no fiction, though that really didn't wind up being a huge selling point of mine, though, did it). So I am busy, healthy and well. When and if I pass through this fire, I will truly be reforged - scotaku still - and ready to return to combat.

More Later.

10.

2011-09-11T16:38:00.001-04:00

I'm at home with my family--wife with a career and daughters who go to school--and I'm watching football and drinking a beer.

Because you haven't won.

About the gaps...

2011-09-10T07:45:00.001-04:00

What a new world I live in. Since starting at Big U., everything feels so... I don't know if I have the right essence of it, but it's like a crisp morning with a hint of weather in the air. A good day to get something done. Only it feels like this most all of the time. Quite a refreshing change from earlier days.

The work, and now the classes, are showing me that I'm not yet washed up and done, not by a long shot. And as one of a scant handful of designers in the program--have I mentioned I'm in for my Masters in Human Factors--I have a potential employment advantage come graduation.

Not that I'm trying to jinx things.

Anyhoo, Blogger has a new, free app. I've decided to use it, to post on occasion. I haven't been this busy in a long time, and I'll be even busier in the weeks to come, but I'm still here.

Yay.

What is this place?

2011-08-01T21:53:00.002-04:00

Wow. If anyone is still out there, you have some stamina, I'll tell you that. I've said before that sometimes you're as busy as you want to be, and sometimes you're as busy as you gotta be. Since starting at Big Important U, I've been squarely in the second camp. And it's been good.

It's also been exhausting, since I'm still over at the Fruit Store, and between the two, I've been on the go for essentially 90% of the time since the last post.

It's good to be busy. It sucks to be busy at Step One. However, as ASM826 is showing me, it's not so important to try to race through these things. Yeah, I want to be done and back onto that 'career path' I used to walk (was it really four years ago?), but I don't have to sprint.

"If you have one eye on your destination, you only have one eye left with which to find the Path."

So I'm trying wicked hard to be a white-belt again. Trying to channel my inner nihonjin and do what sensei and senpai tell me without bellyaching. Learn, learn, practice and learn more.

So I'm pooped. I'm happy. I'm scared. I'm frustrated.

I'm alive, I guess.

Thanks.

Busy ^2

2011-06-06T07:02:00.000-04:00

It never rains but it pours. The last week has been a blur of activity - a different kind of activity - that's kept me moving moving moving in ways I haven't moved in years.

It feels good.

It also feels weird, because those muscles, like the ones alluded to in a recent post, haven't really been used in the past four-something years. But it's what we do, the routine, and I will adjust.

In the meantime, some things of note here at Scenic Cornerlot have been observed, not the least of which was the Fifteenth Anniversary of our reign as Co-Regents. She came to me dressed in white, a vision emerging from the woods as a bagpiper introduced her to me again. I think there were some other people there, too... perhaps our collected parents and friends, but I really just remember her.

Crap, I have to leave this at "brief and banal."

More Later.

Tomorrow is a Red-Letter Day

2011-05-31T16:57:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow marks a pretty big change - tomorrow is Day One of ::scotaku3.0. I'll be headed off to Big Important U where I'll get started working for The Program and maybe, just maybe I'll be making a big ol' bridge off this island I've been on for too too long.

Do things happen for a reason? Was this exile part of something larger, something unseen by me yet crucial to this forging process called life? From despair to hope to action... and now I see this opportunity as something precious, something to be cherished and respected instead of exploited...

And it's my Co-Regent who deserves most of my respect. She's borne the brunt and shouldered the load for so long that I'm surprised she can still get out of bed in the morning. It's a one-year program at BIU, and I need to work hard and stay humble throughout.

So wish us luck. From such heights to such depths... intact. My God, I thank you for making us strong enough to walk this road.

Looks like that DNR can take a coffee break.

::scotaku

Perfect Day

2011-05-30T16:47:00.000-04:00

Been busy, beaucoup busy over the last few days. It's been a good busy, though, so yay me and all that it entails. Today's been just wonderful - a nice junket to the beach with my Co-Regent and the Heiresses. The water, she was cold, but the day could not have been better.

Well, I could have had some beers while a-beaching, but hey.

Now I'm going to prep some food, then cook it. Then eat it. And while eating, the beers.

I may be getting through my Phantom Writing syndrome - my finger/imagination muscles are all tingly, but things are coming together. There's the start of Yet Another Insane Plan brewing, too.

Stay tuned.

My God, it feels like Spring

2011-05-26T10:45:00.000-04:00

Nearly unknown in these parts this year, "Spring" seems to have arrived. Gentle warm sunlight, a soft breeze to remind me of that one day so long ago chasing B. through a park and laughing so hard, birds singing about tomorrow and the paradoxical need to be here, right here right now.

It's a refreshing change.

It's also going to be pretty tough to focus in on some of the demands of the day. The Fruit Store is easier to be in when the weather is foul, and the people are glad to come in to a warm happy place. But when the day is sublime and we open the doors out onto 78 and sunny, it's harder to stay focused on what needs to be done. But hey, that's why The Training exists, right?

I love the Fruit Store. Were I a younger man, I'd be working 100% at advancing, working and studying and doing what I could do to move up the hierarchy as fast as I could. It's a great company and has a lot to offer, but for me - at this stage of my life - it's not the answer. It's *an* answer, but not the one I need. But I love it and will do what I can to remain there in some capacity until they ask me to leave.

It's the people. Sure, the Fruit products are all wonderful and magical but it's the people who inspire me to come in early and stay late and challenge myself to be at my best for the duration of my shift. It's a blessing that I've been able to spend time there. And perhaps it's what I've needed to weather this nagai yasumi, this long vacation unasked for and so very dispiriting.

But today's not the day to dwell on that, neh? Today, I will sing with the birds and laugh again about that silly day in the park. And I will do it all here, right here in my heart.

The first new step is shaky...

2011-05-25T10:24:00.000-04:00

It's like I don't know how to do this.

My fingers aren't used to this keyboard? The fung shui of the room is different now? My writing muscles have atrophied? Well, whatever. Like I say to my Heiresses, you just gotta get right back on that horse, even if it does come back five-something months later. And wear something white at night.

It's been an interesting few months. Where did I leave off? No matter - it's where I'm headed that counts now. But for a bit of backstory, I'll proceed forth with this quick recap: Where once I was at the Awesome Restaurant I'm now at the Fruit Store and much happier. Soon, though, I'm going to challenge the Higher Education Bubble to sally forth into grad school so that a year from now (more or less) I will be done with this Sargasso of un/deremployment and back to a career.

And then, yes perhaps then, I will get back to Japan.

There's more to come. Much more. I will remember where the keys lie, how the energy of the room flows, and how to strengthen my muscles. Where I thought the world was empty, I have been shown that it is not.

Thank you. All of you.

doubletrouble
Stranger
Rev. Paul
Nancy R.
DirtCrashr
Scott McCray
Jay G
ASM826
The Czar of Muscovy
Six
Boat Guy
Borepatch

DNR.

2011-05-24T08:49:00.000-04:00

To what end?

Not blogging has been a painful pleasure. When my old computer died I fretted and worried but ultimately realized that the world was still going about its business just fine. I wasn't really all that shocked, but hey - these kind of awakenings are always more pointed than you'd think they'd be.

Now I'm back into the subset of humans who have a nice, working computer and... and what? Do I just pick up where I left off? Is there anyone still out there? Was there really anyone there before?

So, as this fragmented post proves, I'm on the fence about continuing this "blog." I've got a DNR order on it, and if in the next few days the pulse picks up, then woo-hoo. If it returns to flatline...

I'm not a doctor but I'll end with this prescription: Two comments in the next 24 hours might well get the patient writing again.

scotaku

Shameless Plug - UPDATED ++DoublePlus UPDATED!

2011-01-19T10:32:00.004-05:00

The Mortgage is Calling Edition

Posting the chapters has been fun, and it's kept something happening here at the ol' blogge whilst I've been wrapped up in wonderful, life-changing events. However, Life is insatiable, in that it costs to keep doing it. Therefore, I'm shamelessly adding links here to the Amazon page as well as the Barnes & Noble page. where one could–if one was so inclined–actually purchase the e-book at a very reasonable price (currently $.99 American).

True Love Story No. 57 at Amazon
True Love Story No. 57 at B&N

I hate to do this, but I have to. I don't expect to retire, or really even to make the $4, but then if I don't add the links, I certainly won't.

The reviews have been kind - those posted at Amazon and those I've received personally - but I'm always looking for more feedback. Have a peek, send me a message.

And thank you.

- scotaku

UPDATE: It's now $.99 at both stores - perfect summer reading for your mobile device! NOW DOWNLOAD AND READ!

chapter twenty three

2011-01-14T08:19:00.000-05:00

They spend the rest of the day in his apartment, going over what they know. He starts with his father's funeral, going to Joe's house and Joe passing the box to him just to piss off his sister-in-law. Precise recollection. How he'd put the box just over there, on the shelf near the window. How he'd brought it to Rob at MIT. Rob's story about the gas main explosion, the lab in darkness. How he'd brought it into the moonlight for a different look and it had done its cobra-explosion thing. How he'd noticed the paper doing its changing. Coming home last night to a disaster of an apartment, concentric circles of debris around the box.

She talks about history, Oni and the relationship the Japanese have with them. The push northward and 'integration' with the Ainu. Of Japanese monks, demon-binding and spells written on paper. How the signal had set off alarms, the level of concern high because of the source of the signal. Oni cannot long survive away from the Home Islands. The inability to decipher the message, both its creation and its contents. The theories she'd developed.

They order out and keep working. She looks at the progression of the shifting kanji, he looks at the signal and its bounceback effect. Late in the evening they're sitting on the couch drinking beer.

"So if it's talking to Hakodate," Ben says, "and Hakodate's talking back, that means what? That they're the only ones who they can talk to. Unless some new signal has come up, that is. And it was like what, you said? Like Little Box Guy woke up dark alone and scared and let out a peep to its Mama?"

"Something like that," Kitsune says. "What we haven't determined is the trigger event. What made it 'wake up?'"

"You think it had something to do with moonlight, right? That the moonlight somehow powered and facilitated the signal? Is that really possible? I mean, the power available from moonlight is practically nil, like one candlepower or less."

"Yes, but don't think of it as a power source, rather like a low-power carrier wave."

"Low power? I'd hate to see it at high power. I'd probably be dead."

She smiles. "Then I'm glad that didn't happen, Ben-san. No, it's more like the Oni can generate the signal, but it needs a medium to facilitate transmission. And that's where the moonlight comes in." She gets another slice of pizza. "Would you care for another beer?" She gets two from the kitchen, pops the tops and returns to the couch. "I like this beer, this... Smuttynose," she says, reading the label. She stretches out, working the knots out from the day's stress. "I could see how one could enjoy several of these. But what I don't understand is how the moonlight carries the signal around the curve of the earth..."

Ben takes a pull off his bottle, leans back. "You know what I think? I mean, if you're willing to buy into the whole idea that there exist actual demons, and that they can use moonlight as a medium for carrying messages, then it's not too much of a stretch to figure that they can talk to each other around the 'curve of the earth.' According to your job description you're willing to buy into that. I think that the box is some kind of puzzle box, and that the puzzle is in trying to remove the spells." He picks up the box, shows Kitsune. "You tape the thing up, right? So it can't just pop open. Put big warning labels on it to keep some damn fool from opening it. But the spells are to keep what's inside from breaking out."

"This is, I believe, very close to the truth," says Kitsune.

"Okay, so let me think this out," says Ben, "I have an idea here. So say the thing inside is working on the puzzle, finally figures out some way of breaking the spells. That would show itself in the paper being ripped, or cut, yes?" Kitsune nods. "But here's the cool part. Whoever made the spells, taped up the box -- they made it so that when one of the spells was broken, it would jump to the next spell strip. And if that second strip gets broken, then the first two spells would move on to the next strip, and so on and on. Which is why the last strip, that sixth strip has five layers of writing underneath. Those are the old spells." Kitsune looks at the box, at the last strip of paper.

"Which should make it progressively harder to break each spell," she says. "That's very clever. It may explain, too, why each signal has been more and more powerful, too. More energy needed for each breaking."

"I don't know that I'd want to be around for the last one," says Ben.

"I'm sorry that you had to experience any of this," says Kitsune. "It is far from the experience of anyone not Japanese, and even most Japanese have not had to deal with things like this. It must be strange."

"Well, it is, I guess. I mean, I guess I was kind of freaked out by that night when the thing went all nuclear on me, but what was I supposed to do? Run screaming? Come on, it's a puzzle, it's one last connection I have with my Dad. And you know, now that I have an idea that Little Box Guy here is connected to some kind of badass Oni over in Japan, I can't help but think that he might be somehow connected to my father's death. I mean, the doctors said that it was pneumonia, but Dad was pretty healthy, you know? He'd gone off, done some sort of dig, I guess, and then he was back and in the hospital. Then he died. So quick, but we thought, you know, that it was just pneumonia."

"Ben, there is some chance that the Oni had something to do with your father's death, but I think that chance is very slim. It is not typical for Oni or their agents to visit illness on someone. They tend to be more... up-front with their actions."

"I know," Ben says, "but it feels personal. Dad dies, my home gets messed up..."

"You cannot make it personal," she says, "you must remain detached. And I feel that I must tell you that this is something for which I have been trained. Eight years of classroom study, eight years of hard physical training, just to become eligible for the job. Then a lot of office work. Promotions to field work. I have faced Oni under many circumstances, and none of them have been pleasant. Some easier, some harder, but none pleasant. This is more than an intellectual exercise. It can become life-or-death in an instant." That thought hangs in the room, and they're quiet with only the sound of cars passing over on Trapelo.

"It's late," he says. "I can clear off the bed, roll out a pillow and blanket for me here on the couch. Or you can head back to the hotel, your choice."

"I should get back to the hotel," she says, "I have a lot of work to do. Reports to write, I need to explain why I'm working with you instead of being on a plane headed back to Tokyo..." He leans over and kisses her, gently but with promise.

"Okay," he says, "But call me when you can." She's very quiet, eyes wide and smiling. She gathers her things, leaves the box on the coffee table in front of the couch, heads to the door.

"I will call in the morning, hopefully with information, perhaps some manner of plan," she says, then turns and kisses him back, gently but with promise. "Good night, Ben." She closes the door, walks to her car. Drives away.

Ben cleans up the pizza, beer bottles, organizes his notes from the day. Brushes his teeth, turns off lights and goes to bed. Lying there in the dark. "Holy shit," he says aloud, "She kissed me back." And he falls asleep.

chapter twenty two

2011-01-11T08:23:00.001-05:00

He waits not exactly next to the phone, but he keeps his ear tuned for its ring. Checks to see that his cell is fully charged in case he needs to run out. To distract himself he gets back to work on the French document, laboriously pulling archaic Latin from the din of dirt and interstitial Medieval French. Apparently the side comments on the page are having a little fun at the expense of one Honore Gibert, but who that is he doesn't know yet. Apparently Monsieur Gilbert was best known for facial pustules and flatulence. Seemed to own one hell of a lot of sheep, though. No doubt that will come up in another page. The hours pass as one letter becomes two, then three. Three become a word, then a sentence arrives. Paragraphs have not yet been invented, along with punctuation. The work is fascinating, however. The nature of the parchments is such that each sheet needs its own calibrated scan. An artist with a brush and many paints rather than a scientist with sparse formulae, he tasks himself to completing three-fifths of the first sheet. Artist, he thinks. Paint. Gesso. Hey, no pain! Well, it still hurts, but in that background way that means some healing has taken place.

Break for lunch and the phone rings. Restraint fights with impulse and wins. He answers on the fourth ring.

"Ah, Ben. I'm so sorry about last night," says Kitsune. "I apologize that work intruded so abruptly"

"That's okay," Ben says, "I understand, really I do. No apology necessary, really. But thank you, it's a very nice thing for you to do."

[Thank you very much, Ben. Truly.] He almost replies [it's nothing,] but for some reason keeps not bringing up his knowledge of Japanese. Kitsune continues in English. "Since we did not have a chance to have any coffee after dinner, I was wondering if you would like to have some, perhaps now, even?"

"You know, that sounds like a great idea," says Ben. "But let's not go to Starbucks again. If it's okay with you, and if you trust that I'm not, um, you know, after anything, if you get my meaning, I'm about to brew up some Dunkin' Donuts coffee, which I think you'll wind up agreeing is the best damn, I mean darn, coffee in the world."

She laughs, "You have not had coffee at Anna Miller's. That cup you would not forget, I think. I would love to have coffee with you at your "geeked out" apartment."

"Oh, it's not that bad. I cleaned it up pretty good last night, so I guess I can have company over. Where are you now?"

"Oh, well, to tell you the truth, I'm standing outside the Starbucks, putting two venti coffees into the trash. Now, how do I find your 'bachelor pad?'"

She arrives in about three minutes, probably drove. The apartment is first off of Trapelo, a brown three-decker that was built in 1918 and has been modified by every other generation, apparently. But it seems clean and comfortable, and she knocks on the left-side front door. Ben opens it and welcomes her in.

"Don't worry about taking off your shoes," he tells her, "it's not that big of a deal to me." But she takes hers off from habit and takes in his home. There's a hallway, bathroom off it to the right, bedroom straight ahead and left into the dining room which branches left and right. Kitchen right, living room left. Living room windows overlook the street, so it's through to the kitchen and then there's another room, his office to the right. Back door along the rear wall paired with pantry door to the left.

"I have never been in such a home," says Kitsune. "Is this typical? I thought all American apartments were... bigger?"

Ben explains about the history of the three-decker in Boston, the working folks and immigrants who built fast and for maximum housing. How over the years so many had fallen into disrepair, and how lately so many were being 'reclaimed' because of their natural tendency to foment neighborliness and friendships. History lesson over, she looks in at his office, to see the wonderful computers he uses each day. On the big monitor is a typical close-up of one of the Chevigny-Saint-Sauveur parchments. [Wow,] she says. "This is what you do? You take these raw images and make them look so different?"

"Well, yeah, actually. It's how I get the information from them. I mean, it's not finding the cure for cancer or anything, but I like it. It helps pay my rent."

"I would like very much to see you do this work, Ben," she says, "I think it is fascinating, the way you can peel back the layers of history, see through the camouflage."

"Hey, that reminds me," he says, "I wanted you to see this thing, if it's okay." He leaves the office for a moment, then comes back. "Only where are my manners? You came for some coffee. I have a pot brewing. How do you like it?"

She takes her coffee light, with plenty of half and half. "Dunkin' Donuts," she says. "You may be right. This is very much better than Starbucks. Not as bitter."

"You see? Right again," Ben says. They move into the living room, where he takes the box from its shelf and hands it to her. "Here. This is something that my father left me when he died. Any idea what it is?"

She looks at it closely. This looks to her like a puzzle box, perhaps a little small but they've been made in all sizes. The wood is dark from age and handling, and there are strips of paper on all six sides. Five of the strips are blank, and the other carries a message in an antique hand.

Keep the mountain spectre within. Do not remove the spells. This is your only warning.

"This box," she asks calmly, "Where did your father get it?" She should take it and leave, head back for Japan on the next available flight. She knows with clear certainty that this is the source of the signals, the very thing she's been tasked to retrieve.

"I'm not exactly sure," Ben says, "He collected things from all over. I think, though, that this was a very new addition to his collection. We haven't been able to find any documentation on it, no provenance. Why? Do you know what it is? What it says?"

"It's a puzzle box," Kitsune says, "A kind of present that holds something special inside, but you have to figure out how to open the box to get to the present. Very traditional Japanese present."

"What does that writing say?"

"Oh, it says 'A secret from the mountains is inside. Don't take away the magic, I warn you.' It's sort of a warning, like... 'do not open until Christmas,' I think." There. She hasn't really lied, again.

"Wow," says Ben. "I mean, it's like seeing something through time, like being able to be a fly on the wall at someone's birthday party or something. It feels... well, I know why Dad did this. Being able to see the past."

"Yes," says Kitsune. She should take the box. Pay him for it, perhaps? Disable Ben, go to the airport? She can't get attached to the man, she has a mission to accomplish. He's gaijin, she thinks, he's never going to be able to understand what I do, understand about Oni and the history and what she needs to do.

"Hey," says Ben. "Can I tell you something? I mean, are you like, all weirded out by stuff? Weird stuff?" He's looking at her straight in the eye, but he looks uncomfortable. She hasn't seen him look uncomfortable yet. It's odd.

"How do you mean, 'weird?'" she says.

"The box. Now I got it from my father's collection what, about a week ago? Since I got it, some things have happened. Strange things."

"Strange things?" she says, "Strange things like what?" She's curious. Every bit of data that she can collect might help in with this mystery.

"Well, first, there's the matter of the paper strips. When I got the box, every strip had writing on it, faintly but there. Now look. Only the one has writing and the rest are blank. Also, all of the strips were whole. Unbroken. Now look. Four of them have been cut.

"How does that happen? How does writing disappear and paper get cut?"

Kitsune looks at him, remembering that his whole adult life has been spent asking and answering questions, difficult puzzles that are foreign in origin to him. He's been working on her problem independently, without even being aware of the importance of it. She may not have to disable him, after all. He may settle for some manner of payment. And he's so cute and sweet, she'd hate to have to hurt him. Professionally, of course, she'd do it without a problem. But she'd feel pretty bad later.

"Exposure to air, perhaps? Can't new environments affect things like paper, cause them to disintegrate? Cause the fading of inks?"

Ben shakes his head. "I thought of that, but not in a few days. Besides, the paper itself is in great shape. No, it's not exposure," he says, "it's something else. I can show you why I think it's so weird." He gets up, leads her to his office. She's still holding the box, clutching it tightly. She should be going, she thinks.

"I wanted to have a closer look at it, so the other day I brought it to a friend of mine and he got some good source shots of the box, all angles and a bunch of different wavelengths." He brings up the files. "See here, this is a nice close shot in white light. See the paper? It's good, strong rice paper. I'd say it's a great specimen from the period, you know? No dirt, fungus, nothing eating away at it. And you can see here and here that there's plenty of legible writing on it. Barely visible, but it's there. And you can also see in these other files that the paper is in great shape, and each strip has writing on it, always the same writing, the same message."

"You know it's the same message?"

"Well, all the symbols are the same. I may not be able to read Japanese like you can, but I can see when one thing looks the same as another thing. And here's something else that's weird. This one strip, the strip that right now has writing on it? Look here under this lens. See how it has pretty good writing on it, clear to see? A few days ago, it was hard to read, like the rest. And now, under that writing you can just barely see four other versions of the writing."

Long silence while Kitsune looks at the box under the magnifier, looks at the images on the computer screen. "I'm not sure what this could mean," she says, "but perhaps you're having fun at my expense, Ben-san. Is there going to be some punchline to this joke?"

"Oh, it's no joke," he says. "I got the box before I ever met you. I started looking at it because I wanted to finish up my father's work. He'd been out of the field for so long, and this was like... his last score, his last job. I wanted to see it finished. So I started looking at it, and I started finding a lot more questions than answers. Like, how did the paper get cut? I didn't do that. I wouldn't. It would be tainting, damaging the artifact. It's... and then there's..." He looks at her again like he's making a confession.

"There's more," he says. "Weirder stuff."

"I do not know that what you've shown me is all that 'weird,' " she says, "Nothing that can't be explained somehow."

"Then explain how this thing can suddenly go from weighing a few hundred grams to weighing fifteen kilos? And how can it change shape without actually changing shape? How can it make a boom like God's Own Drum, throw me into a wall, break a mirror, trash the apartment, and nobody else heard or felt a thing?" He's focused now. Looking at her like he's drowning and she's a life preserver.

"What... what do you mean?" she asks. Is it possible that he's been exposed to the signal? That he's been there when it called out across the curve of the world to a mountaintop in Hakodate? She thinks quickly. He's moved into new working territory now, from 'liability' to 'asset.' He has hard evidence of the changes that have occurred to the box, firsthand experience of its potential. She must know more. Pulls out her handheld, turns on the recorder function. "What I mean to say is, I need you to remember, to tell me everything that has happened to you since you came into possession of this box." Working now, open and professional.

Ben looks at the small computer, at the shift in her bearing from quiet pleasantness to focused, directed intensity. She's leaning forward, eyes clear and direct as she looks at him. "Okay, who are you," he says, "and why the interview?" He squints at her, thinking, putting pieces together. "Japanese government agent. Here in my neighborhood right after Little Box Guy here goes boom. That's no accident. All right, what's going on here?"

"My name is Yachida Kitsune, and I am a Second-Rank Field Agent, Japanese Renegade Demon Control Division. I am here because of an event that occurred not long ago, an event that should not have happened, yet did. A signal was sent from America, from here, to a location in Japan. I am here to determine how it happened, why it happened, and to make sure that no ill comes of it."

Ben looks at her. Just looks. She twists inside, afraid that he now hates her, that she's done nothing but use him. She shows nothing on the outside, keeps eye contact. If he's going to hate her, fine. She has a job to do. He stands.

"I think we're going to need some more coffee," he says. "Looks like we're going to be figuring this out for a while." Takes her cup into the kitchen. She follows, surprised at his reaction. Granted, she doesn't know all that much about the male American psyche, but she figured that he'd at least be upset.

"Figuring this out?" she asks, "We?"

"Yeah!" he says, excited, "I mean, you must have a whole bunch of information about this thing. Where it's from, what it does, who made it. All sorts of information."

"Ben, this is a piece of Japanese cultural heritage. I need to take it back to Japan so that my organization can study it and find out what it does."

"Kitsune, that is a part of my father's collection, and until we can determine its provenance, it stays here." He has that look about him, his bearing, the same look as when he faced the gang. "Can you establish, without any doubt, that it belongs with you? Do you have any articles published? Photographs? Evidence?" She shakes her head. "Then I suggest that instead of acting like we're spoiled children, we work together to figure this out. Let's see if we can find out about its history. Finish my father's work. Then you can take it to Japan."

Her field trainer would tell her to drop Ben, take the box and clear the scene. She's conflicted. He sees her struggle. "Look, I know that you could probably kick my butt and walk out of here. I like to think that I could stop that from happening, but hey. I'd rather not take the chance. What's the harm in trying to work together?" And she knows that she will be in trouble with her decision.

"All right, Ben-san. Let us work together." And this way, she thinks, there might yet be kissing.

chapter twenty one

2011-01-05T08:22:00.000-05:00

Kitsune is trying to organize data. Signals have been flying across the globe, from Boston to Hakodate and back. The shouts seem to have become chats. Translation efforts are still unsuccessful, but they have the idea. "Hello?" became "Hello!?" became "Hello!!" followed by "Yes?" and "Ah!" Takahashi could explain it properly, but it still boils down to that in her mind. Most aggravating is that the signal has been pinned down to a small area, almost right next to the coffee shop she's been to the last two days. Her hunch was right, but being close to the thing is a far cry from having it in her hands.

The Executive Administrator is very close to sending support personnel, if she cannot show more results. The lead she is following may be good, but it almost has to pay off, and soon, if only to justify a very expensive dinner. His message is clear. She scans email and listens to voicemail, finds that one scrap from the Archives seems to be of some help. Something about a soldier monk and a three-day fight as the Americans were at Hakodate. Beyond that, they have nothing to go on.

Guilty from having had a wonderful 'date,' she dives into the material to see if she can synthesize anything new. But she can't. There's nothing but a signal going out that they can't pinpoint, a signal returning that hasn't been found yet, though that will happen soon, and nothing else to go on. Could it be just some manner of natural anomaly that is causing their very specifically-calibrated sensors to say "Demon Activity!"? Weather records show that the events occurred under varying conditions, different times of day. Well, most happened at night. There was one event that happened in the late afternoon. Anomaly? Weather charts, moon phases. Yes, there. The moon's been waxing to full and now is waning. So if moonlight is a trigger, how could it trigger when the sun is overpowering? Could there be some other manner of triggering an event? Well, obviously, she thinks, but what? What what what becomes her mantra.

Calls room service for more tea, though she thinks she'd much prefer coffee after such a good meal. But time to push those thoughts aside and come up with yet another plan.

chapter twenty

2011-01-03T08:30:00.001-05:00

The drive back to Belmont doesn't take long, this time of night. Left onto Storrow and parallel the river for awhile, the lights of Cambridge dancing warped mirror-dances on the water as he heads out of the city. Well that went pretty well, he thinks. It could have gone all bad when the topic of Rachel came up, but he told the truth, which made it a lot easier. Took away one hell of a lot of the pain, too. He may never actually see Kitsune again never mind kiss her, but she's done something good for his soul. The kissing would be good, though, he decides. Crazy left onto Mount Auburn at the hospital, pass the cemetery and he's almost home. Through Cushing Square and down Trapelo to Davis. Right onto Davis and pull into the small driveway. It's not a palace, but it's his home. Three-decker, he's got the ground floor with a professional woman on the second, crazy Chinese family on the top floor. A lot of Cantonese yelling comes from up there, and none of it sounds pretty. But after a good meal and a better date, they can be planning his ugly demise and he doesn't care.

Across the street, his neighbor Derek is walking his dog and having a cigarette. Derek's wife is expecting their first child and this is the only way he has of relieving the stress. The dog is happy to be out on a nice night, and Derek is happy to have what looks like a Sam Adams sitting on the steps, next to a box of Camels. They nod hello to each other and Ben goes in, leaving Derek and the dog to the night.

Something's wrong. As he walks into the living room, it's as though the place has had a grenade set off in it. "What the hell." Books, papers, plants... everything is strewn about. His mother's mirror has been cracked clean in two, pieces held together only by the frame. Call the cops? Not after yesterday's fun. But there's something about the mess. It's... regular? Like a pond with a rock dropped into it, ripples carrying his possessions and depositing them in rough concentric circles. That would put the center right about... Little Box Guy lies on the floor underneath the window. Yeah, no sense calling the cops.

Ben gets out his point and shoot digital, makes a record of the mess. Checks the rest of the apartment, but the effect seems to have been localized. With the disaster documented, he starts cleaning up. It takes quite a while, and he leaves Little Box Guy lying there, hopes that it somehow feels guilty, like a puppy that's done a Number One on the carpet. "Yeah, you know what you did," he says, "and you just sit there while I do all the cleaning. No, don't say anything. Nothing. I don't want to talk to you right now."

But he picks it up after everything's been cleaned up and he's got changed and a beer. Picks it up and brings it into the office, where he compares the paper strips to the original photos. Now all the strips save one are blank, and the last seems almost full with complicated kanji. It may be time to call in a professional. Hopefully she'll call tomorrow.

chapter nineteen

2010-12-31T08:28:00.000-05:00

He meets her in the lobby of the hotel. He's wearing his best suit, Ermenegildo Zegna, charcoal black with a suggestion of pinstripes, white dress shirt and a red silk patterned tie that he hopes isn't too wide. Black shoes and he feels like a million dollars. She comes from the elevators and he catches his breath twice she's so pretty. Black wrap jacket tied around the waist with what looks like a trio of enormous goldfish scales somehow interlocked, fitted matching black pants and boots that have the same hint of red as her hair. She has on a single gold chain around her neck and she smiles when she sees him. "Ah, Ben-san, you are so handsome!" she says and he's reduced to feeling all 'gawsh shucks'.

"I wasn't sure how dressed up to get, so I went all the way with it," he says, "I hope I didn't go too far. But I have to tell you, you look..." he trails off. "My father taught me a lot of things, but he never told me what to say when you see someone so lovely."

"You flatter me, Ben-san. I put on what I could find." Shallow bow and quiet smile.

"It's just Ben," he says, "Only my mother ever called me Ben-san, and that's when I was in deep trouble." She laughs and so they head off to the bar before going to the restaurant. She orders a glass of white wine, he a vodka martini.

"I never know what to order," she says, "I just get white wine and pretend I like it."

Ben puts down his martini. "I'm sorry," he says, "I hope you don't feel like we have to drink."

"Oh, no, it's not that! I don't mind drinking. It's just that I always feel like I should have white wine, like it's the correct thing to do."

"Well, if there was nobody here but us, what would you have?" he asks.

"Sake, of course. Perhaps a lager. But mostly, I think that whisky is a good drink." She has a small, playful smile.

"Well, yeah, it's a good drink," he says, "If you're looking to forget someone, or if your dog just died, sure."

She laughs. "I am not saying that I would finish the bottle! No, I like a good sipping whisky. But not right now. I think perhaps the wine will be all right for now."

"You know, your English is very good. Have you lived here for a while? Did you go to school here or something?"

"Oh, no," she says, "This is only the fourth time that I have been to America. But for my job, it is very important that I speak other languages well. I know English best, though. It's the most fun."

"Probably all that television," says Ben. "Or do you get American television over there?"

And they chat about light things, culture and movies, music and books. She has a fascination with computers, and he loves to cook. "Oh, if I had known! Then we would not be going to a restaurant tonight!" She's finished nearly a third of her glass of wine. Normally he'd be looking to the bartender for another martini, but that doesn't seem like a good idea right now. So he paces himself, enjoys each sip and continues.

"Oh, I don't know, it's kind of scary at my place," he says. "I guess I ran away a little bit after the divorce, got a small place and it's sort of geeked out right now."

"Oh?" she says, tilting her head a little, looking off to the side, "You were married?"

"Yes I was," he says, "Married almost four years." He talks about it, openly and without rancor. He leaves out the precise details of her infidelity, but she understands that he must have been very hurt indeed. "I really didn't want to talk about it, I guess, because I didn't want to seem like 'that guy,' you know, the one who's singing a torch song and always seems to be relating everything to his ex. She dinged me up pretty good, but I'll survive.

"Hey, enough of that," he says, "I mean, that's all boring and done with." He checks his watch. "And if we walk slowly, we can make the reservation."

She stands, smoothes her top. "Walk with you? Wouldn't a taxi be better for keeping us out of any fights?" And so the doorman hails a taxi and they take the short drive to Locke-Ober where they're more than welcome to be a little early tonight. They share a few quiet minutes looking over the menus, enjoying the refined stillness of the room. She has the scrod with hot crab, and he decides on the panko and lobster crumbed pork. "I hope we don't have to do dishes, later," he says, "Did you notice that they don't list the prices of things on the menu? That means it's really really expensive."

"Oh, I don't mind doing dishes," she says, "I think it would be a good exercise, seeing what it's like to wash dishes for a living."

"You'll probably pull that 'diplomatic immunity' thing and head back to the hotel," Ben says, "And I'll be stuck here washing all the dishes." She laughs. "Hey, I don't know how to ask, really, so I'm just going to ask: How do you go about getting diplomatic immunity? Do you really work for the Japanese government? Are you, I don't know, an Ambassador or something?"

She smiles at Ben. His eyes are so open and childlike, she thinks. He's funny, he tells good stories, and he's careful with other people's emotions. Looks like Yaida-chan will be teasing her tomorrow. How could she be falling for an American, when she's supposed to be working?

"I really do work for the Japanese government. A small agency, not one that most people have heard of. Mostly I deal with specifically Japanese cultural issues."

"And what brings you here?"

"I was sent to do research," she says, "I'm... looking for something that you Americans seem to have that we'd really like to have in Japan." There. Not a lie.

"That's interesting," says Ben, "You know, there's something maybe you could help me with. My Japanese reading skills aren't probably as good as yours, and I have this thing, it's like a piece of paper, that's got some writing on it, well, I guess I was hoping that maybe, if you have time, you might be able to help me figure out what it means. It was sort of a gift from my father."

"Ben, I would be honored to help you. I think I may have some time coming up. It doesn't look like I'll be headed home very soon. I have a lot of research, I'm afraid."

The food is excellent, and she manages to convince him that she can pay, actually, that the government of Japan can afford two Locke-Ober meals, but just this one time. They decide to walk back to the hotel, down Tremont across from the Public Gardens and to Boylston. It's warm for November, the moon just past full and climbing over the ridge of brick, glass and steel that is the Back Bay, making it feel more like summer than autumn. He explains Indian Summer. The city is much quieter than Tokyo, it feels almost provincial to her. The buildings are small, spaced openly more like Europe than Japan, of course. They can just see the hotel doorman when her handheld screams out an alarm yet again. She retrieves it quickly from her clutch bag and silences the sound. LCD shines fluorescent and she looks grim as she reads.

"I am sorry, Ben. I was hoping that we might talk some more tonight, but..."

"I know," he says, "That sounds pretty important. It's okay. I had a great time, and thanks." Doesn't look like a kiss tonight, dammit.

"Please, I will call you. Probably tomorrow," says Kitsune. Kiss? No kiss? She has a neutral look on her face because inside her stomach is dropping because she doesn't know the protocol for this. He smiles that warm smile and says that it's okay. He'll talk to her tomorrow. She bows. He waves.

[Shit!] On her way up to her room, she calls the office.

chapter eighteen

2010-12-24T07:53:00.001-05:00

Ben sleeps on the couch, wakes to a sunshine that seems cleaner. He showers and eats, then sits at the computer to get work done. Elliot still hasn't replied, but new requests have come in. He makes calls and sends emails. Downloads files and starts the process of figuring out what he's really looking at. In this case, it's a series of photographs taken in varying wavelengths of light of scrolls that had been found in the walls of a monastery in Chevigny-Saint-Sauveur. Parchment pressed into itself due to some pressure.

There's a chance that this document has information that will settle a land claim between Chevigny-Saint-Sauveur and neighboring Quetigny. The Duc DuBerry had granted rights to fields to the mayor of Quetigny in the 13th Century, but the mayor had died, leaving only a daughter. Claiming that Salic Law prevented her from inheriting the land, a minor Baron had taken the land, claiming kinship to the deceased mayor. As the land in question served as the fairgrounds twice yearly and thus brought much revenue, there was fighting and killing between nobles of the towns for generations. This document could clear up the relationship between mayor and minor Baron, daughter and fairgrounds. A duplicate set of files had been sent to another analyst, perpetuating the rivalry for another few weeks or months.

Peering through layer after layer of parchment, Ben begins to sift the dirt and noise from the ink and signal. He has powerful software and the skills to use it, but generally best with Bleatophany music playing, generally "Captain Clanton" to start and then on to "Up Your Shaft." For the most part music becomes background noise while he's working, and could be the mating sounds of feral cats for all he cares. Filter out the blue light, see one thing. Filter red, see something else. Combine filters, use a little imagination...

Well it's going to take weeks. Then there's going to have to be translation (twice) and interpretation (twice). He knows some measure of Latin and French, but not enough to really figure out what a 13th Century legal document meant. But that's not his job. Clean it up, make all the pen-strokes show up... and this first page shows its mystery. Apparently there are two sheets of parchment pressed into each other so tightly that they appear to be one. There's writing over writing. Some has faded. It would be best if he had the source parchments, but they've probably been sliced in halves and sent to separate labs. Layered text. One thing written over another.

Accidental? Where has he seen this recently? Not Medieval French, but... oh, of course. Little Box Guy. Paper strips with writing over writing. He'd thought it was because someone had been practicing their kanji, their Chinese characters, and then reused the paper. What if it was intentional? What if it was accidental? He minimizes the French document on-screen and opens the shots he had of Little Box Guy's strips. Zooms in 400% and studies the fibers in the paper. 1000%. Everything's looking right - the paper's not been altered, it's not dual layers competing. Picks up the box and looks at it under the lens. Compares with what's onscreen. Looks back and forth again, and again.

Something's different.

In the picture onscreen, the 'poem' is written once pretty clearly, and then once in 'practice.' But the box, just looking at it here in his hand, he can see one line of kanji without squinting, and then three more 'practice' times. He rotates the box, looks damn closely at the box, like it's a paying client. Six strips total. Four have been sliced, cuts so thin they're hard to see without squinting and a lot of magnification. The four show no indication that they'd ever been written on. Two have some writing; once each 'normal,' and the one with the three extras. That makes five, yes? Three plus one plus one. Yes, five. With six strips?

Need to find out more about this damn box, he thinks. What the tradition is like. What these strips represent. Maybe Kitsune knows someone. Heck, maybe she knows something. What time is it? I've got time. Google, my friend. Search "Japanese Boxes" and only 3,350,000 results. Puzzle boxes. Could Little Box Guy be a puzzle box, or some puzzle box analog? It seems that way to Ben. Well, he thinks, I'll tool around in here and see what comes up. And if dinner goes okay and we don't wind up shooting it out with the waitstaff, maybe I'll have Kitsune take a look at this thing and see if she has any ideas. He grabs a pen and notebook and starts jotting down information.

chapter seventeen

2010-12-22T08:27:00.002-05:00

She spends the rest of the night and much of the next day going over reports, talking to engineers and analysts about this last signal. There has to be some manner of coded information in the brevity of these 'shouts,' but the computers haven't cracked them yet. Historical research continues to come up empty. Interviews have come up with nothing. There is a massive black hole in the middle of their data, casting doubt upon everything else they have. How many other gaps are there? What other surprises wait?

It takes a meeting with the Executive Administrator to calm things. "We must not lose our composure," he asserts. "We cannot get caught up in counting this miss, when we have a thousand years of hits sitting behind us. We have done our jobs well for a very long time. Our error was in hubris. Now we are humble, and we will work diligently from here forward." Small breakout groups discuss ideas. Kitsune listens, then drops the connection so she can think in silence.

Review: Four signals from North America, Boston, varying in power and direction. Signals return an echo, building a map. Trigger unknown. New signal from Hakodateyama with the same characteristics. Trigger unknown, but almost has to be a return call. Echoing, map-building. They're finding a way to reconnect. Physical connection? Unknown. Embedded data in the signals? There almost needs to be. Simplify: A baby cries in a dark room. Once, nothing happens. But the baby cries again, louder. Nothing. Again, this time louder, different pitch. Then louder still, yet another pitch, or tone. As this is happening, the un/subconscious brain is recording information like room size, ambient sounds, temperature, light level/direction... And at some point, the sleeping parent will hear and recognize the cry, finally roused to action when the cry hits on enough markers to elicit a response (volume, pitch... emotional tone?) Can these 'shouts' be so basic as carrying emotional information? "Here I am, I'm alone and hungry!"

This causes a shiver in Kitsune, as she considers to what lengths these to signals will go to try to reconnect, and then what will happen if and when they finally do. The reconnection of Oni and the Oni spirit-force was not a frequent occurrence, the records were slim on that account, but what was written was dire. The reconnected Oni often rampaged for weeks or months in an effort to rebuild its strength and standing, and if the Oni were a powerful and foul demon of an unknown Ainu heritage... She must make sure that it does not happen.

chapter sixteen

2010-12-20T08:38:00.000-05:00

He gets back to his apartment a few hours later, mostly because there was nobody around to officially release him. He'd been sent along with reminders to keep himself available in case they needed anything. There was no offer to help him return home. He gets a beer from the fridge and sits on the couch, turns on ESPN for background noise while he thinks. Is it possible to fall in love in an afternoon? he wonders. Is this just backlash from Rachel? Can it be backlash if I meet someone at random? Would it be crazy if I went to her hotel? I bet she thinks I'm a psycho after today. She's probably halfway back to Tokyo - dangerous America - feeling lucky that she got away in one piece. She works for the Consulate? The Red Sox need to keep Manny in order to protect Big Papi, crazy to let him go now.

And where did she learn to kick ass?

Ben wasn't the fighter that Joe had been, but then Joe had been a fighter. Ben learned a lot in order to keep from being pummeled as a kid, and then when they were young men, he'd had to keep up in order to fight his way out of scrapes Joe had gotten them into. So he hadn't been afraid or even that concerned for himself during this afternoon's adventures. He'd worried a lot about Kitsune, worried that the kids would try to get to her while he was occupied. Not really a major concern, it had turned out.

Man, she had moved like it was a dance.

He goes to get another beer. Phone message light blinking. "Hello, Harrison-san. I apologize for leaving you, but I cannot... I hope that you are not angry with me. It was a nice walk." He plays the message again. Time stamp puts the call at two-fifteen in the morning. "Set the clock, you idiot," he says to the room. Well, she called, anyhow. Maybe she doesn't think he's crazy. Maybe she's the crazy one. But then, aren't they all. He tries to find a phone book, then googles her hotel. Calls.

"Hi, it's Ben," he says. It's that sixteen thing again, he's got no idea what to say next. "Um, so. What are you doing tomorrow?" Her laugh is clear. "Ben Harrison-san, I would like to take you out to dinner tomorrow. It would be an honor, and my way of saying 'thank you' for being such a wonderful host."

"I almost got you killed," he says. That laugh again.

"We weren't going to get killed," she says. "It was an unfortunate crossing of two cultures. Now please tell me that you accept my invitation, otherwise I need to return a dress and a pair of shoes." He laughs, clear and open and honest. "Okay," he says, "I accept. I would love to have dinner with you tomorrow. Just tell me where and when." She does, and they hang up. He returns to the couch, turns up the volume on the TV. "Son of a bitch," he says, "Celtics lost again. And I think I should get my suit pressed or something."

She sits on the edge of the bed, smiling. Butterflies, they call it. Her stomach feels... good. Like she's back in school and has just found an envelope in her locker, boy's handwriting painfully neat spelling out her name. Mystery filled with potential. She picks up the handheld. The screen is a riot trying to get her attention. Yaida-san, Takahashi-sama, Kazunori-san. She opens a chat client and taps Yaida's icon.

satoyaida - What have you been up to? trying to contact you all day! Hope that you were working and not flirting with Amer architect.

kitkitkit - Been busy. Not flirting. Too much. What?

satoyaida - Not flirting. Right. Need to open email/takahashi asap

kitkitkit - re:?

satoyaida - open. call?

kitkitkit - 5 mins

She opens email. Reads. Has the phone before she's finished. "Are they certain?" she asks. "Certain," says Yaida, "Maintenance team in Aomori detected the pulses, too. This place is a madhouse."

The team in Hakodate had yet to find physical evidence on Mount Hakodate, but as they were calibrating their sensors, they detected a signal, faint, emanating from the mountain. Brief signal, like a sigh, matching the construction and 'bounceback' structure of Kitsune's target. Ainu feel, that data needs more study, but fast-gut reaction is the same across all levels: The shout has been answered.

chapter fifteen

2010-12-17T08:23:00.001-05:00

And then the police come and ask a lot of questions; who he is, who she is, where she's from and could they see some identification, please? and where is she staying and where does he live and why were they here and what happened and who's gun is that and do you mind coming to the station to make a statement, we'll drive. In the station they are asked the questions again by men in suits not uniforms. There is an implication that the kids are the flower of the community and Kitsune pulls out her handheld and plays video of the action. She's smart, thinks Ben. Mouthy closes in on Ben, coils up to strike, Ben head-butts, punches, Gun Kid starts to draw and apparently the handheld fell to the ground because the shot is of grass up close and sky, while the audio is of cracking and wailing.

"Ma'am, we'll need to take that computer in as evidence," the detective says.

"No," says Kitsune.

"I'm sorry?" says the cop. He's not used to people using that word to him. He takes a step closer to Kitsune, tries to intimidate her with his size. She looks at him, through him like a queen looking through a peasant.

"This computer is the property of the Japanese government, and as such it cannot be confiscated for a domestic American crime case. If you would like the proper sections and subsections of both American and Japanese law, I can give them to you."

"That computer is evidence in a crime investigation, ma'am," says the detective, "and 'as such,' I gotta enter it as evidence. I'll give you a receipt and you can lodge a complaint with your Embassy."

Kitsune looks at Ben and bows apologetically. [Please forgive me, Harrison-san], she says in soft, inflected Japanese. She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a large identification booklet. "I am Yachida Kitsune, Second-Rank Field Agent, Japanese Consulate Adjunct Division. I have diplomatic immunity. I politely request that you release me. I will return to my hotel should you need anything further."

The detective's not used to this. "Listen, lady, you give me that evidence and take it up with your Embassy. Frankly I don't give a shit about your diplomatic immunity when there's been a gun crime committed, so you'd better get used to the idea." He smiles at her. Nip broad's gonna take it up with me? he thinks.

"Detective. I think it is you who does not understand. This conversation has been transmitted in its entirety to my Embassy. Legal and Diplomatic staff are already lodging formal complaints against you and your department right now. As we speak, your Lieutenant is hanging up with the Embassy, who will now be calling the media. Print and television, I understand. So if you would be so kind, I will return to my hotel where I will wait should you need anything further." The door opens and a tall black man enters the room. "Ms. Yachida," he says, "Please, let me help you get back to your hotel. And if I could offer my most sincere apologies..." they leave. Ben sits at the interrogation table, looking at them leave. She, he's decided, is wonderful.

chapter fourteen

2010-12-15T08:00:00.000-05:00

Ben walks past the Starbucks three times, looking in the window to see her sitting there. There's a focus to her, he thinks. She's bent over her spiral bound notebook, writing something as she glances at the small computer on the table. It's like he can smell her hair from here. And then he sees Hemingway walking over to her table, two coffees in paper cups in his hands. He's trying to get her attention, sits next to her... she doesn't look up. He leans way down, head practically flat on the table. He laughs and she finally looks at him and gives a small bow and smile. He slides one of the coffees to her and she bows again.

"Don't just stand here," Ben says, "Get going in there and do something."

He pulls the door open and walks to the counter where a tall woman, college student maybe, blonde hair pulled back into a short ponytail draws him a coffee from the urn, room for milk. It's too hot, as usual, and he goes to the laminate serving counter and pours off the top inch and a half, adds half and half and then reseals the cup with the plastic sippy-cup lid. Whatever happened to porcelain, he thinks. Hemingway is loud and altogether too much in her face.

"Are you here on business?" he's asking her. Each syllable is drawn out, and he's leaning towards her, voice raised. "Bizz-nesss?"

"Oh now come on, what are you doing," Ben asks Hemingway. "You sound like Grandpa Fred in Sixteen Candles. Just leave her alone."

"Sixteen... what? What the hell are you talking about? Go on, I saw her first."

Ben laughs. "You saw her first? What is this, the third grade? You can't just go around saying 'I saw her first.' It doesn't make sense. It doesn't work. She's a person, not a toy."

"Shove off, man." Hemingway's lowered his voice. She's looking at Ben with no expression, but he thinks there might have been a smile in there, somewhere. Maybe.

"Did... did you just say 'shove off?'" Ben says, "Who talks... nobody talks like that." He holds out his hand to her. "I don't know who you are, I don't know if you even understand what I'm saying to you, but... would you like to go for a walk? Or something?"

"She don't speak a word," says Hemingway. "Been trying to open her up a little, but she's got nothing."

"Well, then just leave her alone, she's working. Aren't you working? Don't you have a story or something you're working on?"

"I would like to go for a walk with you," she says to Ben.

They walk around the block, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying the interstitial silence of a November afternoon between morning rush and afternoon exodus. As they walk, he looks at her hair in the sunlight, to see if the magical shine is still there. Sunlight pulls out red highlights in the thick black, and yes, it seems to sparkle as it moves. Her name is Kitsune, Yachida Kitsune as the family name comes first in Japan. "I am here as part of a cultural study," she says, "trying to see if the forces of design that shape American neighborhoods have any counterpart in the neighborhoods of Japan." Her English is clear, the cadence slightly different. Her head moves as she speaks, black-red tresses bobbing to emphasize words, and she has pauses where he doesn't expect. It is music. Or he's finally ready to rebound.

"I am sorry," she says, "Did I use the wrong word? Or am I perhaps boring?" He stammers to cover his diverted concentration.

"What, no, you're not boring! Not at all! I, um, there was... and you asked me? Oh, right. Yes. I mean no! No. Not an architect, I'm a forensic analyst. Digital. I help people interpret photographs and things in photographs."

"Forensic? And you can do this to make a living?" She looks at him, black eyes enchanting. He's definitely rebounding. The way she walks, occasionally bumping into him, the line of her neck and the curve of her body beneath the black coat. He makes a bet with himself that she's talking to him again, asking another question that he can't remember.

"I do all right," he says. "There was some money in the family, and you know? I actually get a lot of work, so, yeah. I do all right. How about you? What are you, here on some kind of scholarship or something? 'Comparative analysis of architectural influence on neighborhood development?' Something like that?"

It's cute the way he's staring at her, she decides. Not leering, like Obvious Author, but open and curious, like a child on a playground. And he's asked her a question. She focuses, answers. "No, not a scholarship. It's part of a joint project between the government and an independent corporation." That should do. Now, back to the staring, she thinks. She likes his eyes, his smile, the easy way he has of laughing at himself. She's never considered it possible to be attracted to an American before now. Not that she had anything against gaijin, but she'd been so busy with work; first the training, then the assignments... she's had lovers and even a boyfriend or two, but none who could think of her as a capable member of an important Government agency. There were those she worked with, older men who felt that she would be better pressed into service as a Office Lady instead of a Field Agent, Oni Containment.

"Well, if you want to explore this neighborhood, you've got to the right assistant," Ben says, "Because I've lived here, had an apartment here for almost six months and I haven't the slightest clue about any place that's not my apartment or the Starbucks back there." He laughs again. "I do a lot of work out in the field, I guess."

And they spend the afternoon walking and talking. They cover the entire neighborhood, starting from the Starbucks and radiating out. They cross Trapelo at Cushing Square and work their way downhill to Slade Street. Right on Slade and they take in the three-deckers common to the area. In various states of repair and disrepair, it's hard to distinguish the glue that holds the neighborhood together other than perhaps age. Follow the curve of Slade to Upland and then right through the big field and playground to the park, where local kids have a game of basketball going concurrent and in some ways integrated with skateboarding and playing music very loud. One at a time, their heads pivot around to watch Ben and Kitsune. Mostly Kitsune, Ben thinks. The teens lean into one another and speak softly, then laugh loudly. There is pointing.

"Hey, nice sushi!" one of the kids yells out. "Hey! Hey My Lai! You want good time? Fucky fucky sucky sucky me love you long time!" He laughs and grabs one of his friends, starts dry-humping her leg. "Oh, me so horny, baby! Me so hoooorny!" The group of kids laughs.

Ben turns to Kitsune. "I'm sorry, I guess we should have gone the other way. Come on, let's go." They turn and start back across the field. "I don't know what kids are like these days back in Japan," he says, "but I'm willing to bet that they're a lot better behaved than those idiots."

"I think that maybe teenagers are teenagers," Kitsune says, "and that no matter where you go, they're going to be... less than perfectly polite."

And then there's a sound like summertime, a soft elliptical whistle from blowing across the top of a beer bottle. The whistle spins off center and hits Ben in the back, just on the shoulderblade, hard. Long-neck Budweiser bottle shines in the grass. Ben falls to one knee from the pain, then stands. Mouthy Kid and his friends close in. Ben moves between them and Kitsune. "You got a good arm," he says to Mouthy Kid, "Tough to hit someone with a beer bottle, you know, from behind. Throwing." He says to Kitsune over his shoulder, "You know, if you remember how to get back to the main street, that might just be a good idea."

"What the fuck did you say to me?" says Mouthy, coming nose to nose with Ben. "What the fuck." The group semicircles behind him.

"Look, I just think you should show some manners," says Ben, "I mean come on, guys, we're here, we're all Americans. Not her, of course, but that's the point, isn't it? That we should be nice to guests."

"Fuck you," says Mouthy. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Hey come on, watch your language, man! She speaks English!"

"There you go again, telling me what the fuck I should be doing. And fuck her, too. I'll fuck her. Fuck her right here." And something clicks, settles into place in Ben and he's not going to take any more, not going to let anything happen to Kitsune. The kid's got that look, Ben thinks. He's gonna take a swing at me. Ben brings his forehead down, hard, on Mouthy's nose. Blood and another "Fuck!" Mouthy's head rocks back and Ben snaps a quick punch to his throat. Mouthy drops, gasping and rolling. The group closes the circle and Ben sees one kid reach behind his back, eyes wide and scared. Gun, thinks Ben. Shit. Kitsune.

She slices clean hard lines into the group. Kicks two of the kids to the ground. Spins and punches another just below the ribs. Gun Kid is about to clear the piece when Kitsune grabs his wrist, does something hard and fast, twisting and rolling the arm and there's a crack, two cracks, bones snapping and the gun hits the ground before the kid realizes his arm's been ruined. Silent scream turns to a wail. Kitsune kicks the gun away and kids scatter, leaving Mouthy and Broken Arm.

"What was that?" asks Ben. "I thought you were going back."

"I was worried." She hasn't taken her attention off the kids on the ground, watching to see if they'll get up. "I thought they might be trouble."

"Oh they weren't any trouble," Ben says, "I had everything under control." He smiles that smile again and looks at her warmly. "Thanks," he says.

"My father was in the JDF," she says, "and I have brothers. They taught me some things."

"I guess they did," says Ben. Sirens flare and speed closer. "Look, you might not want to be here for this," he continues, "The cops and all that."

"No," she says, "I will stay. It is my duty to report what happened."

chapter thirteen

2010-12-13T08:08:00.001-05:00

She manages to get back to the hotel without crashing the car. In the soft natural fiber comfort of the queen sized bed, she sleeps for twelve hours, the first real rest she's had since leaving Tokyo two days before. Her dreams return, Oni playing cello in a Starbucks while her handheld whispers to a tea bag. The man from the coffee shop, Architect Man walks by, smiling and he offers her his hand and together they dance to caffeinated demon music.

The morning silence is whole. It's as though the room has been cut off from the rest of reality, each molecule in the room at rest, allowing her a chance to completely relax. She's afraid to get up lest she disturb the perfect silence and send waves of sleepy and inert molecules crashing into the walls. So she lies in bed, thinking. Her reconnaissance was, aside from Architect Man, uneventful. She'll go back, of course, but she will at some point need to develop a better action plan. Sitting and drinking coffee can only bring her so far. She's going to have to be more proactive; when she talks next with Yaida-san, she'll order some updated sensors. Using her cover of researching architecture, she'll have excuse to travel widely and secret the devices, set up an ad hoc listening post. Then she can monitor power fluctuations, try to home in on the source, find it, and bring it back for study and control.

Inspired to action, she whispers a gentle apology to the silence of the room, and gets up to use the handheld. She's still logged in, sees that Yaida is online and probably waiting for more details of the handsome Architect Man. She tries to keep it all business as she speaks with her friend.

"You are mad, of course, Yachida-san. Think of the situation in America now! You can't go around placing listening devices! You'll be detained, and what American government agent will believe that you work for an actual Japanese government agency yourself? They don't have Oni! They don't understand what we do! You'd be considered mad and locked away for good."

Yaida-san is right, of course. She's going to have to come up with something much more basic.

"So. It's back to the Starbucks. I will bring more, better equipment this time. And I will tip the staff well - they were starting to look at me strangely towards the end of my shift yesterday. And who knows, maybe I'll see something interesting."

"Oh, I bet you will, Kitsune-chan!" Yaida nearly giggles, "I bet you see your American Architect again!"

"Sato Yaida! Yesterday, I was suffering the effects of fatigue, jet-lag and poor diet. I can say that today I will not be the blushing schoolgirl and I will not be distracted by such things."

"Oh, absolutely" says Yaida. "I absolutely believe you. Take pictures!" She cuts the connection, leaving Kitsune openmouthed on the bed.

She dresses simply, in American style as she sees it. Blue jeans, white blouse, black leather shoes. Black coat and then she's on her way back to yesterday's watchpost. She's able to find parking in a lot down the street, which will free her from feeding the meter. Today she carries a notebook and several pens as well as her handheld. She'll try to get a paper map of the area later in the day. When she gets to the everpresent café, she's a little chagrined to see Obvious Author already seated and busy adjusting his monitor. He sees her enter and smiles in greeting. She smiles as plainly as she can, because she really hopes that he doesn't try to talk with her. She's going to continue with the "I don'tu speak Engrishu" routine. Especially with him.

She orders a small coffee and a corn muffin. Sooner or later she's going to want to find a proper Japanese breakfast, but when in the field, one makes do. Her corner seat is hopefully far enough away that she can work undisturbed. Fires up the handheld, intentionally avoids messaging Yaida. Culls through emails that have piled up while she slept.

From: kazunori@koseku.co.jp

Subject: Hakodate Oni

Date: November 6, 2006 18:27:19

To: yachida.kit@koseku.co.jp

Yachida,

Your theory of the Oni being part of the Ainu heritage seems to be correct. Archives show that an Oni was mapped to the region by explorers as far back as the Kofun and Yamato periods. Exact aspects of the Oni have not yet been spelled out clearly; it seems that there are serious gaps in the record. What we have been able to find seems to indicate some manner of fire power. Will be interviewing local sources. -- Kazunori

From: sato.yaida@koseku.co.jp

Subject: Architects in Boston

Date: November 6, 2006 19:17:42

To: yachida.kit@koseku.co.jp

I've attached a list of eligible architects in the Boston registry. In case you need to do any other background research of the local population. -- Yaida

From: takahashi01@koseku.co.jp

Subject: Signal Wave Analysis

Date: November 7, 2006 06:40:02

To: yachida.kit@koseku.co.jp

Yachida,

Further analysis of the recorded signal waves that have emanated from your locale show linguistic characteristics similar to those of recorded Ainu patterns for the Hakodate region. Angle of broadcast correlates to a height of 270 meters above sea level, approximately 2/3 the height of the mountain from sea level (332 meters). A team has been dispatched to search such altitude on the mountain. Physical characteristics of the signal indicate a low-frequency carrier wave mated to a phase-shifted ancillary signal. Interestingly, the first signal created a bounceback effect that we were able to detect by comparing data from stations across Japan. This bounceback essentially returned to the point of origin, possibly providing ranging telemetry, as the second and third signals were nearly spot-on accurate in striking the 270 meter mark on Mt. Hakodate proper. We hope that the search team discovers something. Please keep me apprised of your findings. -- Takahashi

So the shout has reached its mark, she thinks. That can't be good. She'd better come up with a way of finding this thing.

chapter twelve

2010-12-08T07:59:00.000-05:00

It takes a while and a lot of concentration for Ben to move past the idea that there'd been a beautiful woman talking really rather encouragingly about him. It would have been better if she'd been talking encouragingly to him, but after the desolation of the post-Rachel phase of his life, this was sweet music. In the solitude of his apartment he starts to talk to Little Box Guy, but that turns a little too Castaway-ish so he stops and looks further into traveling to Washington. The Gaudenne Museum of Maritime Archaeology was a small, private institution that catered to the academic requirements of universities and private inquiry. It was not generally open to the public. typically requiring proof of funding to get the doors open. Ben decides to go to D.C. just to have a look-see, see what he can find out. Maybe he doesn't have to go in to the museum, maybe all he really needs is to talk with someone.

The sense that he's being watched, or at least kept company, persists. Furtive movement in the corner of his eye, translucent shadows that dart and slide before he can focus. He looks over at Little Box Guy. "Are you talking to me?" he asks. As usual, the box seems to be quiet when not in the presence of moonlight. Should he have Rob take midnight pictures? See if he can capture neo-Victorian spirit photographs? Or should he grow a pair and stop worrying about the supernatural. He has enough things to worry about.

Besides, he's got an admirer, hasn't he? The thought of getting to know someone is powerful. He's been in hiding since the divorce. Finding someone he can trust has been a problem. It's just that the woman in the Starbucks... she had eyes that didn't have a lie in them. He closes his eyes and replays the part where she talks about waking up next to him. She'd been holding the phone... almost playing, talking with a girlfriend, perhaps? And her hands - no rings.

Should he go and see if she's still there? Should he admit that he understood her every word? No, let it go. It's a gift that she's been able to make him feel so alive again. Small packages, yes? Besides, how would he feel if she'd really understood him?

Thunderbolt idea that appeals to his sense of curiosity as well as his desire to be near her. Japanese woman, Japanese box... all questions answered, perhaps?

"Oh, come on," he says to Little Box Guy. "That's a stretch, I mean like real thin. There's no way she's going to have any idea about you. Probably run screaming. I mean, what do I do, just walk up to her and say, 'Hi, I'd like to show you my antique box, if that's okay. And then if you think that's cool, let's take it out into the moonlight!'

"Please. She'd... I don't know. Taser me or something. Besides, it'd look too desperate if I went right back there. I should wait a while, see if she comes back. Slow play it. Give her a chance to think I'm not some kind of 'love you long time' otaku freak."

At last he has something that nearly resembles a plan.

chapter eleven

2010-12-06T07:36:00.000-05:00

Ben doesn't find out much from Joe. The library had been left alone while Dad's stuff had lived there. There didn't seem to be any paperwork associated with the box. Joe could arrange a nice hotel room in Washington, though, if Ben wanted to go there. It was a client's, but available. Ben told him that he'd think about it, call him back. He closes the call and sits back. The wanna-be Hemingway asshole with the computer is getting another cup of coffee. Ben picks the phone up and holds it to his ear like he's still on the call, just to keep him from trying to talk writing again. Opens his notebook and keeps jotting notes. How long before Hemingway notices that he's not talking? Whatever. Gotta learn how to shut people up, he thinks. Looks over at the woman sitting just to the side. Black, straight hair, shiny like magic. Her eyes are brown enough to be black and she's concentrating on her own call. Speaking softly, he can't hear what she's saying, but she's deep into it. Her brow furrows a little and she turns her head to the side. Her neck is long and smooth... she's cute. Fit. Curves and in the right places, too. Nice smile. Her eyes... he's smiling to himself, thinking about what it would feel like to have those eyes looking at him... whoa. Okay, back to Earth, Ben, he thinks. She laughs a little and he notices that she's speaking in Japanese. There's nothing wrong with eavesdropping in another language, is there? I mean, he can always play Willy the Dunce and just say I don't understand a single thing she's saying, right?

Shit, Ben, she's looking at you. What the hell. Keep cool keep cool keep cool keep cool. He focuses on his notebook, starts scribbling. He feels like sixteen. Christ, he'd been married! He's had relationships with real lady women girls and everything! What would it feel like to have those eyes look at him? It would feel like this.

He's forgotten about the box. What happened last night is flat normal compared to what's just transpired. He's actually heard a woman, a beautiful woman, call him cute. He's just heard her unguarded comment to an uninvolved third party, and she thinks he's cute. Cute smile? Sweet? Scratch what he thought earlier. It's two-for-one fucking miracle day. She's sitting right there, seven feet away, chatting to her girlfriend, calling him cute. He wants to get up and ask her if she could kindly repeat what she just said so that he can now die in peace.

Shit, he was staring. She's on to him. Time to play stupid. Keep looking. You don't know she's talking to you. It's all gibberish.

She leans towards him. He opens his eyes a little, focuses a bit more on her and then looks around, looks for whoever she's talking to. Hand over his heart: who, me?

"I'm sorry, ma'am, was I staring? It's just that you remind me of a painting I once saw, of an angel. If I made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry." Painting of an angel? Am I on crack? he thinks.

now into the phone, conspiratorially,

Ben nearly stops breathing. Dunceduncedunceduncedunce... "Hey, look, lady. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you." He gets up and walks away, trying not to bump into too many tables on his way out. Asshole is laughing. "I gotta write that down," he says. "What the hell did you do?" Ben doesn't say a word. He's listening to a replay in his head. She thinks he's cute. And then there are other details to remember: Polite, sweet eyes, and what was that other one? Oh, right: I'd like to wake up next to you. Something else about making this a 'base of operations.' Hang on, is she a call-girl? He decides not, since she was kind of actively discouraging him (while at the same time calling him cute!)

"Dear Diary," he says out loud, "Today is the weirdest fucking day in my life." He walks home. Boxes that move, twist, change weight and bend reality. Gorgeous Japanese women openly flirting with him. "Okay," he says, "Whoever's out there screwing around with me, you can cut it out now.

"Except for the woman thing. You can keep that going."

chapter ten

2010-12-03T08:38:00.000-05:00

She hasn't slept, exactly. Drifted in and out of short dreams where she was being chased by Oni dressed like businessmen. Now it's early and she's in the Mitsubishi, sitting outside a bakery with a cup of fresh hot coffee and a scone for breakfast. She has the handheld plugged into the cigarette lighter. Sato-san has left for the Japanese evening, so Kitsune reviews her notes. The archives have proved small help. Despite the breadth of its content, there seems to be a glaring omission concerning the events of 1854, events which most certainly deal with an Oni of the Ainu tradition, a mountain demon of exceeding capability. Wonderful, she thinks. Mystery, renegade Oni, and the only clue she has is... somewhere nearby.

The sun is starting to warm the car, but she keeps the engine idling. She scans the sidewalk, watches the pedestrians on their morning trek to jobs and homes, looks not at faces but at behaviors. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. She could be in Harajuku, could be in Sydney. People move in patterns, and nobody is breaking the pattern. But she doesn't expect to see her clue walking down the street, jumping up and down crying out "Here I am" in fluent Japanese. She's just starting to look, starting to develop a sense the gestalt of this neighborhood. It might take a few days, even weeks. She prays that no more incidents occur.

She knows that she can't just stay parked here forever. She's tired, her luggage is back at the hotel, and she doesn't need to draw attention to herself. Plan: Need to see as many people as possible, need to listen to the neighborhood. Café? It could work, she remembers a Starbucks not too far away. Lots of traffic, and she can use her computer in anonymity. Cover: Author researching... the architecture of American neighborhoods and how it contrasts to the Japanese counterpart. That should work. She's too old to look like a student, but she could certainly pass as an author or academic, depending. She likes the plan. She can play spy, which might make things more interesting.

She decides to toss the coffee and scone. No sense filling up and then going to a café. She checks to see that she has money for the parking meter, unplugs the handheld and shuts off the car. Out into the chill morning and feeds the meter, clicks the key fob to lock the car and starts walking towards her post. Past small shops; jewelry, nail salon, barber, travel agent. The street is narrow and full, cars vie with buses and pedestrians for the limited passage. She waits for the light at the crosswalk, alone as the regulars cross from one side of the street to the other as they can, regardless of the signal. She makes it without incident to Starbucks, waits in line with a mix of students, what looks to be a mother's group, and businessmen. She waits patiently and orders a cup of tea and another scone, takes it to a corner table where she can watch. Pulls out her handheld and starts taking notes.

"Android?" a man asks.

she says, She plays the foreigner unable to speak English, hoping that the man will go away until she has at least had her tea.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he continues, "I was just wondering if you were that was some kind of Android device you were using. Sorry." She looks at him very blankly, small smile on her face. Why he's still talking to her is beyond her. But she's willing to sit there and listen. "Yeah, I'm thinking about getting one of those, what's that, like a FroYo HTC One Palm thing? Yeah, but I wanna know if the OS sucks or is good, you know?" She keeps smiling. "Yeah, I gotta lotta things I gotta work on, you know? Hey, you from around here? What are you, like Chinese or something? Oh, shit, you don't speak English, do you? I mean, oh man. Sorry. Well, hey, have a great stay, I guess. Um, I guess. Yeah. See you later." He takes his very large coffee and leaves. She should turn on the video camera built in to the handheld, send Yaida-chan her experiences. Gross abuse of company bandwidth, but they'd have a good laugh.

The day progresses. She plans on spending maybe three hours, try to get a little paperwork done - even here, on the job in America, she has reports to complete, quotas to meet. When she first started, they hadn't had the computers, and field missions like this were a vacation from the tedium. Probably why the company had funded so much research into the devices. People come and go, some writing, some reading the local papers, most just sitting for a few minutes and sipping before heading back out. She tries to look for details, finds herself creating backstories for the customers. There's the Busy Mother who leaves her child unattended in the car while getting a latte, the Tired Policeman who just wants to rest his feet but can't until the end of his shift, Student Who Needs a Bath with the charcoaled fingers and spattered clothes of a late-night painter, Construction Man who probably hurt his hand because he'd been drinking while on the job, and her favorite, the Obvious Novelist who spent more time adjusting the screen of his expensive laptop than actually writing anything.

She calls up the archive entry with the monk's testimony. He'd been sent to Hakodate to bind a demon, but returned saying the job had already been performed. Performed by whom? Checking parallel information, she sees that there were four regional temples and monasteries which had the resources to tackle such a job. She puts in an request for more detail. Table-bump and an honest, "Whoops, sorry" from Construction Man, who has moved a chair and smiles an apology. He sits nearby and puts his drink, a juice it looks like and coffee cake on the table. He pulls out a cell phone and puts it on the table next to his food. Looks at the small LCD screen to check, a habit held by all cell users. The "did somebody call and I missed it?" reflex. She smiles a little. He has a small field notebook, too, and a mechanical pencil. Perhaps he's Architect Man instead of Construction Man. He frowns a little in concentration as he jots down notes. Appears to be recalling something. Obvious Novelist sees his concentration and effort, tilts the screen down a little and sighs loudly. Types, hits 'delete', types more, sighs, tilts the screen up, types a little, gets up and throws away his coffee cup, then sits back down. Leans towards Architect Man and says, "You, too?"

Architect Man looks up at the interruption. "I'm sorry?"

"You. You're writing, too?" he points to his computer, the paragraph on the screen. "Been working on this for, oh, hell, for forever. Almost got it nailed down. You? You gotta get a computer, you know. Best way to get it all down."

Architect Man is hesitant. "Well, yeah, I'm writing, but not... no, it's not a book, I'm just... notes."

"Of course," Obvious Author is expansive, now that he's Dominant Writer, too. "You gotta start with the notes. Background, that's the key! Makes it real, you know." He pauses for a moment, then forges ahead. "So what you working on? Anything I'd be interested in?" He smiles, supportive benefactor.

"I don't... it's not a story, it's... more like work notes. Thanks, though." He smiles. Kitsune thinks that he's not being rude to Obvious Author, more quiet and polite. He's got a nice smile, too.

She sits up a little. Focus! She must be getting tired if she's looking at an American and thinking he's cute! Perhaps it's time to get back to the hotel. She's been awake for a long time, and obviously needs rest. Obvious Author speaks up. "Of course. Hey, you know, if you want, I know about this writers' group, meets twice a month over in Braintree..." Architect Man's phone rings. "Sorry, I have to take this," he says. Opens the phone and says hello.

She doesn't want to listen to the conversation, but he is sitting fairly close. "Hey, Joe," he says. Obvious Author has returned to his computer, taps a few keys, sighs and stretches. He catches her eye and smiles a little. She quickly looks down at her handheld and tries to look busy. She hears more taps and sighs. Then Architect Man talks a little louder. "I didn't think you'd find any documentation," he says,"but thanks for looking. Hey, how long did you have Dad's... stuff? And it just sat there? I mean, nobody moved anything? Did anybody else look at the stuff? Oh, no, it's nothing. Just a weird... you know, I was up late, haven't been sleeping too much. Well, last night I got a full eight hours, but, kind of by accident. Ha-ha. Not a drop. Anyhow, I was wondering if you know about museums in Washington..." and then his voice drops and she can't make out the rest. He seems excited about something. Probably designs museums. Her own phone rings, Yaida-san calling.

chapter nine

2010-12-01T07:32:00.000-05:00

When he wakes up, he's cold and his hand hurts. The box is lying on the floor, distinctly non-cobra like. He checks his body for damage other than his hand, then just lies on the hardwood and stares at the box for a long time. There's no way that it could have moved, spontaneously gained mass, twisted his senses. Impossible. But because he's lying on the floor, bruised and feeling like he's been kicked, he entertains the idea that it's Miracle Day in Boston.

Sunlight. He's been out for hours. Watch says 7:34. Secondhand is still moving so he figures that it's probably not lying. He rolls up to a sitting position, back against the wall beneath the window and looks at the box some more.

"Well, my little friend. You have a lot of explaining to do," he says. "What the hell was that all about?" He half-expects a reply. Shakes the cobwebs from his head, stands and goes to the bathroom to clean up. When he comes back, the box hasn't moved, which he considers to be a good sign. "You, uh... you got anything you want to tell me? Hmmn? Little box guy?" Now he's just talking, trying to make sense of the insensible. "You want any coffee? I got Dunkin' Donuts whole bean. Cream, no sugar, you say?" he goes to the kitchen and starts grinding coffee.

"Wait, what am I saying? You probably want tea, don't you, Little Box Guy? I don't know if I have any... let me see... well, I got a few bags of Lipton's, will that do? What? You'd rather have the coffee? Are you sure? It's no problem. Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind." As the coffee filters into the pot, he comes back to the living room and walks around the perimeter, like it's a crime scene. From kitchen to window to hallway, cautiously regarding the small, unmoving artifact.

"What the hell happened," he says again, quietly. He walks over to the mirror, looks at the reflection of the room, gently traces the crack line with a finger. He'd held the box here, inspected the reflection. Then he'd gone to the window, thinking what the hell, I've tried everything else and then it quick-changed to a flash acid trip, complete with sound effects. Was it movement related? Had he shifted, jiggled, upset the contents in some way? But what would explain the sudden weight-gain of the box? That just doesn't, can't happen. He's no physicist, but come on, he knows enough about Newton's Laws to know that things just don't bam! gain thirty pounds and make you smash your hand on the sill. "And come on, man. You broke my mirror. My mom left me this mirror. What's up with that, Guy?" Back to the kitchen for coffee.

Nothing's making sense. He's experienced something... utterly outside the realm of his experience, and he's having coffee and a very one-sided conversation with a palm-sized wooden box that's lying on his floor because last night it apparently came to life and then exploded or something, knocking him out and breaking his Mom's mirror. What's not happening, he thinks, is he's not freaking out. He's working this thing as though it was factual and not just exhaustion, or food poisoning, or some more everyday explanation. Maybe it will pan out to be fever-dreams or something, but right now, dammit he's intrigued.

"Okay, Little Box Guy, I'm going to pick you up again, now," he says, "Now don't you go around doing that..." he uses his hands to define the movement he experienced last night, "that squeeze then boom thing, okay? That hurt! Now I'm not going to hurt you, little fella, I just want to take a look at you..." Like picking up a real cobra, Ben approaches the box and commits to the act. Squats down next to it and onetwothree reaches, grabs, lifts.

No big boom. It weighs the same as it did when he first held it. It doesn't move. It behaves like a box.

"Well you see now, that's good. That's nice. You've made some progress, Little Box Guy. Now, I'm just going to take you out of here, away from the big, scary window and we'll go back to the studio, okay? Remember the studio? It's just back here, that's right..." Like calming a skittish colt he keeps talking to the box as he walks carefully to his office. Nothing keeps happening as he puts the box down on his desk. "Now, let's figure out what happened," he says. "We were in here, I picked you up, gave you a little shake, took you out to the living room, put you next to the mirror, brought you to the window, and then you did your thing.

"Was it the window? Something about the window? I wanted to see if the moonlight would do anything..." he pauses, continues with the thought, "To see if the moonlight would do anything. Moonlight. Moonlight?" Incredulous. "Moonlight? Come on. Come on. This isn't a fairy tale. Moonlight doesn't make things get all freaked out and go boom! Come on." Ben stands up and looks at the box like it's a friend who just told him a tall tale. "What the hell, Little Box Guy, that doesn't happen. It's like, one candlepower of energy coming off the moon. Now what, are some bears going to come breaking in here looking for porridge and a place to sleep?" He sits again. "What the hell," he says.

chapter eight

2010-11-29T09:29:00.002-05:00

In her hotel room, Kitsune is studying maps delineating the rages of northern Oni. Since the mid 1850s, there haven't been any incidents recorded of problems in that area. From Aomori south, silence and harmony. Hokkaido remained frontier until the mid-twentieth century, and in some ways, it still was. Few had thought to look there for any activity since the pogroms of the eighteenth century.

There is one apocryphal entry from Perry's visit to Hakodate, but it is incomplete. An edict had been issued two years before, when the Black Ships had first come to Edo. Control Oni activity while these gaijin were in Japan. Then the Black Ships had left and returned two years later, come to Hakodate, and the edict was dusted off. Trained monks, forbears of her very own vocation, had gone to ensure calm, but returned quickly, stating that there was no need for their skills. One monk stated that things were well taken care of, indeed probably permanently and uniquely, but that's where the trail goes cold.

Hakodate. Perry. Oni. Yes, her intuition tells her that there's some connection. She stretches, and tenses as her handheld screams "Alarm" yet again. She silences the klaxon and looks at the information. Third 'Shout,' very nearby. Power level's a little lower, but the modulation is on a frequency she's never seen before. And since she's so near, she can even see that there's an element of elevation to the shout. It's being shouted up. Calling high.

Hookup with the everpresent Yaida. "Mountain Oni," she says, "This shout is calling to the lair of a mountain demon."

"Hakodate mountain Oni," Yaida references the records, "were considered extinct in the late eighteenth century. The last one recorded had been named 'michiyo.' Three Thousand Generations. Apparently very savage, brutal... enjoyed human flesh and making humans do its bidding... last known base was Hakodateyama."

"That makes sense. There's an Ainu heritage to this michiyo?"

"Of course. Apparently the case study for the elimination of the Ainu Oni."

"I see. Well, I have very solid readings here. Triangulate, keep this link open, monitor my GPS coordinates. I'm going to follow the shout and see who I find."

"Be careful, Ki-chan. This is still a reconnaissance mission. You are to observe and gather data. To this point, no incidents have occurred, no transgressions have happened."

"I will be an exemplar of field work, Yaida-chan. Don't worry. I just want to see what's causing all the ruckus."

And she puts on her shoes and a coat against the November chill and heads to the lobby to see if someone can tell her where her car is.

chapter seven

2010-11-26T08:54:00.000-05:00

Ben looks at the box some more, as though a hard stare will make it give up its story. He thinks about heading down to Washington to see if he can spook up the addresses of any private museums. It's not as though he's some yokel off the street, he's a respected forensic analyst. Right? And his Dad was one of the top archaeologists, right? Googles "washington dc museum" before thinking. There are nearly as many museums in D.C. as there are lobbyists. But a lot of them can be crossed off the list. Follow Chamber of Commerce link and chase down "historical sites and museums" and the list becomes manageable. Cross off the Babe Ruth Museum and the B&O Railroad Museum, and the whole list could be eliminated in less than a week. The more he thinks about it, the more intrigued he is. It may not be what he's been trained to do, but it feels like he's continuing something his father had started, and that's what he wants to do.

It's about a quarter past eleven and he hasn't eaten since lunch. Goes to the kitchen and finds some whole wheat bread and sliced turkey. A fast sandwich and a glass of water and he's back online, checking email. Rob is wondering when he'll get the memory card back, and yes, everything's fine in the studio, thanks for calling, asshole. Joe has followed up on Ben's email asking if there was any other documentation associated with Dad's stuff. He doesn't know right off the top of his head, and he's had to hide a lot of the more interesting stuff before Regina has appraisers over. Apparently the Portuguese charts have some interesting inset diagrams that match the coastline of a stretch of Antarctica. He'll call in the morning.

Email guaranteeing a killing in the stock market. Get in now at pennies on the dollar! Close mail.app and back to the IR closeups of the paper.

"Hold ever the mountain dream. Do not break the spell. This is the only warning."

What the hell does that mean? It's not like a brilliant tag line for eyeliner, though who knows what passes for clever in Japan. Maybe he should just open the thing. One of the strips has been cut, just three more, slit slit slit and then he can see what's inside. Most likely nothing. Some silk, an impression where once a carved ivory netsuke had lain.

He picks the box up. Shakes it. Walks into the living room and holds it up next to a mirror to see if he can spot anything different when reversed. Thinks of hidden writing and takes it to the window to see if the pale moonlight can pick up anything off the paper. Holds it at eye level, trying to reflect the light off the paper at an angle. High thin cloud passes, opening the sky.

It happens something like this: Box wrenches in his hand, nearly flying out of his grip. Twists. Grows instantly dreadfully heavy. The back of Ben's hand smashes on the windowsill. Box falls. It rears like a cobra and inhales reality about nine inches, then releases a shockwave of cold and imagined pressure that knocks Ben to the floor. The mirror cracks, dogs bark hysterically and Ben loses consciousness.

chapter six

2010-11-24T06:58:00.000-05:00

At highway speeds it is a five hour drive from Ulster County, New York to Norfolk County, Massachusetts. Stopping once for gas (sold by the gallon!) she has made it in three and a half. She's been in contact with her team almost the entire time. Review: The signal was very much more powerful than the first. Its modulation was slightly different, which has led to the theory that this is acting as a simple shout. Two sub-theories arise from this: it is either a homing beacon, or a call for help. Though there hasn't been an official interpretation of the signal, the current thinking is that it's a simple shout saying either "Where?" or "Here!": see theories/subtheories above. Otherwise, things have settled down somewhat: news feeds from the Boston media have not made mention of anything outside the urban ordinary, so she knows that there is not some renegade Oni wreaking havoc upon an unsuspecting populace. And as she looks at the nighttime skyline of Boston from behind the windshield of her rental, she thinks how small the city is to play host to so much potential mischief.

Unless, of course, she manages to complete the simple task of locating and retrieving/disabling this unique noisemaker. Looking again at the narrow spread of architecture lying scant kilometers ahead, she understands just how big a place it really is. Since she has no idea as to any physical description for the device, whether it be inanimate or actually some manner of living transmitter, it literally could be anywhere. That they've managed to narrow the search down to Boston is about as good as she's going to get.

Traffic slows considerably as she gets closer. She thanks her training for preparing her for this unique American sport of stop-and-go, modified intensely here. With the urgency of her mission temporarily abated, however, she plays the lanes with patience, making way and letting the slower eddies of the traffic carry her along. The handheld acts as a GPS navigation system and it guides her patiently to the Fairmont Copley Plaza. Sato-san has already called ahead; a room is waiting for her. It's been a long day, she thinks. Perhaps some sleep will help her develop a plan. The lobby of the hotel is quiet, vast and deep, and she follows the bellhop and her bag up to her room. The silence is American; a tangible pause before the breaking of the next day. So different from Tokyo, where the silence is made more in the mind, shutters closed to avoid embarrassment.

She takes off her shoes, sits on the edge of the bed. She knows that she should get some sleep, but the thoughts in her mind keep circling around the whole "where" or "here" question. She calls room service and asks if some tea could be sent up, green tea if they have it. Pulls out the handheld and connects with headquarters. She's free-associating now, trying to come at this from another angle. The signal, The Shout as she now thinks of it... what other instances of such shouts do they have on record? The database goes back over a thousand years, there should be something. Queue a list of questions: Shout History? Elevations? Dialects? Orientations? Durations?

The second Shout was louder than the first. Probably no response to the first, then. So... run it through, she thinks. I'm in a dark room, I wake up, see that I'm in no immediate danger, get a sense of the lay of the land, then lacking other options, shout "Hey!" and wait. No response - was I heard? Wait some more, then shout again, this time loud enough to be heard anywhere.

And if there is a reply, then what? Who is listening? Her unit wasn't prepared for such a signal, would there be someone or something that was listening?

They hadn't exactly deciphered the Shout, either. Why? The sensors detect Oni rumblings... Oni are Japanese, so if something shouted and the sensors activated, it should be some kind of Japanese shout. All communications for nearly the last hundred years had been cataloged...

There's a soft knock at the door. Room Service with some green tea for Madam? She smiles as she accepts the small tray's delivery, bows slightly as she tips the waiter. He thanks her and closes the door softly on his way out. The aroma teases at her. It's not exactly hand-whisked sencha from Kyoto, but it's surprisingly good. She closes her eyes and tries to relax, ease the knots that developed on the drive from New York. Lets her mind drift again. Comprehensive catalog of Oni rumblings like the songs of humpback whales...

And if someone recorded whale song, but it turned out not to be whale song, then one would have to assume that it wasn't a whale that made that particular sound... Not an Oni? She wasn't ready to accept that notion. But it tickled at her, something about differences... language...

Ainu. The word comes to her and her eyes open, seeing not the hotel room but instead the memory of the lineages of Oni. Recorded so long ago as the Japanese spread across the Home Islands... And as they pushed north into Hokkaido, new and vastly different varieties of Oni had been discovered, living in the reality of the native Ainu. She focuses her thoughts and begins keying commands and requests into the handheld. Ainu languages, all significantly different from Japanese in syntax, phonology, morphology, and vocabulary. Listings of known Oni in the northernmost prefectures of the main island of Honshu: Aomori, Akita and Morioka and then across the channel to Hokkaido. Histories of dealings with demons in those regions.

Conference call with team leaders. She thinks quickly, generating and synthesizing her theory on the fly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I felt it of the utmost importance to share my ideas with you as soon as I could." There is some muttering in the background. Apparently this anomaly happening in America doesn't seem to be as important as a coordinated series of attacks on infrastructure by wind and fire demons in Fukui prefecture. "Please, however, give me a moment to express my thinking: The signals we have received are intended to get someone's attention. Who, and why, we still do not know. However, I feel that the reason we have not entirely deduced the content of the message is that we are dealing with an Oni not Japanese, but instead of Ainu extraction."

Mayhem.

"Nonsense! Yachida-san! Do you choose to forget history? No Oni of Ainu heritage survived the excesses of the Hayamasaki Administration! The use of demon-repellent and vast fields of slaughter served as the most important reminder of the sacredness of our Mission!" A century before the Black Ships had come to Japan, the predecessors of her own organization had seen over the greatest scourge of the Oni in Japanese history. Obsessed with "purifying" the Home Islands to a terrible degree, Hayamasaki Maruhito had ordered the destruction of all non-naitive Oni. The pogrom had lasted nearly five years, and the resulting devastation to the countryside revealed the true relationship between the Oni, the land, and the humans who lived there.

"I have not forgotten. I have, however, attempted to remain, as my training stated, observant, impartial and adaptable. In reviewing the few facts we have, I deduced that this Oni must be Ainu."

A quiet, hard voice speaks up. It is the Executive Administrator. "Yachida-san, your work in the field has been impeccable throughout your career. You have brought nothing but honor to yourself, your family and this organization. Therefore I recommend that we look very strongly at this theory of yours. I have found that sometimes it is best we ancient guardians keep the open mind we train the young recruits to have. And if this Ainu idea proves incorrect... well then we will just have to find some other explanation. Keep at it, Yachida-san. Follow your instincts. Trust them. As well as should the rest of us far away from the face of the problem."

And so the conference is ended. She continues working with Yaida, digs deep into the records. Her tea has gone cold.

Sleep won't come tonight.

chapter five

2010-11-22T07:00:00.001-05:00

   Of course the Celtics lost. Two straight home losses to start the season. Not like the old days, when Basketball Jesus wore green. Ben wakes up on the couch, TV still locked on the local station, morning chat team talking about upcoming winter fashions and cutting away to a traffic report. Looks like traffic will be tough again this morning. At least he doesn't have to go anywhere today. Unless Elliot calls and says that the funding came through overnight and he has to head on off to Western Mass right away.

   Long hot shower. Benefit of being self-employed, he thinks. In the shower, he can't help but think about his father's box again. Though he'd decided to put it away, there really isn't anything else to occupy his time, and it might help him remember his fading Japanese. After the shower, he wakes the computer and opens the folder of images. He'll categorize them according to wavelength, and then cross-reference as to which face is subject.

   The natural light shots are basically close-ups, marginally easier to read on account of the clarity, but it's the infrared shots that bring a lot of hidden detail out. The kanji seem to be layered, one thing written over another. Perhaps the strips of paper were originally scraps, new messages written over old. High Dynamic Range sequences he combines to make incredibly detailed pictures that reveal otherwise unseen details: the box seems to have been subjected to some scraping on the side, almost like a cat had played with a mouse against the wall of the box. Or something like that. HDR has the effect of making the object seem otherworldly, as various exposures are combined to make one picture that carries all the details of each exposure. It's like being able to see the thing in the complete spectrum of human vision.

   It's a while before he moves on to ultraviolet, which turns out to be the last image in the folder. Must have been right when the power kicked off. It's somewhat underexposed, and Rob must have shifted the camera during the exposure because there's a wicked smear drawn across the face of the box, like a smoke ring radiating from its center. Errors happen, it's part of the method. That's why so many images are captured, to spread the risk of accident across many frames. He doesn't toss the image, though. There's something cool about the shot, and he might just print it and hang it.

   Cataloging done, he returns to the infrared images to see if he can discern which kanji are which. Side by side on the monitor with natural light. There's "mountain," there's "dream." He gets his Kodansha Dictionary of the Japanese Language for reference and starts seeing what he can see. Everything's been written by the same hand, the same confident strokes. On the left side, the natural-light side, Ben comes up with what he can: Mountain, Dream, Hold, Warning, Break. It's not easy as the style of the kanji seems to be older than the 1990 version of his Kodansha. Playing with curves and levels, he's able to come up with those five words. There may be other things written there, kana tying it all together. Won't know until he looks at the infrared...

   And it's like he can see. "Hold ever the mountain dream. Do not break the spell. This is the only warning."

   In 1989, Ben went to live in Japan as part of a cultural exchange program. He found the people and the culture to be fascinating, almost addictive, and he dove into studying the language as deeply as he could in the short time he was there. Though many claimed it to be practically a renegade language with no other linguistic comrade on the planet, he found it to be relatively easy to learn, with few irregulars and a very logical structure. He'd had a few problems understanding the seemingly unending layers of politeness, but as a foreigner he hadn't had to worry about that overmuch, as he could get away with being either entirely formal or entirely informal. Reading the Chinese characters was difficult, but he kept with it, fascinated by the vast difference from alphabetical communication.

   So he can read what's written there before him. Some of the meaning may be different based on antiquity, but at least there's a message there. And the layers of writing seems to be because the message has been written twice. Practice run, maybe? It's too bad that he can't date the thing right now. He'd like to shave off a bit of the box, clip some of the paper and send them off for analysis, find out when this little box was made.

   It might be a good idea to follow up on that list he'd made yesterday, the list of people from the conference. They'd probably be able to help him with the provenance, with the back-story to this little container. He should call Joe, too, and get together with him and go over the books and papers that Joe had found, see if there are any notes in there. It wouldn't be like his Dad to collect something and not have at least a scrap of paper with some information written down, like where he got the damn thing, when, and from whom. Something. Some clue would be good.

   He gets the list and dials from the top. It's the third number where he gets lucky, connects with a Dr. Evelyn Perkins. "Oh, yes," she says, "I'm so very sorry about Richard, about your father. He was such a good scientist, such a good man."

   "Thank you," says Ben, "But I'm actually hoping that you can help me with something, something of his that, well, I was wondering about a conference he attended, and I believe you attended it as well, a conference in Washington, D.C. about a year and a half ago."

   "Oh, heavens, yes, I remember that," she says, " That was a fascinating talk. It seems that we're turning on ourselves, as it were, archaeologists studying archaeologists, sifting through the layers of collections to determine focuses, biases, tendencies."

   "And was there anything there at the conference, any sort of exhibit or anything, maybe a preliminary study on which this conversation was based?"

   "Oh, of course. It started, if I recall, because somebody had noticed an anomaly somewhere in a collection."

   "In a collection?" Ben says, "But isn't there generally a range of material in a collection? I mean, say I collected Van Goghs. Would it be odd if I had also a Rembrandt?"

   She pauses for a moment. "That depends if in viewing the collection, it was understood why the Rembrandt was there. Perhaps you have him there to provide context. Perhaps you have him there because a friend gave him to you. If we have a context, we can understand what would otherwise be labeled an anomaly."

   "So someone found something that was anomalous, and couldn't come up with a context?"

   "Well, yes," she says, "But it was all, as you said, preliminary. Just a talk among colleagues based on one little odd question. You see, there was a private museum, located in Washington, and the collection consisted entirely of maritime and naval archaeological artifacts. But somewhere in that collection, there was recently found something that had no bearing on the balance of the collection."

   "Do you have any idea as to what that something might have been?"

   "Well I don't really recall, to be honest. It was more of a thought exercise, I think. But let me see... I think it was a chest of some kind, maybe a container. Pottery, possibly. Not maritime, though. Nothing to do with naval architecture. That's all I can remember right now. Perhaps I have some notes I can send you, if you'd like."

   He agrees to her offer and then they say polite good-byes and he hangs up. A chest? A container? This is getting interesting again.

chapter four

2010-11-19T08:00:00.002-05:00

Landing in New York had been the way she remembered it, a heartracing sideways sliding plummet towards the skyline and then leveling off and touching down. It took too long when it was happening, and it was over in an instant. Off the plane, past luggage claim (silently thanking the company for knowing how to fit everything into an innocuous carryon) and over to the car rental queue. The rental agent smiles and accepts her credit card. Bus ride to the lot, the car fires up with a pleasant growl. She makes it through the visual cacophony of signs, lights and arrows and forges her path away from the airport.

She puts the car into third gear, uses the drag of the engine to slow the car on a downhill curve. It's a Mitsubishi Eclipse and she drives it like it's on rails. She'd thought about renting an American car, for the novelty, but then she wondered what the point of that would be? And driving on the wrong side of the road would be adventure enough despite her training. She pulls out of the curve, adds power and shifts at 6500 rpm. Through fourth gear hard and she remembers that she's not in a simulator, she's on an unfamiliar American roadway twisting through the mountains. Catskills, they're called, from the Dutch. She slows down and hopes that the police haven't seen her.

During the layover in Chicago she had taken the opportunity to connect with her team, only to find out that they'd been unable to come up with anything new. Her signal intelligence officer and friend Sato Yaida thought that the signal was hard to decipher because of some manner of phase-shift, but they'd need to recover the goryokaku sensors and have a look at their raw data and compare it with what they had in the labs. Add another thing to the mission, she thinks. Still, though, it was good to be in the field. She hadn't been to America in almost ten years, and she smiles as the road spools out before her. Most of her teammates hadn't been here, and they just didn't understand the scale of things. Big sky, big cities, vast wilds.

Getting through to New York had been most annoying. Customs, Immigration and Security had been inefficient and infuriating. She knew why, she felt bad for the situation, but she also understood the grumblings of her fellow passengers. At least she'd managed not to be pulled out of the line and inspected by the security detail. Not that she had any reason to be concerned, but she was glad that she didn't have to be called out for any reason in front of so many gaijin. Not that she had a problem with foreigners, it's just that the mission required a low profile.

She could stay in the city, but again she followed her instincts and opted to head out and away. She'd put her luggage in the back of the car and headed north. She consulted with Sato-san via her handheld, and after a few minutes conversation they decided that she'd go to a zen Buddhist temple near Woodstock. Yaida also politely requested a souvenir, something she could give to her father, as he had actually been at the famous concert years ago.

"So you want me to go shopping for you, is that it, Yaida-chan?" she hopes that her smile can be heard over the connection. Her friend gasps in mock surprise.

"Oh, but of course I haven't yet told you that there is also a sensor placed at the temple, and that duty of course takes precedence. But if you manage to find your way to a shop that is owned by Fujiwara Miharu, perhaps you could get something that would please my aging father..." And they talked of other things while she drove.

Now it's an hour later and she's just entering the edge of the small town. She drives slowly, trying to assess the layout of the place, so different from what she's used to. There's one main road, and in what looks like the town center, it forks. She turns right and then sees a "parking" sign to her right. Pulls into the lot and gets out to stretch. The view reminds her of some of the northern parts of Japan, chill and mountainous. The sky looks like it wants to be blue, but some manner of storm is pushing over the mountaintops and bringing gray instead. She walks down and out of the lot, back to the main street before its forking. To her immediate left is a small restaurant. She's not optimistic that the food will be good, but she's seasoned enough to know that when one is in Rome, one should act as the Romans would act.

She's just pulling the door open when her handheld starts ringing and vibrating, full Level One alert. People look, but being in Woodstock, they think little of the sound and her reaction. She practically sprints back to her car. Opens the door and sits, looks at the screen of the small, powerful computer. Presses the "accept" button and data starts flooding across the LCD.

Alarm: Orientation Vector alert // Origin of Signal: North America (United States)[localization pending further data] // Signal strength: Crisis Watch Level Three // Signal Time: 17:22 EST [note: timestamp changed to user local time] // Signal Duration: 2.35 seconds // Signal Translation [pending analysis]

She has the car started and is racing back down the main street, back to the highway. She's certain of one thing: The signal did not come from where she had been standing, therefore it made no sense to remain there. Getting to the highway system would allow her the fastest route to wherever it had originated, short of having a company jet at her disposal. She worries her headset from her jacket pocket and fires up a cell connection with Sato-san again.

"Did you get that?" she says without preface, "Have the alarms gone off?"

"Yes," says the older woman, "We're reviewing the information. It was a short signal burst again, but this time with a power structure several orders of magnitude greater than the last time."

"But where?" she asks, "Where is it coming from?" Her greatest fear is that the point of origin of the signal has moved, which will then increase her search radius geometrically.

"Of course, we cannot be entirely precise, but since this time we really were waiting for another signal, we have a much better idea of its locale. Hamada-san decided to modify our current sensor arrays to also listen for this type of signal, so we have better triangulation."

"Right, that's good," Kitsune says, "But where!"

"Head east," says Yaida. "Head… head towards Boston, in Massachusetts. We'll try to get you more information when we have it."

chapter three

2010-11-17T06:35:00.000-05:00

Since coming home from the funeral, he's been bothered by something. It's like someone's in the apartment with him, just over his shoulder and looking at him all the time. It's a little freaky, and he thinks about changing the locks. Was there anything missing? It's not like he lives in a bachelor pad floor to ceiling with dirty clothes, empties and pizza boxes. Years in the field had trained him to keep things neat, ready to pack and go. The place is just as he left it. He's just strapped by dealing with his emotions and trying to keep a lid on his anger towards his sister-in-law. It's kept him pretty well occupied.

Work has kept him busy, too. A curator named Elliot calls to see if he's been able to cull any information from a certain Sumerian engraving. Ben finds his notes and reads them off from the computer screen. Tungsten-light acquisition, 10 megapixel density. Subject: Bronze signature seal, winged woman, four fingers upright and a knotted rope in the other hand. Rope appears to be hempen. Feathers laid out as with a vulture's wing, Neophron percnopterus. Oxidation eliminates a lot of the finer detail, but if the funding can be found for different wavelength imaging... usually mentioning funding gets the calls to stop. Elliot says he'll see what he can do and hangs up. Ben backs up the file to a DVD and looks at his calendar. Full-spectrum analysis of Pompeiian scrolls, false-coloring datasets from an MIT project. Nothing too heavy.

He spins, hoping to see his mystery guest, but there's nothing. Ridiculous. But he thinks that maybe it's some kind of psychic thing, like maybe his father's spirit is there in the room, trying to give him a message from The Beyond. Or something like that, not that he believes in that kind of thing. Still, it's an itch that won't go away. He needs to get out, walk around. Maybe go see a game or something. He's got a buddy with season tickets, and the Celtics season has just started. Later tonight he could go out to clear his mind, get back to the old routine.

He's picks up the phone and starts to dial when he sees his father's odd box on the shelf. It looks bigger than he remembered, but then he'd been so busy since returning that he's not thought about it at all. Hangs up the phone and picks up the box, brings it into the office and looks at it under white halogen light. The wood is old, worn smooth by hands and use. It's reddish-brown, darkened by time. Work habit kicks in and he turns on a digital recorder and starts speaking his notes, like an M.E. at an autopsy.

"There are six strips of paper, one sealing each of the four sides, and then one each on the top and bottom. Looks a little like a Christmas present, I suppose. Probably so you can read it from any side during shipping," he says. "The paper is yellowed but not dried out. The glue must not have reacted with the acids in the paper. The ink, though, is faded, almost indecipherable." He gets a large hand lens. "In fact, it looks like one strip really has lost its markings. Or it never had any. And... yes, it looks like the blank strip has been sliced along the seam of the box. I wonder if Dad has any notes about this.

"By hefting the box, I'd say that there's something inside. A box this size shouldn't weigh... I'd guess around a third of a kilo. Like a half-empty beer bottle. It doesn't rattle." He sniffs it. "And it smells like... it's acrid, I guess. Like burnt paint." He shuts off the recorder and looks at the box from arm's length. "What the hell is this, Dad?" he says.

So he heads off to MIT, to the lab he shares with a friend where they have some really cool lights, help you see things that your eyes just aren't made to see. The Celtics have thirty nine more home games, anyway. Getting to MIT is never easy, but it's early enough that most of the traffic hasn't come to life yet. He finds parking and goes into a brick building with no view of the river.

Ben and his labmate Rob Danahy work in the basement of the building because Rob's afraid of heights. The work studio is crammed full of devices to make various forms of electromagnetic spectra, and other devices to "see what the hell happens when you turn on the switch." Rob looks at the box, at the paper strips.

"I can just barely make out the brush strokes," says Ben, "but I can't read what they say."

"You can't read that shit?" Rob says, "I thought you could read that shit."

"What did I just say, Rob. I said I can't. But I need to be able to see them, copy them, get them to someone who can read them."

"But you lived over there, right? How come you can't read?"

"That was a long time ago. Just give me some light, please," Ben says. The men put the box on a pedestal and surrounds it with a variety of lamps. Rob gets a big SLR rig mounted on a tripod and focuses on one of the strips. He adjusts his glasses while thinking out loud.

"Okay, it's positioned 'dead red,' I guess I'll run a set of exposures, different visibles. You want gamma? X-ray? The full treatment?"

"Just give me a base run - IR, UV, and um... maybe bounce up to thousand nanometer? I just want to pull detail from the strips, I don't need to know what's inside the thing. Yet, anyway."

"Okay," Rob says. "I'll have this ready for you in a couple of hours. What exactly is this thing, anyway?"

Ben looks at the box. "It is what it looks like, man. It's a box. Something my Dad got. I'll see if I can find his notes."

"Sorry about your Pops, man. How you doin'?"

"I'll be okay. It's been a little strange, like I can still feel him... phantom limb only with my Dad. It'll be okay."

"You know, if you want, I can do a full-spec shoot of you, push it way into the deep IR, and then, oh yeah! Then we can go to your Pop's place, take some shots, see if his spirit is hanging around."

Ben can't tell if Rob is serious. "That's, um, that's okay. I think it's just me getting used to the idea is all. Nah, my Dad's in a good place. Better than here, I figure." He leaves, tells Rob that he'll come back in a few hours. Then it's across the river to the Public Library to see if he can find any information about Japanese boxes. On a whim he sees if he can find out any information about the conference his father had attended, the year before in Washington, D.C.

There had been a lot of conferences there over the last eighteen months, but the one that seemed most like something his Dad would attend had something to do with looking at a museum's collections, reanalyzing them, using them as a new, sort of 'institutional strata' to learn about the people and organizations who collected ancient junk. Apparently the conference was somewhat ad hoc, and had been called when some unexpected objects and artifacts had been located behind a storage shelf during renovations, and the oddity of the "find" was that the museum in question had no record of ever receiving such a thing. Museums tended to have a certain type of collection habits; an art museum would probably not have a tractor-trailer, unless it was part of an installation. Museums dedicated to native fabrics of the South Pacific generally did not have Roman statuary in their catalog.

He notes the list of names in the article. Maybe he'll call them later, see if they might be able to help him learn more about what his father had been up to. As he walks down the steps of the library he looks at the bronze Muses guarding the building. Walks to the one to his left. "You got any answers for me? Know anything about boxes? " The figure continues its impassive guardianship. "What the hell does the box have to do with that conference? What the hell does one have to do with the other?"

Probably nothing, he thinks. "Focus, half-wit," he says. "Random statistical anomalies don't tell the story. They're interesting, sure, but they're nothing to chase down. But Dad started chasing something down, which is why he went off on the last job. I guess I need to talk to those attendees."

Probably a transaction that never finished, he thinks. One curator was trying to get something from someone else, a quiet and possibly illicit barter gone bad. Occam's Razor. Somebody dropped the thing behind a heavy shelf and figured, 'what the hell, I don't really give a hoot about Japanese boxes,' and then a hundred years later someone finally moves the shelf and bing! there's this mystery box.

I should be a detective, he thinks. A gumshoe. He looks at his watch and figures that with traffic, it'll take him an hour to get across the river. Time to get going.

By the time he gets back to the MIT studio, it's dark. It would have been quicker to have taken the T from Copley to the Common and then switch to the Red Line, but he wouldn't have had the car, though. Would have taken longer to get home. The building is mostly dark, people having left for the night and switched off all the lights in order to keep the planet a little cooler. Or something like that, he's never really understood the arguments. Whatever the reason, it's dark as he takes the stairs down to the lab. The door is open.

"Hello?" Dark room, best to announce his presence before walking in. "Yo, Rob? You in?" He might be shooting something where the overheads aren't needed, but this feels like a blackout, not a photo shoot. "I'm turning the lights on." Waits for a silent five count, then flicks the wall switch. No lights come on. The mains aren't supposed cut out down here - generators should have kicked in. Something's wrong.

"Rob?" He feels his way through the room slowly, hoping not to knock anything off a table, hoping more not to wind up stepping on a body. In case this turned out to be a Very Bad Situation. But he finds nothing, trips over no corpses. "Rob?" he says again. No answer. Lacking a better plan, he makes his way to the stairs and heads outside. Just outside the door he sees Rob coming around the corner of the building, smoking a cigarette and looking pissed.

"You on a budget? Trying to save a few nickels by shutting everything down after six?" Rob looks flat and blows a plume of smoke towards him. Pulls out the ponytail out of his long ragged hair, reties it.

"No, man. Everything just cut out, like what, forty five minutes, an hour ago? Hell, just quick bang and total dark. I should have a fucking window put in. Black as the inside of a parson's hat in there. The generator didn't kick in, either. What the hell."

"What about the Edison, NStar, whatever they're called, power crews? They coming out?" Ben says.

"They'll be out. Take 'em another hour, but they're coming. Up and running in two hours." He lights another cigarette off the cherry of the old one. "Just weird is what it is. Twelve years I been here, never had a hiccup. Winter, hurricanes... nothing. What the hell. Right in the middle of a sequence, too. Had your little box on the podium, taking a look with a little UV and then it's like a bomb went off. It's like I got kicked in the chest, I fall down and the lights go out and thought I was deaf, you know? Like from the blast, but I can hear shouting and shit coming from upstairs, so I know I'm not deaf. I'm lying there on the floor trying to breathe, you know? Holding my nuts. Quiet except for the yelling. I wait for something else to happen, then I stand up and I get my lighter out like it's a concert and I'm heading for the door."

"You okay?" Ben asks.

"Hell if I know. I think so." He exhales. "Gas main probably blew somewhere. Shock wave would go through most anything and I wouldn't hear the boom. At least I got the shots, you know?"

"Hey, you think you lost anything when the power went out? It'd suck to have to run it all over again."

Rob laughs, "No shit. I hate the dark like that. Sure, all the camera data is on memory card. You want it, or you want me to shoot more?" Ben thinks about it and decides that he needs the distraction.

"If you don't mind, I'll take it home, have a look. Give me something to do. You got the box? Know where it is?"

Rob hands over his Zippo. "Use this. Everything should be right where we left it, studio one. Try not to break anything." Ben takes the lighter and flicks it to life. Down the stairs and through the studio. The box is there, almost glowing in the fluttering light. He picks it up and puts it into his coat pocket. Pulls the memory card from the camera. Reverse course and back onto the sidewalk. "Thanks, man. I'll get your your card back." He leaves Rob standing in a cloud.

Back at his apartment, Ben brings the box into his office, puts it on the desk and wakes his computer. Inserts the memory card into the reader and waits for the disk image to mount. Double-click the icon to pull up its contents. Everything is labelled sequentially, so he has no reference as to which shots are which. It's the same for every camera, he thinks. There's my million-dollar idea: Make the cameras give sensical snippets of information to the icons.

Double click the first one to see a natural-light shot taken extreme close-up. The grain of the paper is visible, faint shadows where a brush had left ink so many years ago. How many, though? The ink is simple, three verticals. Mountain? It could be the pitchfork kanji, as he remembers it. He makes a note. Opens another image. Again the marks are faint, more complicated but looking to him like "dream."

"Now I can read it," he says aloud. Looking away from the image on the Mac's screen, he picks up the box and studies it. Six pieces of paper, one totally blank... no, two are totally blank. Two? Well now what the hell is going on here? And the one is cut at the seam. New cut, it looks like. Fresh and clean. Someone probably tried to get a peek at the contents. Not Rob, he understands the value of not screwing around with another person's stuff. Ben turns the box around in his hands, careful not to touch the paper, twisting it and holding it this way and that way, trying to map its heft, shape and feel to his memory. Later, he'd replay the data and try to figure out the boxes structure, history and use. It was his own esoteric way of assigning sense to the things he worked with. It made him feel like an archaeologist, like it was something his father might have done.

Basically, it felt to him like a box. Probably nothing inside it. With the paper strips saying stuff like "Mountain" and "Dream," it was probably nothing more than a powder box for some geisha. A souvenir for a tourist, perhaps. Back to Occam's Razor. He puts it down on his desk, then turns to his computer and copies the data off the memory card and puts it in a folder on his hard drive called "Dad's Box." He'll look at it another time. It's a little anticlimactic. Dad's death, the funeral, Joe acting all emotional and stuff... He puts the computer back to sleep and goes into his living room. Turns the Celtics on TV and a gets a cold beer.

chapter two

2010-11-15T07:03:00.001-05:00

Natural firewall forty thousand feet above the Pacific. She looks at her handheld computer and wishes she could turn it all the way on. It would have been faster to take a company plane. More convenient, too, as she'd be able to use her communications rig to keep in sync with the home computer and her team. Less inconspicuous, though. This was a recon mission, a simple followup on what was probably a wild goose chase. She'd outfitted light, just the custom handheld and a few knickknacks that would make it easily through customs and American security.

She flicks the basic computing functions on, reviews the report she'd read six times already today.

The alarms had gone off a week ago, weak but positive: Unidentified Phenomenon. There had been an initial rush to action, but further analysis of the data revealed that the sensors were of the older goryokaku design from the nineteen seventies, prone to malfunction especially after so long. It had been the decision of the Tsubasa Administration to place such devices outside of Japan, to see if they would record anything. There had been some inconclusive readings in the early Eighties, but the fact was that the units broke down, and sending in service teams became an unpopular expense when the market turned. The last time the Signals Group announced a reading from North America she had been fifteen years old and in love with Hamada Kenji, senior star of the school's baseball team.

She presses the flight attendant call button. Tea might help her clear her mind, ease her impatience. Review: This most recent signal, while officially recognized as "Unidentified," had been generally recognized as an "Orientation Vector," a kind of initiating call or "ping" designed to receive a response which would help in determining location. Just the one signal, probably issued under duress, hard to triangulate. Most likely, though, that the Atlantic - Mid Atlantic region of the United States was the best place to start looking. The signal had come at seventeen-hundred Tokyo, which meant three o'clock in the morning EST. Weather data showed partly cloudy over the East Coast, heavier to the south. The moon had been full. The attendant comes and asks how she can be of service.

"Tea, please." The attendant leaves with a silent small bow and disappears off to the Tea Making Place of the airplane. There's something about the data that is bothersome. The signal, an Orientation Vector... there hadn't been a signal like that since the Second World War. And the basic grammar of this Vector, generally thought of in the office as a "wake-up chime," was virtually incomprehensible, and had not yet been translated by the Signals Team when she boarded the flight almost ten hours ago. She's played the message two dozen times, looked at its structure and signature and tried to figure out what it means, but without further access to the home computer, she's left making guesses.

Tea comes, hot and welcome. She puts the computer down to hold the cup, closes her eyes and visualizes what she knows. One signal, strong, but very brief, almost as though it had been cut off in mid-transmission. Had it been cut off? Hard to say, based on the brief nature of the "chime," but it might explain why her team had yet to fully decipher the message. The time of the event meant that it had most likely been powered by moonlight... that had been a tradition of the Southern Islands, but her gut makes her think farther north, more likely Sendai or Akita... the smell of the tea makes her think of flowers on a mountainside. Mountains... all of Japan is mountains, but there are regional differences... Yes. Farther north. The angle of the signal had been odd, raked off the horizontal by a good amount, possibly as much as forty degrees, which could account for its relative weakness. The goryokaku wasn't capable of determining much more than a basic signal, much like a microphone could detect sound but couldn't assign it meaning. The later sensors could actually do a base analysis of the signal. If only they had been placed overseas, she thinks, she'd be on a company plane. Overseas, though, is part of what's bothering her. Moonlight as a medium for transmission works all well and good when working North and South, but to cross continents and oceans, the day/night terminator... it was possible, she supposes, but without full access to the database, she cannot see if such a thing has been recorded.

First thing when she lands, she's going to turn on the handheld and check the archives, then download and see what new information has come through. Reckoning based solely on the information she has on the strength of the signal, she's inclined to think it's an Oni. But it shouldn't be an Oni; over a thousand years of data said that Oni don't leave the Home Islands. It had taken nearly all of the last week to go through the relevant records, have the computer remodel patterns and develop theories of how this could have happened, but the answer always came up "impossible." Each Oni had a home base and they rarely strayed. Occasionally external yet parallel events could wreak havoc with the natural order, but again and again it was proven that Oni stayed in Japan.

So her mission is reconnaissance, little more. See if she can find a clue, something to help figure out the mystery. Review: Why was it such a brief signal? They call it a "wake-up chime," but it's not an automatic process, like an alarm clock. It's more of a reference signal, the howl of a wolf to keep track of the pack. It was possible that the transmission had been cut, but Hanso-san had mused that one just doesn't go about cutting wires to stop demonic communication. No, the signal was intentionally brief. Why would someone effectively shout in the dark? Hard to assign motive to an Oni, who depending on its history may or may not have human reasoning.

Time to make more guesses.

Had there been a storm? A powerful storm that had flung an Oni far away form home? Some research pointed to an electromagnetic basis for the existence of Oni. Perhaps lightning, or even extreme solar activity had pulled an errant demon far away from its home, and it was trying to call to the familiar. Nuclear testing? A nuclear blast created a huge electromagnetic shockwave, possibly leading to the same effect as the solar storm idea. She had checked with the other National Agencies, but none could show any tests listed for a three-month period prior to the signal. That wasn't to say that some other nation-state hadn't set off a bomb, but mathematically it almost had to have been a blast on the Home Islands to send an Oni flying, and that just hadn't happened.

Aliens? She dismissed the idea with a giggle. Little green men? Flying saucers? There wasn't time for fantasy. How about a human agent? There were lots of people who knew about Oni, people who dealt with them every day. Still, though, none of those people had the power to cast a demon across oceans. Even she didn't have that power, and she'd been trained to do just about everything else to the things. Foreign? Could a gaijin have done this? Again, she dismissed the idea. Part of the uniqueness of the Oni is that they are expressly a Japanese phenomenon. Yeti belong to the Tibetans, Banshee to the Irish, and Oni to the Japanese. Seventeenth Century Portuguese records showed that some gaijin sailors had seen Oni, but dismissed them as "spirits" or "ghosts." Each culture saw things their own way.

She looks at her watch. Five more hours until landing. Chicago, then New York. From there she'd follow leads. She turns off the light and tries to sleep.

Chapter One - Boston, Present Day

2010-11-12T06:30:00.000-05:00

It had been, Ben thinks, not a bad service. A few friends and family members, a soft rain that came and went, and the rich full smell of the earth so recently dug up and returned. The grass could have been a little greener, the sky a little fairer, but those were minor quibbles. The small crowd drifts down the slope to the cars parked in a neat black row, colleagues of his father's shaking his hand and expressing their condolences. He smiles warmly, trying to remember any of their names. There is supposed to be some manner of post-funereal gathering at his brother's house, and he thinks of ways to avoid it. His brother, Joe, stands next to him. Leans in to Ben.

"Don't even think of skipping this," his brother says quietly. "You need to come. It's for Dad."

Ben looks at him. He tries to see the athlete, the brawler who'd once bare-knuckled his way halfway through a visiting Scottish football club. Now, though, he sees the focused lawyer and agent, dark silk bespoke suit from a secret New York City wrapping the result of one woman's making.

"Come on, Ben," Joe says. "Regina's expecting us straight away." Regina. Platinum-blonde sister-in-law forged in the fires of Hell. Just now nearing the frontmost limousine, talking with of one of their father's friends, holding her hands and then she leans and kisses the other's cheek and says something in quiet tones. The older woman says thank you and gives Regina a small warm hug. Flawless, thinks Ben. Almost like she cares.

"Hey, look, I have to get to the airport," he says, watching his brother's wife enter the rear of the long car, gray-suited driver closing the door. "Have a plane to catch, some college professor to meet. Need to get back to work." The limo pulls quietly away from the curb. Ben's lying, but he'd rather lie than have to spend time pretending to get along with Regina. "Shouldn't you have gone with her?" Points to the car as it rounds a curve and disappears from view.

"No, I'll go in the other limo with you," Joe says. "Right? What the hell, Ben," says Joe. "What's going on. You can't spend a few hours at the house? Huh? Can't take care of your obligations?" Though he hasn't been on a soccer pitch in years, he still has the athletic build and closes in to Ben, bumping chests. "Come on," he whispers. "We need to do this. Regina's got everything ready. Come on." Pleading.

Ben looks straight into his brother's eyes. He doesn't have any appointments, but the thought of having to deal with his sister-in-law is almost more than he can bear. But he is a good son, if not a good brother, and he considers that maybe Joe is being so insistent because he can't stand the idea of hosting this reception with Regina any more than Ben can. "Okay," he says. "I can book a different flight." And the tension disappears and the two bump again, shoulders this time, as they turn and continue down the hill.

"There's some other stuff, too," says Joe, "Things that Dad left, that we need to go through."

"Hey, look, I'm all set. I told you that a long time ago." The rain picks up again as they get to the car. Another gray-suited driver appears to open the door for them. "I said my good-byes to Dad in the hospital. That's all I need."

"No, it's like, there's other stuff he left behind. Museum-quality stuff, things that I've never seen before. Boxes and shit."

"'And shit,' that's nice. I suppose there was stuff that hadn't been cataloged, from his last trip, maybe?" They get into the limo and the gray man starts the engine. "Really, though. I'm all set."

The car into pulls out into the roadway. "I know, you keep saying that. Hell, Regina's reminded me a hundred times. But I still think you should look at the stuff before you decide. It's not lost Mayan gold or anything like that, but there's some stuff in there that you might want. Something special, I guess. I don't know."

"Any plans to donate any of this newfound booty to a museum?" Ben asks. Joe looks at him sideways. After a few seconds, he starts laughing, hard. "Are you serious? Do you think that Regina will let any of this stuff out of the house? Do you? Hell, no." He puts on a deep announcer's voice, "For the woman who wants everything, we give you the long-lost Treasure of the Sierra Padre! Artifacts from cultures long-dead, baubles found only in the best museums in the world!"

At least he knows she's a pain in the ass, Ben thinks.

The rest of the drive is spent catching up with each other. Joe manages several hundred million dollars that belong to various athletes and celebrities, all of whom will not be present this afternoon. "You mean I won't get to meet whatsername, the one who was standing in the rain in that movie? Then she kisses the guy?"

"Sorry," says Joe, "She's in rehab. But you never heard that from me. What about you? How's the photography coming along?"

"What do you mean?"

"Photographs. The picture-taking."

"Oh, Lord lifting Jesus, you know I don't take pictures. Forensic analysis. I analyze them. You know that. Idiot."

"So can you take pictures of my dog?"

"Fuck your dog," says Ben. Joe laughs. They're brothers again in the sanctuary of the car, joking for the remainder of the drive to Joe's house. The limo brings them around the looping driveway, towards the rear of the building. Joe looks earnestly at his brother.

"I know you don't like her," he says, "and she doesn't like you. Great, fine, we've established that. You don't have to be polite, but please don't be rude. For Dad." Ben wasn't sure that their father had liked Regina any more than he did, but that didn't mean anything now. It had been just a few years ago when Joe and Regina were married, but she'd been the driving force behind Joe's ambition for years before then. During the early years, she'd appraised Ben, found him wanting somehow, and since dismissed him as an irrelevance, a drag on the greatness of his brother. Ben steps out of the car.

"You know what, just give me a beer, let me look at this new stuff of Dad's and I promise I won't say anything worse than 'Hello.'"

"Okay, that's a deal, I figure." Joe opens the door to the house, back door since that's where the cars get parked, and they walk up three steps and left into the kitchen. For a twenty five thousand square foot house, the kitchen is cozy. "We've just redone it," Joe says, "had one of those British Aga ovens installed and then laid new slate on the floor, all new cabinets and ceiling fixtures."

"Very nice, very magazine-worthy. But, and this is important, did you have any beer laid in? You know, while your appliances were being Anglicized?" Joe gets bottles for both of them, Old Speckled Hen. "Jesus, Joe. Even your beer is British."

"Come on, the stuff's in the library." Through the kitchen and down sixty feet of fieldstone corridor, barrel-vault ceilings nine feet above. Their steps echo faintly, past the formal dining room on the left and then it's a right into the library.

It's a real room, Joe hasn't played at this. Twenty five feet square, parquet floor in red and gold wood-tones, built-in shelves stretching nearly to the high ceiling and three rows of shelves off to the right as Ben walks in. Joe is as voracious a scholar as their father had been, and the shelves are lined with books new, old and ancient. Joe has read them all. Two worn leather club chairs flank a small round table. Behind those, under a high window is a long country table, rough-hewn wood worn smooth through the years, and on this is spread a small selection of artifacts. The men walk to the table and look at its display, quiet now, solemn in the presence of their father's work.

He had been an archaeologist, Richard Harrison. Forty years in the field, from Utah to Uzbekistan and most places in-between. He had specialized in the artifacts of the common man, leaving kings' tombs to celebrity-seekers and the better funded. Most of his work had been in libraries like this one, small, private and exquisitely stocked with worthwhile material. Somewhere between searching for the beginnings of blacksmithing in China and Andean transportation of foodstuffs, he'd met Maureen Owen of the Des Moines Owenses, and in 1964 they got themselves married and had a couple of sons. Des Moines not being a center of research, in 1972 they moved to Boston and Maureen raised the boys while Richard added his threads to the tapestry of human knowledge.

In 1988, Maureen died. Cancer hit her fast and hard and just like that, the three men were alone in the world. Richard could have hidden his grief in his fieldwork, but he stayed home to be with his sons and took on a professorship. Joseph was a junior partner at a good law firm, and Ben was studying advanced image processing techniques at MIT. They lived together, simply and quietly for two years before moving on. Joe went Big Legal, started at a firm managing the finances and entanglements of those who had capital-C Careers, and Ben took to the field like his father had done, only not looking for ancient mysteries but rather new, digital ones.

And Richard stayed, taught, and shared his knowledge with the next generation of archaeologists. Last year, he'd been at a conference in Washington, D.C., when he called his sons to tell them that he was going back into the field. It had been vague, where he was going, but he'd said something about scuba lessons and locating ancient coastlines. "Maybe he's got a girlfriend," Joe had said, "And he's off to Aruba for a little extracurricular research." Richard did seem energized, and Ben thought that maybe Joe was right. But their Dad had stayed away for a long time, and when he finally came back the cough he carried turned into pneumonia and that turned worse and this morning they laid him to rest.

Here on the table lies a final moment between a father and his sons. There's a carved wooden mask (Balinese), a small wooden box covered with strips of paper (Japanese), series of ivory netsuke (Japanese), and a leather bound book of charts (Portuguese). The smell of antiquity is strong; it brings the men back to their childhoods, when they were scolded for playing with the things Daddy brought home.

"Yeah, you're right. It's not much," says Ben.

"There's more. Books. I'll get them."

"No, don't worry. You keep the books. That's okay with me." Ben looks at the things on the table. Just a week ago he'd held his dying father's hand, talked with him about life in the field, about how it wasn't that different, except maybe for cell phones. Yeah, he thinks, maybe I will take something, a memento of sorts. There's a knock from the doorway.

"Joseph tells me that these things are really quite valuable, but they look like junk to me." It's Regina. Ben can feel the atmosphere in the room change tenor, from warm to cold. He turns to his sister-in-law. She's wearing a simple black dress, a single pearl at her neck and pearl drops on her ears. Her bottle-gold hair is piled, shiny loose curls held by a chopstick, he thinks. "How are you?" she says, then looks at him, waiting for his rebuttal.

"Hello." There. His obligation has been met, his word to his brother kept. He picks up the beer bottle and takes a long pull. Thinks maybe there's more beer to be found in the probably British fridge. Did Aga make refrigerators?

"I'm sorry I exited so quickly from the funeral," she says, smoothing her dress. "I had to return here to get things ready for later, make sure that staff and catering were prepared. Joseph, our guests will be arriving in a half-hour. Is that what you're going to wear?"

Yes, thinks Ben. More beer might still my emotions, keep me occupied enough so as not to make a scene. Don't want too much, though. No sense getting pissed and then having to spend the night. But how to get past her without, you know, touching her? And does the skin actually have to be broken for Evil to enter? Or is a simple touch enough to transfer its foul blackness?

"I said, 'How are you,' Benjamin. How is Rachel? I should have thought that she'd have been at the interment."

"Regina, don't," Joe says.

"Oh, dear, I forgot!" she says. "I'm so sorry, Benjamin. I just forgot that, you know... that you'd... you know, the divorce and all that..."

It's a big house, Ben thinks. I could take a lot of the beer and go off somewhere, load up and sleep it off and nobody would know. He looks at Joe. "I should get going," he says. "Plane to catch, you know. Sorry I can't stay, thanks for the beer."

The look on his brother's face tells a gilded cage story. The house, the prestige... they come at a cost. He comes close to Ben, hugs him, embraces him and holds him for a long quiet time. "Yeah," he says. "There's that thing you have to get to, with the pictures, the taking pictures thing. Let's put you in the other limo, we've got them rented for the rest of the day. Go, get to the airport."

And that's it, he thinks. They turn and walk past Regina and her small open smile. Back out into the long corridor, through the United Kitchen and down the three steps, carefully. He'd thought he was good, doing fine until she'd brought up Rachel. Looks at his brother. "She's evil, you know," he says.

"No," says his brother, "She plain just doesn't like you. Take the limo, go on home. I kinda have to stay here and pretend everything's okay."

"Yeah." He stares out at the rain.

Rachel and Ben had been together for four years. They'd met in Boston, fallen in love and got married. She was an art historian, did a lot of restoration work for the Museum of Fine Arts. Two years ago they'd started trying for a family. In May Ben had come home from a trip to find her in coitus with somebody he didn't know. That's about as much as he cared to remember about the whole relationship. She'd thrown something at him, a tube of gesso. "I'm not having your babies."

Loss echoes through his head for a while. Dad dead, Rachel gone... yeah, great day. I wish I still smoked, he thinks. Maybe I can get some more of those beers without being noticed. Then the limo pulls around and the gray-suited man opens the door and Ben gets in and the car takes him away from back to his apartment. During the ride he shuts down his thoughts, focuses on nothing and lets his mind wander the complexities of the limousine's well-stocked bar. It takes less than an hour for the long car to make it around the city and up to his apartment, and Ben thanks the chauffeur for such a pleasant trip.

Home. Closing the door to his apartment shuts out all the distractions. I can think again, he thinks, as he walks to the bedroom. Takes off his jacket and impulsively smells it, lingering on the hints of fresh earth smell from this morning. It feels like there's something in the pocket, so he reaches in and pulls out a small wooden box covered with strips of paper (Japanese).

It's not a mystery for very long. He hadn't taken anything off the table, distracted by the sudden appearance of his sister-in-law. But then Joe had hugged him, and he must have slipped the box into his pocket, a small act of fraternal unity in rebellion. Fight the good fight, brother, he thinks. Sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the artifact. The box is dark, weathered wood, maybe six inches square by three inches high. The paper strips are old, and there are faint markings on them. Kanji, he thinks, Japanese writing. This is an interesting puzzle. Could it be a miniature tea chest or something? He gets up and walks into the light of the living room, looks at the box from every angle. Shakes it gently, gives it a smell. Nothing comes immediately to mind, so he puts the box on a display shelf. Tomorrow, perhaps, after sleep, anyway, he'll look at it more closely. Whatever's inside, because it feels like there's something in there, might be rare and valuable. Might be cool.

Back to the daily grind. Dad's really gone, he thinks, but I do have things to take care of. Fires up the computer, opens his calendar. The dates blur together, tasks and to-do's lose relevance compared to the fresh memory of the funeral. Something else to do, perhaps? The hall closet holds cleaning supplies, and he gets bucket, mop and detergent and starts in the kitchen. The regularity of the movements provide comfort, and the day passes with him, through the central dining room and forward into the living room. Bathroom, bedroom, hallway. Hardwood floors shine, the walls are scrubbed and every surface dusted. He stands a while in the living room, staring into his past, the feeling of his father's hand so callused and frail, that last smile and the peaceful sleep that continues now forever and if there is a God, with his mother again. It's dark outside. He orders a pizza and eats alone in front of the TV, stretches, yawns.

Banal-time. He brushes his teeth, changes into night clothes, and goes to bed.

Sleep doesn't come right away, of course. Thoughts of Rachel, her laugh and the way she had of tilting her head to one side when she was working... and then there was that adorable way she had of fucking other guys, too.

Was it me? he asks, not for the first time. He tries to clear his thoughts of his ex-wife by replacing the pain with visions of his sister-in-law's demise. Eaten by a crocodile, perhaps, or maybe hit by a meteor. Car crash? Whatever. It's childish, but it passes the time. The sheets are cool and clean. Moonlight peeks into the room, and the clock reads two-thirty in the morning. Why had Joe passed the box to him? It fit the pocket of his jacket, he figures. What will the repercussions be? There's no chance that Regina will overlook the missing item. Well, Joe's not totally broken. He just knows when to pick his battles. Did Dad go to Japan on this last trip? Or is the box from an older journey? When was I in Japan...? That was a nice flight. I should get a dog or something. Inu, in Japanese. Ha! I still remember. I should get some kind of award for remembering. I could hang it on the wall. I should repaint the walls, too. Maybe new carpet. Carpet.

Sleep.

The moonlight trawls across the room, leaving no tracks for its journey. In the living room, a sliver of light hits a corner of the box. Century-old kanji flares from obscurity, darkening and spreading across the paper. The box rotates, aligning with some line that human eyes cannot see. A battle is being fought, and the strip of kanji-paper loses and the brushstrokes fade. A razor-thin tear appears on the paper at the join of the top and bottom halves of the box. From within, an impossible sound like a giant's gong comes, unheard and once only. Neighborhood dogs bark.

This is not a fast battle, and the moonlight pulls away and off the box. Silence returns as the dogs go back to sleep. On the other side of the world, alarms go off.

Prologue: Hakodate, Japan 1854

2010-11-10T08:59:00.001-05:00

Segawa looked out over the harbor. Halfway up Hakodateyama, his view was that of a gull's, the dark hard blue of the sea below deceptively calm as the ships lay at anchor. Black ships, full of gaijin, fire and promise. Though he'd been in Hakodate for twenty-five years, the monk had never been to sea on a ship. He wondered what it would feel like to be standing on the pitching deck of the huge black vessel, with wind and spray as his companions.

"Perhaps I should write a poem," he thought. "But there is too much to do." He laughed, marveling at how easily he'd become distracted. "I should return to the temple as a novice." He put notions of seafaring from his mind, and turned back to the climb. There was a small trail cut, and he made his way up and through the scrub pines to a small clearing. This was the simple camp where he'd spent the last three days, waiting for his Master to return. Two young men were there, initiate monks from his temple, musty and ancient Shogakuin nestled among the small farms to the north. They were keeping busy tending the small fire and preparing some tea.

"Has there been any signal?" Segawa said. Tokuta, the smaller man, set the iron teapot on a flat stone and then bowed. "No, master," he said. Segawa looked up at the sun and judged another hour until midday. "There should have been a signal," he said. He sighed quietly and rolled his neck against the stress he felt. His Master, his friend for almost forty years, was most likely in trouble. "Get your things ready," he pointed further up the mountain. "We have to go up there."

The monks had come here to Hakodateyama to bind an Oni, or demon. It wasn't typical of their duties, which lay more along the path to Enlightenment, but the governor had insisted that this particular Oni be quieted while the gaijin were here on their visit. It wouldn't do, the monks had been told, for the Oni to visit with the barbarians. Such a meeting could cause Hakodate, and perhaps the whole prefecture to lose face and perhaps many lives. It had also been hinted that the Shogun himself had declared that where the gaijin went, demons should be bound and quieted, that the two might not see each other and become friendly.

So Segawa and his brothers had come, knowing what to do, but not knowing how to get the job done.

The younger monks were local and they knew well this Oni. For generations it had devastated the surrounding countryside, the city along the water's edge. Huge, terrible and bent with foul savage need to have its appetites sated, the tales of generations spoke only of terror and uncertain truces, years of prosperity punctuated by horrible visitations. Upon learning that they were going on this mission, the young monks did their best to hide their fears, but almost at once they began whispering between themselves, comparing the stories of their childhoods: Embetsu village where the men had been killed, eaten and the women raped; the Fuyutski family made to kill and eat one another until finally Grandmother Fuyutski killed herself after plucking out her own eyes; the squid fleet where the fishermen returned insane, piratical and drooling with madness. Later, packed and walking through the gates of Shogakuin, they were in agreement: This Oni was terrifying. By the time they had reached the foot of Hakodateyama four days ago, they were half-petrified. Enlightenment had become suddenly too dangerous.

Segawa also felt fear. Far older than his charges, he had seen too many Oni in action to think that this small group would be able to do anything more than die in the service of the Emperor. Perhaps, he thought, a poem will be written in our honor. He smiled, then spat. Damn, he thought. I should have said good-bye to Ayumi-chan. Better to die the morning after a good romp. Damn. He was still swearing at himself, thoughts wrapped up in the soft silks of Ayumi's kimono when he heard the steps of his Master. He turned and bowed.

Matsumura Toshiaki had been a soldier, a teacher, and a monk. He walked like a monk, looked like a teacher and swore like a soldier. He had been the master of Shogakuin for thirty years, and he particularly hated this Oni. He smiled and returned the bow of his friend. "Ah, Segawa-kun, let's play with the balls of a demon today, shall we?"

"Master! You desire to come on this journey?" Segawa said.

"My old friend, I, too have orders I must follow," He grunted to the young monks, who had been standing respectfully some distance away, heads bowed. They immediately gathered up the supplies and began hiking the trail up the mountain. He looked up towards the summit and thought a moment. "And I have to say, I really hate that steaming mound of shit. Of course I'm coming. Besides, I haven't bound a demon in years, and I've got a few things collected that I'd really like to use on him. I've been told that they're painful as hell." He smiled broadly and slapped Segawa on the shoulder. "And it's a good day to die, isn't that what we should say?"

And so they went, two old men and two young men on their way to face death. The climb to the camp had taken most of the first day, and the stories they told each other served to allay any fears. Segawa and Matsumura had known each other since they were boys in Aomori, across the channel and on the main island of Honshu. Segawa was a farmer's son who joined the monastery young, while his friend had served in the Shogun's armies as a footsoldier until an injury turned him to the path of teaching. A disagreement fatal to another teacher then sent Matsumura to the monastery.

But his had not been the only exciting life – Segawa had travelled the length of Nihon, searching for enlightenment and inner harmony but usually finding himself in the arms of some woman or another, and his escapes had become legendary over the years.

"So the house was on fire and yet you stayed hiding in the chest?" Matsumura said. "What were you thinking?"

"Remember, Master, that her husband was an archer of no little skill! I can still hear him laughing, you know. He laughed while the place burned, an arrow ready to meet me if I showed myself. I really thought I was going to die, that time."

"But how did you escape?"

"I'd like to say that I braved his marksmanship, but the truth is that his daughter helped me out somewhat."

"Daughter?" Matsumura looked at his friend in surprise. "Don't tell me that you bedded her, too!"

"Indeed, that was how I met the wife. Mother. Both, I guess. I did not think that the girl would be so... enthusiastic during our lovemaking. We were overheard, and then joined... but later discovered. And while the husband waited for me to flee the flames, my darling Chisako apparently took a rock of some weight to the back of his head. Over the flames I heard her screaming to me, telling me to run, to go to the river, that she'd meet me there..."

"And you ran?"

"Like a rabbit. Not to the river, though, but to the gates. It is shameful, but I had no fancy to see that family again, no matter how sweet the women. I never did see either of them again, nor another day in that prefecture."

"I'd sooner face cavalry than an angry husband – and father, too!" Matsumura laughed aloud. "You're a full cock waiting to spit seed, my friend."

"I was, Master. My days of chasing young flesh are long over." Segawa wore a tired smile.

"But what of Hasegawa-san? Surely you enjoy her company?"

"What! Ayumi-chan? She I do not chase... no, ours is more... mature. Yes, mature. I'm an old man, and she knows how to keep me warm."

Matsumura laughed. He said the word "mature" several times, and laughed some more. Then they walked together in silence for the remainder of the journey. Night fell as they made their small camp, and Matsumura shifted the tone of things. He looked at the two young monks, Tokuta and Seiji, neither one past seventeen years old, neither one experienced in the ways of life beyond a day's journey from Hakodate.

"You," he addressed them both. "Tomorrow will see the start of a little excitement." He smiled. "Are you ready?" The two young men bowed, but Matsumura knew they were terrified. "Come. Let's set this tea aside for something a little more fitting for men about to see battle." He pulled out a bottle. "There's no need to bow tonight," he told them, "for tonight we are not monks, but instead brothers. Tokuta -- stop that shivering and tell me instead about that girl..." He passed around the bottle, and as the night turned darker the conversation turned lighter until the young men felt that they just might live to see the temple again. Segawa was sure to see that they did not get drunk, but rather bolstered by the effects of the liquor and stories from days gone by.

"They try to get you with their eyes, the bastards," Matsumura was saying, "Because they can make their eyes so damn big. Nothing as unnerving as looking at an eye the size of a tit. And they hate when you squeeze them like a tit, too. Still, if you can do it and live to tell the story, you've had a good day. So remember that most of what these Oni do is try to trick you. Basically though, they're just shits. There are a few, though, that you need to look out for. Like the bastard we're after come tomorrow. Old as the goddess, and a real pain. Thinks that we're here for his amusement."

"The Oni has taken many from the city, Master," said Seiji, "my great-grandfather told stories of a ghost castle built of bones standing here long before the coming of the Children of the Sun."

"Oh, he's nothing but a fuck gone all wrong," said Matsumura. "Ghost castle, indeed. He extorts his tribute because he's not strong enough to destroy the city outright. Sure, he'd probably raze half of it, maybe a little more, maybe kill a few thousand people and eat the crops, but at what cost? He'd be so spent that he wouldn't show his skin for the next ten years. And then some other shit of an Oni would come calling, to see if this is a nice place for him. Like rutting bears, is what they are. And with those black-ship sailing amerika-jin here, well, I can see where things might go wrong."

"Master, aren't the gaijin nearly Oni themselves?"

"They're men, Seiji. That's pretty obvious. Let's not start worrying about them just now." He sniffed. "Morning comes. Let's get a little sleep -- you may be young enough not to need sleep, but an old man like me needs plenty. But I need some time to think. I'll keep watch while you sleep and I'll wake you in a few hours." Segawa smiled to himself at the ruse. Rested and full of their Master's calm bravery, they would be good help come the morning. He banked the fire and then walked a short distance off as the young men closed their eyes. Sleep came to them quickly.

Away from the fire, he heard his master approach. "They will do well," he said. "But what of you? You should be sleeping, too, at your age." Again, Matsumura laughed quietly.

"Oh, I won't be sleeping for some days to come. I have too much to do." He touched his friend's arm. "Come, walk with me. I need to go over my plan..."

That had been three nights ago. The plan was complex, and a good part of it hinged on Matsumura's signal, which had not yet arrived. So Segawa, Tokuta and Seiji readied themselves. Seiji strung a long bow and inspected it along with three long, black-shafted arrows. Tokuta put on black hakama, thick skirt-like pants, over his gi. Thick leather gloves lay nearby. Segawa prepared a tea from a long list of exotic herbs that his master had given him. They did not speak, but each rehearsed his role in his mind. Seiji closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, and Tokuta stretched.

For a long hour, the three men collected their thoughts, until Segawa spoke. "It's time." He picked up the iron teapot, shrugged the aches from his shoulders, and once again followed the trail. The others fell in with him. Their goal lay several hundred yards farther up, a cave on the west face of the mountain. The sun was two hours above the horizon, and the air was still warm from the afternoon. The cry of a gull sounded faint against their thoughts as their focus narrowed to the task at hand.

They were not far from the cave mouth when they began to hear a great row coming from within. Tokuta looked at Segawa. "Sensei, did I just hear...?"

Segawa hid a smile. "Yes, son, you did. Your Master, he... well, he was a soldier once. I do not think he ever really left the ranks." The hard mocking shouts came again from the black entrance.

"You have no mother! I mean it! And have you ever bedded the female of your kind? Tell me! I think that I can help you with that!" Matsumura's voice was laughter, his tone derisive. "What? What was that? Was that an attack? Let me know, in case I have to, I don't know, parry it or something." And thus the battle raged, unseen but heard, perhaps clear down to the ships at anchor far below, thought Segawa. Muffled godlike thunder shook the ground from below, and was it heat they were feeling, as from a fire they could not see? For another hour and more this storm raged, Matsumura laughing, cursing and falling silent in cycles of combat that had little to do with sword and spear. And then the world contracted, the very light itself bending and pinching towards a distant center. With a snap the pinch released, returned the world to normal in a rippling that left the men breathless.

"I think we have our signal," Segawa said. "You know what to do. Seiji-san, position yourself along that rise... and Tokuta-san, keep your eyes peeled. You won't have much time to collect what you have to. Go!" Young men are too fast, he thought as they took position before he'd finished. He looked at them proudly. In the last few days, they'd been more interested in learning than in talking about their fears. Segawa had been able to teach them some of what he knew from his travels and previous Bindings. They'd listened and asked good questions, and then meditated on the answers. He had no doubt they would do well.

"You really do smell like shit, like a really bad shit after three or four days of drinking," Matsumura shouted. "Runny, cold shit that --" There was an explosion, an earthshaking thunderclap from the cave and a great gout of flame. The men could hear nothing but the ringing in their ears. Smoke began drifting out of the cave, twisting and swirling towards the darkening sky. Segawa checked his men; they were still ready, though Tokuta's hakama and gi appeared to be singed. The smoke thinned, the sky darkened, the silence was vast.

"That hurt." Segawa whirled at Matsumura's voice next to him. The old Master looked frail and exhausted. Blood, some his, some not, covered his leg. It looked like his arm was broken. "But I think it worked." His eyes were still keen and lively. "Tokuta!" he barked, "Get in there and collect the Binding. Stay sharp! You don't want to breathe that smoke, and you sure as hell don't want to touch anything with your bare skin. Seiji! Relax your shoulders, boy! You have one shot. Unless it's good Tokuta, you shoot it first, and then ask me if it was the right thing to do."

"And you, Segawa-kun. I need that tea, if you have it nearby." He moved carefully as he sat on the ground. "Yes, that tea would be very good just now. I'm getting too old for this shit, you know."

"Yes, I remember telling you that once or twice, you old fool." Segawa poured and passed the tea. "Drink this. Let me look at that arm, too. Oh, you need a doctor, I'd say. We've got to close up the wound on your leg, too."

"Not bad, considering," said Matsumura.

"No, I suppose not."

As they sat and drank tea, the other men returned. Seiji kept a close watch on the cave should anything try to make a belated escape, and Tokuta held in his gloved hands a white object about the size of his own fist, a white, twisted skein of rock that did not reflect that waning rays of the sun.

"It moves," said Tokuta, "twists in my hands and is hard to hold."

"I know," said Matsumura, "that's the shit-pile trying to escape. His essence, his very life-force, trapped in the dense threads of the Binding. Here, put the damn thing in here." He kicked a small wooden box to Tokuta. The stone fit closely, and seemed to stretch to fit its confines before the lid was closed. Segawa quickly stuck many strips of paper on the outside of the box, paper covered with kanji.

"Will these spells hold the Oni?" he asked.

"Those spells will hold for a long time," said Matsumura. "I got them from a priest in Esashi, a priest who's been dealing with Oni like this for more than my lifetime. But your caution is wise, my friend. We need to find some other way to make sure that our prisoner here doesn't accidentally get out and return to his lair up in that cave. He can't be reborn as long as his trapped essence is far away from the seat of his power. We need to get this box safely well away from here."

"I could bring it to my Uncle in Roppongi, Master," said Seiji, "He has a great stone room with only one door, and he carries the only key. I would consider it an honor," he bowed deeply.

"That's a good idea, son. But I think we need to think a little... hey, I really hurt the thing. I can't truly kill him, but I did hurt him. He's trying to escape, to reunite with his cooling body even now. We need to get this stone far away from his home, far away from here."

"Far away?" asked Segawa. There was a long pause as they all looked out across the harbor. The black ships bobbed at anchor.

"I've known the harbor since I was a child," said Tokuta, "I'm very familiar with the tide and currents..."

Matsumura smiled. "I understand that America is a long way away."

"What if the gaijin and the Oni do become allies?" Segawa said.

"Right now, I don't care if they fall in love and have many children. By the time it becomes a problem, our bones will be dust. Tokuta, I can only tell you that if you're caught by the gaijin... well, don't get caught."

And then the sun set.

Life goes on, of course

2010-11-01T10:05:00.000-04:00

It's strange not to have a pet. I suppose that we'll restock the castle bestiary some day, probably some day sooner than expected, and then I'll wonder why we did such a thing. Cats are not generally considered noisy animals, but the Main Keep seems so much quieter without the resident feline.

But like the title says, life goes on. We're adjusting to the silence, learning to move on despite the hurt. Kind of have to, really. The Universe doesn't really stop to care. So I'm back to GRE-ing, which I mention only because it's guaranteed to bring in spam comments. I love it. I type the letters GRE and then I get a nice little note saying "Your writes are such nicely done, and here's a site where I studyed for take GRE" and if I follow the link I can get a free website and maybe even a bride.

Anybody know where I should start researching getting a dog in the MA area?

Looks like I'm not handling the void so well. I've had a pet of some kind for most of my life, and not having one just leaves me feeling like I'm missing a limb.

Well, my brain isn't filling itself with arcane math facts. I'm-a go back to my books.

More Later.

Death Comes to Cornerlot

2010-10-29T11:59:00.000-04:00

We had to say good-bye to the castle feline this morning.

Some seventeen years ago she came knocking at our door. A fine Southern kitty of impeccable manners, she asked for shelter on a rainy day. From North Carolina she came with us to New Hampshire, and then on to Massachusetts, where she admitted confusion over the mores of the community.

As the family grew, she took to being a good surrogate mother. The Heiresses were as her kittens, and as the years passed, they made her proud. She made us proud, too, with her dignity and calm demeanor. Calm except when she had to go to the vet for her annual checkups - the vet actually tagged her folder with a large warning - but she was more talk than action.

She's gone now. We all stayed with her until the end, saying our good-byes as best we could, but of course there's never enough time to do it right. The Heiresses continued to make her proud to the last.

Have fun, Dixie. I'll see you later.

Feeling GREat

2010-10-27T16:03:00.000-04:00

My brain hurts.

I've been trying to pack in as much as I can, but nothing seems to be sticking. Evidently, some past trauma has made it nigh impossible for me to retain certain "math facts" in a reasonable manner. I've been working away on the GRE study guides as diligently and optimistically as possible, but I don't seem to be actually retaining anything. This could be a problem.

I don't need to store this stuff away for the long haul, only until test time, which gives me about a month. A month to drill drill drill and test test test. Ouch. But there is some good news in all of this, and that's that I don't suck as horribly as I thought I would. Sure, I'm not scoring in the high percentiles, but I'm nowhere near the bottom of the pile, and for me, that's 100% Pure Win.

Note to self: Also remember to study for the non-math portion.

Now I need to SS&S in preparation for another night at the awesome restaurant. Calgon - take me away.

Countdown

2010-10-13T09:30:00.000-04:00

Not the Final Countdown, no.

Lucky me, I've been busy of late with some freelance and then a nice visit from my family. Were it that each and every day was so full of happiness and focus. But not each day is, and today's the poster child for that reality. It's back to The Routine, back to a nice full slate at the Awesome Restaurant. Oh, how I look forward to it.

Well, it'll be interesting. But most importantly it will (with luck and skill) be more profitable than just sitting here doing... whatever it is that I might otherwise do. So I check my emotions at the door and go forth to do my best.

There is a countdown, and not for work. Not directly, anyway. Things haven't really changed of late here in scenic Cornerlot, and this can no longer stand. I can't just sit here and lather and rinse repeatedly, hoping that maybe someone will actually make a hiring decision. So I've decided to take things in a different direction.

The GRE will be involved. I have scant weeks to prepare for the test, time in which I will have to revisit and relearn, however briefly, things I last regarded some two decades ago. Despite the rumors flying around, I'm feeling pretty confident. I've been in the thick of the free market and made my haven; I think a test will be doable.

Academia is involved, though, so I cannot relax entirely.

Posting will now resume its sporadic nature.

Not A Bag Man

2010-10-07T11:52:00.000-04:00

I'm not the bad guy here.

I don't know that there really is a bad guy in this scenario, per se, but then I'll let you all try to figure that one out. I was just in my local MegaSuperMarket, on one of my three-times-per-week-visits-because-nobody-in-scenic-Cornerlot-eats-the-same-food-dammit, and as my checkout lane progressed to my turn, the bagger went away to someplace not the bagging station of my checkout lane.

Normally, I just proceed to bag my stuff and have done with it, but today a confluence of conditions arrived which left me with C) I don't particularly care to do that today. So I stood at the payment station of the lane and thought my thinky thoughts while the cashier tallied my goods and then went to the bagging station and bagged them. She may have huffed, but I don't care.

The woman behind me, Methuselah's great aunt, gave me a cold and unfeeling stare that I believe was designed to chastise me for my sloth.

Hang on a moment, let me take a look at my paystub from MegaSuperMarket: Oh, that's right, I don't have one, because I don't work for MegaSuperMarket. I have no actual responsibility to bag anything, the same as I don't have any responsibility to shelve anything, to negotiate with farmers, to lock the place up at night.

I don't have to bag. I often do - and yet not once have I received a "hey, thanks for the help, sir - you didn't have to bag your groceries, but I really appreciate that you did."

I may never bag another item there again, such is my wrath. Which shows how vast my life truly is.

The Course of Someone's Life

2010-10-06T11:48:00.002-04:00

First Installment

Tokyo: Thursday, October 17 2002

Does this happen to other people, she wonders. The office, the building where she's been working hasn't changed, yet it has taken on a whole new feeling to her, something remote and colorless. Where she'd been excited each day to come in to work, now she has a vague dread. When did this happen? Did it happen overnight, or did the color fade slowly, like a photograph in a window? Is she, Yukie Ueto, the almost-forty-year-old seiyuu, or voice actress, idol to the otaku and watchers of anime across Japan and around the world, faded of color? The characters she plays have drained her of herself, and there's an echo within that is unfamiliar. She looks at her phone for the third time, see that she still isn't late despite the slowness of her pace. Nothing to do but keep going, she thinks.

The building is ordinary for this part of the city, twenty-five floors of various offices sandwiched between mismatched brethren holding essentially the same mishmash of small companies. Failing magazines and rising internet developers, architects and who knows what other businesses. She hasn't paid that much attention even though she's been coming three days a week for nearly two years. The glass entryway, protected from sun and rain beneath the bulk of the building above reflects the same people, the same faces, the same inertia that now seems monochrome and pointless to her. In the shade she hesitates before going in, looks at her half-reflection in the windows, ghostlike and without definition or substance.

A little each day

2010-10-01T13:07:00.000-04:00

This wind isn't kidding around. It's not the brute punch of a hurricane or tornado, but more like a pissed off zephyr to whom you owe money. A slap here, a kick there and the next thing you know there's a branch in the yard and the garbage cans are halfway down the street.

I was talking with a friend today, someone whose ride just got a lot harder. Being egocentric (read: human) I kind of figured that my onus was the tough one. Turns out it's just a question of scale, and I really don't have it all that horrible - I'm just a pussy.

But from this friend came the good advice: Write something each day. Oh, shut up, I know that you know that I already know this. But since I've been wrapped up in my cocoon of misery I've stopped feeling optimistic, stopped thinking that I might even have some minor chops in the writing department. I haven't committed anything seriously to paper in a year (though I have pages of notes - I hope that counts for something) and when I think about actually doing the work... I panic.

Because I have it in my head that I suck.

I hope to change that self-perception. I have stories to tell, even if there's no-one who cares to hear them.

Now I have to batten down those hatches again. I'll teach those hatches.

Did Thing B

2010-09-29T23:26:00.001-04:00

One day I'll have figured shit out.

Until that day, I'm just going to keep on keeping on, working at life like it's some scaled-up Choose Your Own Adventure. Today I decided to Do Thing B (go to page 143) which meant I survived the challenge and could then opt to Do Thing C (go to page 170).

I'm considering altering my decision-making process. Instead of applying thought and even a hint of logic to the challenges, I may just decide to go with all Do Thing A for a week or two. I'm not altogether worried about winding up dead due to these decisions (face it, my life is essentially risk-negligible, knock on wood), but I may wind up with something other than the standard, sub-standard reward option.

Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that life and game are serious fucking analogs. And where there's a game, there's a reward. Unless the game is being played in the People's Republic of Cambridge, where "winning" and "losing" have been abolished as unrealistic. They have been replaced with "taxes" for "something."

Like I say, one day I'll have figured shit out. Until then, I'm just going to keep turning the pages and seeing what happens.

More Later.

Signpost 480

2010-09-23T10:11:00.001-04:00

Nearly a week since my last post - has it been so long already? It's not as though I'm here to announce that I've made a breakthrough in my research and that the Time Machine is nearing its nonhuman beta-testing phase. But it has been a full week, what with the awesome restaurant apprehending so much of my time (for so little return) and then the normal, daily rigors of family and castle.

If you had told me two and a half years ago that I'd still be sitting here looking, hoping and praying for a job... I think I would have believed you. Conditionally, anyway. But my guess then was tempered by an optimism that figured something would have happened. I mean, hard-luck stories are for other people, right? Right?

But the process has been transformative. Continues to be. One hopes that the transformation will result in something positive, a force for good in this changing world.

Unrelated: If one more person tells me that it must be fun to work at an awesome restaurant, I will punch them at least six times. It is not fun. There are moments of fun, to be sure but the overall assessment is that it is not fun. So please stop.

Good thing I was told that the recession is over, because I missed that happening. Something about scouting out park benches for the family to call home.

My attention has been taken by something else now. More Later.

Thoughtgun Blast*

2010-09-17T08:59:00.002-04:00

Just a couple of things in my head, all rattling around and giving me a headache.

Global Climate Catastrophe
The word on the street is that Our Mr. Sun might be going into a period of sunspot-less-ness. Apparently this will lead to a cooler period here on Blessed Mother Gaia. Thanks for the heads-up on that one, Mr. Gore.

If this is the case, then doesn't it make sense then that She'd be prepping herself for the cold snap? By warming up a little bit? I'm not assigning anthropomorphic behaviors here, I'm thinking that if a system has been around for billions of years, then the system might just have survived by adapting to local conditions. It's a stretch, I know. A huge stretch. But remember, I'm the layman here, sitting around in the middle of the curve trying not to hurt myself too much with the whole thinking thing.

Elections
The Primary season is winding down, but the punditry will be chattering for weeks to come. Punditry on all sides, of course. Some think the citizenry have gone insane by voting against the current system, some think we've gone insane by voting for the current system, and some think we've gone insane by voting, period.

My stance is simple: My life has been fucked up royally over the last two years, thanks to this economy. I want to see new faces, because I know what's been happening with the old ones. And note to the new faces: If I keep getting fucked, I keep looking for new faces.

A sentence I've never written before, ever.

Sports
The Patriots face the Jets this weekend. The Bears will be playing essentially against themselves, because my guess is that they are their own worst opponent. These are the games that interest me, and the ones I will be following. Also, the Red Sox are 6 games back in the wildcard with 16 to play. Who. Cares.

Food
Heiress 1 has suggested we invite friends over to celebrate the culinary wonders of bacon. My children are geniuses.

Now I'm going to go study basic math skills, even though I give half a shit about the value of x.

*props to atom smasher over at Men Are Not Potatoes

Urban Awesomosity

2010-09-13T12:12:00.000-04:00

I choo-choo-choose you!

Had to head into the city this morning woo-hoo. I'm never entirely excited by the prospect of going into any city, never mind Boston, but today's overcast and chill made it feel more... real, somehow. The train ride in was precisely what it should have been: fast enough to be efficient, slow enough to give my brain time to prepare for my meeting.

That's right, another meeting with another placement agency.

This group differentiates itself via its name, which is vaguely reminiscent of '60s-era fashion and thigh-high vinyl boots, but the people I met with were warm and encouraging. Which is precisely why they're in those positions. "Of course we're placing people every day, Mr. Scotaku! I have no doubt that we can find you something very soon! Also, we'll fly you home on our very own winged horse! Would you care for some coffee?"

But what can I say. I did my best, as always. I can only hope that this time things turn out with me getting a job. Which may well be a working definition of insanity*. But in looking at it through my new Eyes of Seeing (+1 for optimism) I recognize this as a small side-quest that will somehow relate to my larger pursuit. Grinding isn't just working the mines for loot, folks. Sometimes you have to head into the Megalopolis and speak with every NPC you come across.

Now I'm back in my Home Base, attending to an ailing (but recuperating!) Heiress.

More Later.

*Insanity being doing the same thing again and again, each time hoping for a different result.

Nine Years Later...

2010-09-11T07:54:00.000-04:00

...and I haven't forgotten.

I will never forget, of course. I don't need a bumper sticker, poster, or rally to help me remember what happened that day. I will remember, and I will make certain that my children - so very young nine years ago - will properly learn what happened and what it means.

I will not cower, hide and try to be meek. Neither will my children.

We are Americans. And that means you underestimate us.

Analyzing Relativity

2010-09-10T10:09:00.000-04:00

Surprise! Another slow period in the ongoing saga. It's cool, though, so no worries. I've spent the last few days doing a different type of grinding, one less likely to provide immediate loot but more likely to provide an epic drop. I managed to pick up a few freelance leads which so far have provided me with a little ego-massage, but will only provide me with filthy lucre in the weeks and months to come.

Should be handy when the snows start to fly.

The Heiresses are benefitting from a relaxed Indoctrination schedule, wherein they attended two days at the State Academy and have since had time off. I understand that my friends from the Other Tribe are celebrating their New Year, and I don't have a problem with that, but it worries me that the kids are going to think that the two days on - two days off thing will be the standard moving forward. Besides, they're consuming/breaking all my stuff. Quo Vadis?

I'm still amazed at how we alter our perception of time depending on circumstance. The time spent with the Heiresses or Co-Regent speeds past, but then again when there's deviltry afoot, it plods and becomes a thick, viscous goo. I do not like goo. And I think about the days I've spent here in the High Tower of scenic Cornerlot, plotting my revenge and dark gain, and I realize that I've spent two-plus years doing... a lot of plotting, but what else? What have I done with the time I've had?

That's the frustrated scotaku talking. I really have got a lot accomplished, I just fail to deem any of it as "justified." Which is why I've accepted this new quest line, wherein I approach things, life and whatnot from a less bitter and pessimistic perspective. Worry not, though. As a certified Curmudgeon, I'm still full of vitriol and spite.

I need to work on my new Character Class, though. Need to decide what my new direction will be, and how best to attain decent stats. Grinding only gets you so far.

More Later

Secret Techniques

2010-09-07T09:23:00.000-04:00

Today I grind. I recognize that for the main, we all have a level of tediousness to our daily lives no matter what we do. While playing an earlier expansion pack, my character was an actor, and even if you think that's exciting work, it's really a lot of repetition and boredom punctuated by a few exciting moments of glory. The heady days of graphic design were for me long days sitting peppered here and there with turn-based combat versus bitter clients/art directors. No matter what we do, we have to work work work in order to get the loot.

Once in a while we're lucky enough to pick up something epic.

But today, I feel, will be just gold-farming, which is okay. Lord knows scenic Cornerlot can use a few ducats. If only I was getting dollars (ba-bing!).

Speaking of leveling, the Heiresses have begun their training anew, and each has successfully made it to their respective Indoctrination Camps. I understand that this year they will learn about feelings and self-esteem. No worries, though. Here in Cornerlot I have established a secondary academy, with a focus on history, mathematics, reading, writing, and the proper handling of firearms. Because one day my Heiresses will be Ladies, and I want them to be able to think well, to speak well, and to be able to protect themselves. Secret courses in esoteric kung fu techniques have been hinted at.

Now I must gird myself.

Geeked.

2010-09-06T12:30:00.002-04:00

I am a geek.

For years, due to various obligations, I had set aside my essential geek nature in lieu of something more "mainstream" and "accepted." Now, however, with little to nothing to show for said highly-tuned characterization, I have decided to return to the safe harbor of my essential character.

I am otaku.

My literature has been rearranged, bringing the Gibson (William) and DeLint (Charles) and Stephenson (Neal) out of the shadows and to the fore. My wee manga collection has been set in the sunshine, and my treasured Penny Arcade and Megatokyo books are now out from hiding. I share XKCD with as many people as I can.

Nerd.

Games I once reveled in have been rescued from the dampness. Version 4 rulebooks? Bitches, I have Version 1. I love the Wii, but it pales next to Axis & Allies (original rules). Traveller, Gamma World, Hârn, Magic decks from the Dark Ages... all this has been sitting idle, waiting for my Christopher Robin to walk back into the woods and say, "Shit yeah, I remember this."

Don't worry, though. I'm not going to go all hermit and set up a camp in the Wood and scratch out a manifesto. What I'm doing is realizing that a huge part of me has been set aside (and it was done for good reason and to good effect) and now I'm cleaning off that Geek and bringing him into the light.

I am Scotaku, and I'm here for the duration. Soon enough my tabletop history will be appended with a new, digital section and the saga will continue. I am become me.

Equilibriumed.

2010-09-06T11:26:00.000-04:00

What's exciting is knowing that I have a long road ahead. Whether it's the continued job-seeking thing, or the preparations for graduate school, or even just the day-to-day management of scenic Cornerlot, knowing that I have so much to do with so little anticipated payoff that my mind is ablaze with confusion.

Part of my sabbatical was dedicated to developing a sense of equilibrium - lowering my expectations and better understanding my duties has allowed me to shake of the angst and replace it with a low-level seething which now fuels my happiness. Because dammit I'm not going to be dragged under in a foul mood. I'll be smiling and laughing, if only to piss off the universe.

It be Labor Day today, so I'm not working. Not at the awesome restaurant, anyway. But there's a slew of fiction in the queue which will keep me out of harm's way for a while. The day is gorgeous, perfect for sitting in front of the Mac and thinking thinky thoughts as the Heiresses grapple in sororal combat. What the hell can they possibly have to fight over? Seriously, at this stage their rooms resemble Verdun after the Germans introduced themselves. There must be some other, chromosomal metric which I am unable to grok.

I'm rambling and unfocused. I blame Obama. With patience and effort, I will become more coherent in the days to come.

Slainte

Returned.

2010-09-05T09:31:00.000-04:00

Music is the space between the notes, it's been said, and I've been enjoying hella plenty of music of late. If there's something to be said about being un(der)employed, it's that the pressure and heat involved burns off lesser materials and refines the soul into something purer and adamantine.

Only the process is drawn out, painful, and full of more impurities than ever suspected. The end product may never be attained.

I'm still grinding, trying to amass loot and hoping to catch an epic drop, if you know what I mean. Even if you don't know what I mean, that's what I've been up to. Were I a better man, I'd have been blogging about waiting tables and the hilarity that entails, but nope. Impurity - see?

Finally for today, a shout-out to The Gormogons. Must-read material, and they've got me linked on their sidebar. I... I did not know. I am not yet worthy, but I am humbled.

Now, bitches, it's back to reality.

:: renaissance? ::

2010-09-04T15:09:00.000-04:00

But soft - what whisper o'er the sill doth alight?

:: ending ::

2010-07-22T15:56:00.000-04:00

whimper

Not much to see here.

2010-07-19T10:52:00.000-04:00

It's not really the Dog Days of summer, but here around crumbling Cornerlot it sure feels that way. Not much is happening that I care to blog about, so I haven't been blogging. Perhaps I've grown a bit cynical about the whole endeavor, or perhaps I'm learning to live my life less to have something to blog about and more to have something to do and enjoy.

Which reminds me to mention that I have an interesting short-term freelance gig starting today. I only hope that "short" is actually the whole fortnight. Whatever - it's work and I needs me some of that.

As for things to see:

I get a kick, too.

Critique Wanted

2010-07-12T10:30:00.000-04:00

The bridge was modern, a clean white arch carrying its load of foot traffic over a river whose name I did not know. In the middle of the bridge, placed in the median there was a sculpture, also modern, a red aluminum circle like a nine-foot-tall O watching the comings and goings of both people and the water below. A ring of LEDs was set into the O, and they cycled gently through different colors. On this bridge, overlooking the river with our backs to the O, we spent the night talking, neither here nor there, the water gently excusing itself beneath our words. The rain had stopped, and the air was washed and fresh, crisp but not biting.

"You've been here how long?" I asked.

"Two years," you said. "I came in the winter of oh-six. Almost two years, I guess that makes it."

I whistled. "That's a long time... and you came why?"

You turned, leaned your back against the railing and looked at the O for a while. "I don't know. It's not Vancouver."

"No, it is definitely not that," I said. I kept looking at the river, wondered where exactly its headwaters might be. "But you don't come to Tokyo just because it's not Vancouver, right? Or am I pushing it? How about this: Did you speak Japanese before you came over, or are you an idiot like me who thinks he'll pick it up through immersion?"

You laughed, that warm husky note that called me closer. "I had a lot of Japanese friends, growing up. Vancouver's like Tokyo West. East? Whatever—I picked up a lot just by hanging around as a kid. And no, you're not pushing it. It's okay."

The night air played with the fur edge of your collar, autumn chill suggesting tea and hot rice. Your coat was unbuttoned but you had a scarf; brown, orange and white knit stripes loose around your neck. Nighttime swallowed the darkness of your hair except for highlights as the LEDs went red to green to blue.

"So you just packed your bags and came to Tokyo. That's cool, I guess."

"Something like that. And you? Why are you here?" you asked. I turned to regard the O with you.

"Oh, it's not that interesting. There's a book. This guy, he's an economist, he's got this book coming out that talks about infrastructure being the base of recovery. Not romantic. I've got to travel all over Japan and take pictures of highways and bridges like this one, generators and ports and all those things that allow an economy to rebound."

"Rebounding economy? Oh, well. I'm sure it's more interesting than you make it sound," you said. "But I guess it makes sense. You need a solid foundation if you want to have a strong house."

"Something like that," I said. In the distance I could hear the whine of motorcycles against the larger, softer rumbles of the city. People walked past us, neither looking at us nor totally ignoring us as they headed either into or out of this part of Shibuya. The wind carried leaves up into the faint light of the O, swirled them around the sculpture's base.

"I'm waiting" you said. "But I don't know you well enough to tell you more." And you shrugged deep into your coat and stared at nothing I could see.

* * *

Hours earlier. The racetrack was built inside a repurposed warehouse, a convoluted miniature Formula 1 course complete with digital scoreboard under acres of steel posts and corrugated aluminum panels. There was a balcony jutting out over the track where one could watch the races and smell the exhaust, go deaf from the noise of all the go-kart engines, but I had opted to stay inside, behind the glass wall and thus closer to the bar. I wasn't going to be driving, anyway—jet lag was catching up to me and I needed to get rested and organized. I was here to meet people, though, various businessmen and scholars who were going to be helping me with my work. There was a jumble of confusion and noises and smells I wasn't used to, and over the crowd of people I saw you, your thick, dark hair and quick genuine smile. You had on a simple orange cardigan and a gray skirt, knee-high boots. Our eyes met and a little later they met again, and then the third time you came over and sat next to me.

"You're new here," you said.

"I am."

"They won't let you drive the cars if you've been drinking, you know."

"Oh, I'm not here for that," I said, "it's..." I gestured at a knot of people on the balcony. "They're my welcoming party." You looked at the group, looked back at me with a mischievous grin.

"Think they'll miss you?" you asked.

You went downstairs ahead of me, a minute or two in the rain while I excused myself and went to get your coat. When I got to the street, you had your head back and your mouth open, trying to catch the rain.

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" I asked.

"Mmm... it's cool. Sweet." Your voice was low and smooth, inviting.

"Okay, sure, but... I mean... it foams when it hits the ground." I pointed to a puddle edged with suds. "See? Foams." You laughed. I put the jacket over your shoulders and then you looked at me with the deepest, greenest eyes I’d ever seen.

"Sea foam. Funny. Let's get something to eat," you said. "It's pretty good right over there. I know the place." And you led me across the street to a tiny shop where a man older than I could guess served us steaming bowls of noodles. You fired off something in Japanese way too fast for me to get, and the old man tipped his head to the side, inhaled with a soft hissing sound and looked off to check some internal inventory list. He rubbed the back of his head with a gnarled hand and then shuffled back behind the cloth partition between the shop and his home.

"What's that all about?" I said.

"I asked him if he had any hot chocolate."

"Hot chocolate?"

You smiled again, eyes alight and we ate for a while, you slurping your noodles loud, like a native. Then: I'm Susan, by the way." We shook hands, yours smooth and warm. "But please don't call me 'Sue-san.' That got tired a long time ago." The old man returned with a mug, put it in front of you, shuffled back to the other side of the curtain.

I pointed to the mug. "That's your hot chocolate?"

"Try some. He makes it from this Belgian chocolate that you just can't find anywhere."

"Thanks, but that's okay. I don't think it'll go with the raamen."

"Suit yourself," you said. You closed your eyes and inhaled the scent of chocolate. You looked young and innocent. Unhurried. We sat in silence for a while, and then paid and went back into the night.

"So what were you doing at the racetrack?" I asked.

"I was there with some friends. They were thinking about having a goukon there at some point, and we were checking it out."

"What's a goukon?"

You laughed, the patient laugh of someone who's forgotten not knowing. "It's a group date. Bunch of guys, bunch of girls... it's a mixer, basically. A lot of the time it's how girls and boys get together without all the pressure of just going out alone."

"You organize dates?"

"What? No, we work together. We were just planning things out."

"So, does that mean you don't have a boyfriend?"

"Aren't you the fast mover."

"It's not like that. I'm just curious. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

For a long moment you looked at me, evaluating me against some scale I couldn't fathom. "Let's go for a walk."

Tokyo is vast; the major wards like Shibuya and Shinjuku are themselves immense fractal warrens of confusion, ancient and modern turnings haphazard and unmarked. We walked among the crowds and noise, under the stretching steel and neon, taking turns I would never have suspected until eventually we wound up on the bridge.

***

We met again and again – not dating, you were clear to say – but just being together, which didn't bother me in the least. You were smart, funny, pretty as hell. You worked at a restaurant, a bit of exotic authenticity in a Big Sky-themed steak house, and we'd manage our schedules well enough so that we could see each other a couple of times a week. There was a club you loved going to tucked away not too far from the bridge, and you'd wait by the O for me to come. When I'd get there you'd put your arm through mine and ask me about my day as we walked along that thin edge of Shibuya where the trees hid the city skyline. It felt like snow was on the way. You pulled me just a bit closer, hugging me for warmth.

"I thought your people liked this kind of weather," I said.

"I'm not from that part of Canada," you said, "I'm west coast. Cold summers, mild winters."

"Sure," I said, "And you've never killed a moose."

"That's the one that chews down the trees, isn't it?"

"Oh, good Lord. You've already forgotten your roots." And at that you stopped walking, looked me in the eye for a moment. You brushed your hair back off your brow and frowned only a little but importantly.

"What do you mean?" Your hand was still up by your face, long fingers slightly curled, holding back the intemperate curls.

"I didn't mean anything," I said. "I was just wondering if you ever missed Canada, if you ever felt alone here so far away."

You put your arm through mine again and we kept walking. "I've never felt lonely," you said, "not one time."

"Not at all? You don't ever miss your friends back home, miss... I don't know... Hockey Night?" We got to a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. Cars sped past going, to my eye, the wrong way. Knowing they were moving in kilometers per hour made them seem smaller somehow, but I still didn't want to be hit by one. We stood, not talking, as other pedestrians gathered with us until we had the light and could all get to the other side. Back on the sidewalk, you took your arm out from mine and pushed your hands deep into your coat pockets.

"When I was seven, my father left. He moved in with a younger woman, someone he met in his office," you said. "My sister, who was in high school at the time, cried for days. She called my father, begged him to come back home. My mother didn't say anything. She started baking; cakes, cookies. We had cookies piled up everywhere. The kitchen was filled with cookies, containers and plates and buckets of cookies. Everybody thought I was crazy because I didn't cry, didn't even stay home from school. Why? He left. I felt sorry for my sister because she didn't see what was real. I feel sorry for someone who only believes the good things, you know? He didn't want to be with us, and crying wasn't going to change his mind. If anything, it would have made things even worse, because if he came back because we cried, then everyone would have known things were nothing but lies from there on out. Here. Let's go in. We're here."

The club was small, a second-floor place called the Whiskey Sour that catered to the professional crowd, a lot of comfortable chairs and an eclectic mix of music played at reasonable volumes. The hostess showed us to a table off to the side and made sure we felt at home and welcome. I ordered a draft Kirin and you got a vodka martini. On the wall behind you was a painting that looked like a Kandinsky, rusty ripples around a blue... something. I wasn't a fan. We settled and adjusted our coats and selves and in a minute the drinks arrived.

"Well," you said, raising your glass, "Here's to Thursday."

"To Thursday." The beer was clean and refreshing but I was still thinking about departing fathers and cookies.

"So did you ever see him again?" I asked.

"Who—my father? No. Not at all during the divorce and not even at the custody hearing. I didn't even say good-bye to him."

"Well I have to say, you sound pretty well-adjusted to the whole thing. Most of the people I know who were kids of divorce were all..."

"Mopey and weepy?" you interjected, shaking your head. "No point to it. I was just a kid, there was nothing I could do to change what my father did. I tried to explain that to my sister but she just cried some more and called me names. But I wasn't going to cry."

"Sounds like you got a handle on it."

You looked out the window at the crowded street below, interchangeable figures pressing through the night to their own destinations, anonymous through distance and glass. We worked a little on our drinks while the conversation waited for the right moment. At a point where the music changed from jazz to something contemporary, you turned and looked at me.

"It's important," you said, "that I believe in myself. I have to know that I can be myself. I want to be someone who has liked herself forever - I want to be a woman who is strong, and great, and beautiful. I won't be defeated by loneliness."

You turned back to the window and drained your drink, rolled the stem of the glass between your fingers. I watched you in profile for a minute, then picked up my own glass and had a long pull.

"I don't suspect that you will," I said, but I don't think that you heard me.

***
Dinner, one night, sitting on the floor at the low table in your apartment, one of those tatami-floored traditional places set pretty far off the beaten path. It was comfortable and affordable, and it made me think of the Japan I'd seen in the movies. Your roommates were out, and we had permission from your landlady for a few hours together – no funny business, she'd be listening. You put together something you called tori nabe, but looked to me like chicken soup. It also looked like a fire hazard to my eyes, with the small gas cooker on top of the table and the stoneware pot on top of that. Veggies I mostly recognized, broth, noodles, some tofu and a little chicken came together and in a while the room smelled wonderful. The table had a quilted skirt attached to it, and we sat with our legs underneath, keeping warm against the seeping winter chill.

"I can't help but notice that there's a bag over there that looks suspiciously like it came from a boutique," you said, pointing to the string-handled paper bag I'd deposited near the entry alcove.

"Isn't that something," I said.

"I was thinking that maybe I should see what's inside it."

"Your choice." And you slid out from under the quilt and rolled, like a kid downhill, to the alcove. You picked up the bag and looked at the name printed on the side.

"Ooh," you said, "I've heard of this place." Eyes wide you scootched back under the quilt. "What is it?"

"If only there was some way for you to find out. Just open the thing," I laughed.

Your face like Christmas morning you gently lifted the precisely wrapped gift from the bag, then undid the folds of the rustling paper. "It's soft," you breathed. The wrapping fell away and then you giggled. "I love it!"

"It's nothing," I said, "just something I saw in a shop and it reminded me of you. I thought maybe it might come in handy." You held the scarf up, pressed it against your face, eyes closed and inhaling deeply. It was green like tropical moss, like your eyes.

"I've never felt anything like this, I love it," you purred. "Oh, this is... thank you!" And you wrapped the scarf around your neck and then leaned across the table and kissed my cheek. "I have to be careful not to get it dirty, but I never want to take this off, it's wonderful!"

"You're welcome," I said, feeling the kiss warming me beyond my cheek.

"Where did you get it?" you asked. "I mean, I know where you got it, but when? When were you ever at a shop like this?" You held the bag so I could see the expensive name in flowing script.

"Not too long ago. Remember about two weeks ago I was up in Hakodate shooting the offshore wind farm? Well, the town had a shopping district, and the shopping district had this little shop... and when I saw it, well, what else can I say." You had your left hand up along your collar bone, and you were caressing the soft deep emerald material like you were petting a newborn kitten.

"This is so nice," you said, softly, "but you shouldn't have."

"Hey, don't start with that. I did it because I wanted to. Enjoy it, okay? And keep an eye on the soup, we don't want it to burn." That seemed to break whatever mood you had building, and you went about checking the pot and then ladling out bowls. Every now and then you'd stroke the scarf, careful not to get it dirty.

We ate and chatted about other things for a while; the state of certain celebrities, who you thought might win the upcoming sumo tournament, whether Japanese music was as good as, if not better than, American music. The soup, or nabe as you kept reminding me, was delicious, perfect for the company and time of year. I'd had three helpings and then pushed back a bit from the table with a content groan.

"And there it is," I said, "that's as much soup as I can hold." I lay back on the tatami floor and closed my eyes. The room was still, quiet enough I could hear you touching the scarf, shifting a little at the table. I may have dozed.

"When are you leaving?"

"What? Oh, I don't know. I can get a taxi if the trains have stopped."

"That's not what I meant." Your tone made me sit up. You were leaning forward, elbows on the table, looking me in the eye.

"What's up?" I asked. "What's with the staring?"

You leaned even closer. "I'm trying to see what's behind your eyes," you said. "Trying to see what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking that dessert will have to wait for another time," I said, "I'm going to have to undo my belt a hole or two."

"No," you said. You leaned back, turned away slightly. "No. That's not it at all. You only have a week left, right?"

"Yeah."

"Where will you go?" you asked. You looked at me again the way you had before, with that tiny crucial frown.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm going back home, but then... well, I'm kind of keeping my options open." There.

"That's good," you said. You started cleaning up the table. "You have so much to do, with the book. Trying to plan it all out would just be too much, right now."

I thought about that for a minute, and then your landlady knocked on the door, suggesting that it was time for me to head back to my hotel.

***

Leaving Day. You pulled the car you'd borrowed into a space across the street from the station. "You're okay if I don't go in with you?"

"Yeah, sure, that's not a problem." I checked my watch. "I can't miss this train, and I know you have to get the car back straight away." You were looking down, at the center of the steering wheel. "Really," I said, "it's okay."

"I know," you said. "Look, I'm so glad that I talked to you that night. At the racetrack. You looked so out of place. It was cute."

"Cute?" I said. "I was trying to look rugged. Like a real combat photographer."

"You looked like a lost kitten." And we sat some more without saying anything. The car was warm with winter sun.

"I'll call you when I get to the airport," I said.

"That's okay. I'll be at work and probably won't be able to take the call."

"When I get home, then."

You smiled a distant smile, and your eyes shone. "You're going to be late," you said. "Go on. Get moving." And you leaned over and kissed me on the cheek again. Then you reached over and pulled me to you and you kissed me on the lips. You smelled of mint and warmth.

"Susan," I breathed.

"Go." It was a whisper.

I took a deep breath, got out of the car, adjusted my bags and then made my way across the street to the station. My legs were shaky. I looked back at the car, you in it not looking at me but sitting still, hunched somewhat towards the steering wheel. I waved in case, and then I went in to buy my ticket. The station was clean, efficient, the industrial tile walls ivory-colored and shiny. The spare decorations and lack of graffiti made it seem emptier than it was, or at least that's how my shattered focus made it seem. I bought my ticket from a young woman who spoke English very well and who wished me a nice day.

"Thank you," I said, and then I found the stairs to my platform and went up to wait. The board said I had two minutes. There were a lot of people gathering but it wasn't rush-hour full, and I found some space to stand and think about everything. My head was full of you, full of work, full of expectation about going home. Your kiss was right there, I could taste it and it was more than I'd thought it would be. I couldn't think straight. The train came and when I turned to watch it come in I saw that you were standing on the stairs, looking at me.

You'd come.

But the train wasn't going to wait for me, and I had to make it to Narita or there'd be hell to pay, contracts broken and my career shattered. You waved, one hand up near your face. I swear I saw tears on your cheeks. The train beeped its last warning to board and I got on.

I had to get on. I would call you from the airport.

Each step hurt and the doors closed without caring. I turned around and looked out a window. I looked to the stairs to see if you were still there, to see if I might catch one more glimpse of you, but you weren't there.

The train picked up speed and as it drew away from the platform, I saw your scarf, that soft deep green scarf tied around a handrail and then a train headed the other direction got in the way and I didn't see any more.

I am, by God, exhausted.

2010-07-07T13:31:00.000-04:00

Back safe in scenic, hot Cornerlot. The drive was uneventful but long. Very long. Doing the 1,000 or so miles as the sole driver used to be a hoot, but now it's an exercise in focus and concentration.

Now I am on my couch in the cool a/c and basically ready to pass out. I'll have more to say later. Thanks, though, for your thoughts.

Zzzzzzzzz....

Fourth.

2010-07-04T11:49:00.000-04:00

This Birthday celebration will be multipart, spread across nearly half the nation. I wish I was in scenic Cornerlot, but being here in magnificent Carmelot isn't so bad, either. It's been an amazing week of fun, learning and family, and soon we start the next leg. But first, a bit of cake and conversation.

I love this country.

Humour

2010-07-03T08:33:00.001-04:00

Come guess me this riddle, what beats pipes and fiddle
What's hotter than mustard and milder than cream
What best wets your whistle, what's clearer than crystal
What's sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?

Oh. Oh my goodness.

2010-06-29T22:58:00.002-04:00

I'll do what I have to to see this. But then you know all about that.

Mission: America!

2010-06-27T17:49:00.000-04:00

There's a great big, pretty awesome bit of nation surrounding MA. I'm off to see a slice of it.

More Later.

Postponement

2010-06-23T09:53:00.000-04:00

It's official. Mission:Tokyo! is on hold.

Rephrase: Mission:Tokyo! has a new deadline, and that is sometime in 2011. Or later. Frankly, I don't think that they're going to be moving Tokyo anytime in the near future, so I actually have a pretty big window. But it sucks that I have to shift the timeline on this.

Life, being what it is (see: every post I've put up here over the last two-something years) has intruded mightily on once scenic, now crumbling Cornerlot. The maintenance budget has bloomed like the Federal Budget, and I don't have a huge tax base to draw from. My magnificent co-regent needed to have her car replaced, and BAM that pretty much sealed the deal. So I will continue to put my pennies in a big jar labelled "Tokyo" and study the language. Maybe one day I'll combine the two.

There is no other news. The mystery box I got from my friend is still a tantalizing bit of puzzle, and I'm having fun looking through it when I have a moment. Apparently he'd managed to go on his own walkabout, and the fragments I have are a memento of it. Apparently.

Going to be a hot 'un today, I reckon. If only the pool was open.

Summer

2010-06-21T14:21:00.000-04:00

It's all downhill from here, I guess. At least until the Winter Solstice, when things swing 'round the other way towards peak daylight hours. But the cheerful sound of the village waifs screaming and acting like... well, like waifs on a perfect summer day makes such sad knowledge irrelevant.

And it is truly a magnificent day. Low 80s, clear skies and just enough breeze to keep a body cool. Now if only the Greater Cornerlot Natatorium was up and operating the way we'd been promised. Apparently some oaf damaged the pool which has delayed the season for nearly a week - such malfeasance should be punished swiftly and diligently. I offer my own infrastructure for such an event.

I have nothing much more to report, other than the finding that most of my friends have, in the last three or so days, independently and vocally blamed just about everything on G.W. Bush: The economy, the oil spill, the lack of good summer movies. And I didn't even bait them to see if they'd react!

It'd be nice, I think, if I had one friend locally who wasn't a fucking socialist.

Oh, well. I have some World Cup to watch and then a nap to investigate. More Later.

Clover-depth-of-field

2010-06-17T10:53:00.001-04:00

Successful night last night, at the awesome restaurant anyway. I only had the one table, but since it was a large party, and a party to boot, I came away okay. I like when there's an immediate connection with a table - good or bad, mind you - because as a waiter I immediately know which direction to move. When there's no connection, we wind up in one of those hallway dances when you don't know whether to keep right or veer left. Then you wind up walking into the other person and it's really uncomfortable.

But this was a good connection, and they ate well and enjoyed a glass or two of the grape, and as it was all wrapping up they called the manager over and sang hosannas about me for nearly five minutes. I liked them from the get-go, and as it turns out they liked me, too. Also, they tipped extremely well. Can they come in again?

The ongoing sorting project is moving along. I tried to get in touch with your folks - they moved but I found them, ha ha - but there's so much and it's such a mess that I'm pissed. And yes, I'm aiming this at you even though you're not going to read it.

What gives? When did you become a photographer?

I call it "the lucky shot"

When did you get the patience to compose things?

There's background I'm putting together to explain all this, if I get permission. Suffice to say, for the now, that I'm nearly as confused as you are.

Take care, and write often.

2010-06-16T10:16:00.001-04:00

Dammit. I'm trying to make time to go through all this crap, but wouldn't you know I finally get some freelance to focus on. Last night after the game I came into my office and nosed around. Found this:

and I'm shaking my head. That's a hell of a note to leave wrinkled in a coffee cup.

Everything’s changing so rapidly for me now, in more ways than I think that I even understand yet. And I don’t do goodbyes well, either. Piss. Well, deal with me as best you are able to, D, prejudices and all. I’ll try to keep my more rabid leanings at bay. Or try to understand in any case. Oh hell, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Forget it. In any case, I care a hell of a lot about you. In fact, I love you. Keep that in mind. So take care, and write often.

The morning routine is back to normal, for the duration of the school year. Just a little longer, and then my animals return to the roost. What fun can we think of for the summer? I have a vision of bright sunny skies and lots of laughter - we'll have to work to make that happen.

I wonder if your parents are still in NH?

Who was she?

2010-06-15T10:29:00.005-04:00

You sent me a ton of things, before you opted out. I haven't had a lot of time to go through it all, but last night I was noodling around and found what look like pictures taken with a cell phone.

Who was she?

When was this?

What, did you just follow her around all day?

I hope it worked out okay.

Time permitting I'll dig deeper through all of this. I only wish you were around to explain it to me.

More popular than Lady Gaga

2010-06-14T13:29:00.002-04:00

Watch the whole thing. The ending is just so... sweet.

And she's dressed more sensibly than whatzername.

Thank You, FIFA

2010-06-13T09:12:00.001-04:00

Right now I'm deep into the 2nd half of the Algeria - Slovenia match, the first match in Group C for this Cup. There is no score, there haven't really been any serious challenges to either side. And I'm hooked. I've been watching each game as I can (damn work pulled me away from the last 10 minutes of USA - England yesterday) and I hope to continue that trend until the whole Cup ends in just under a month.

When did I become a football junkie?

The heiresses & co-regent have little to no comprehension of my new obsession. To be honest, neither do I, though I'm chalking it up to a hefty dose of two years+ unemployed. Navel-gazing is so passé, don't you think?

I will really only get worried about things if I find myself surrounded by an army of empties come 10am. Until then, it's play on and bring on Germany - Australia this afternoon.

artist's rendition of me

Well that was a cheap goal. Time to open a can of Boddington's!

More Later.

No, the other Chandler. The first one.

2010-06-11T09:34:00.001-04:00

Chandler said that when you're stuck on what to write, just have two guys come through the door with guns. I think he meant to say "two guys with guns come through the door," but I've already picked enough nits for the day, and it's not even ten.

I'm working on another thing - more for me than for you - and I'll post it when I'm through. Just wanted to let the both of you know that I am still here, am still fighting with it all, and finally feel as though I'm holding my own instead of being swept away.

And it looks like it might be good & sunny today, which means more of me not in front of the computer. I guess Goode and Sonny are the gunmen coming through the door. I'll go see what they want.

UPDATE: World Cup! Football beckons! And then it's back to the mines.

Beautiful Day

2010-06-08T13:09:00.001-04:00

Believe it or not, I'm actually doing stuff these last few days. Oh, nothing like getting hired and feeling like a productive member of society, but more like going outside, doing stuff with the kids, reading, studying and just surviving/enjoying the hand I've been dealt.

I may have updates to my recent "journal" coming. Stay tuned.

More Later.

playing with trouble, again

2010-06-03T17:55:00.001-04:00

it's this moment that caught me...

...and yes, it's my oeuvre, currently. I used to obsess about other things, but now it's this. I work with what's in me, so... so there.

Embracing

2010-06-03T12:22:00.000-04:00

Adjusting to a new routine is fun and annoying at the same time. With my newfound schedule, I decided to throw myself into the role of stay-at-home dad/husband and embrace the change. I'm not a total newcomer to household duties (not an expert, either), and the prospect of being able to plan meals, shop, prep and cook was the jewel in my crown of circumstance.

Mondays = shopping days. Thursdays = cleaning days. Simple. Everything else = work on the book, try to get a job, be amazed by my children. I'd start prepping and cooking early, having scoured cookbooks and foodie sites for new and exciting meal ideas. For cleaning, I had a system of top floor to bottom floor, drywork first, then localized cleaning, then the mopwork. Whatever, it was the system. I was playing.

Only the meals weren't always hits - yes, they were good (sometimes great), but I wasn't playing to my audience. Hey, I loves me to death my family, but none of them is into "new" as far as food is concerned. And the cleaning... really, how dirty can a place get? Do the carpets really need vacuuming twice a week? Because I was hearing how come Sunday, the floors were unkempt.

Every plan of battle changes with first contact. Okay, I wanted things to work a certain way but they didn't. Tough for me. I altered the plan, tried to adapt to the rest of the family, and I continue to do so to this day. Meals became more basic, but more well-received. The cleaning became more focused, as in "done while everyone was around to see."

The writing? Kinda kept taking the back seat. There's always an interruption, another thing to do. Work on the sequel began, then sputtered. I focused more on short pieces, many of which I've posted here to little acclaim. I discovered I'm not the sit & write kind - I'm a note-maker and flash-writer. Okay, I can deal with that. I keep at it, and it pleases me.

Job? Well, no nothing to report there. A ton of applications, some callbacks, a few interviews, no offers. Freelance gigs here and there yay, but not enough to make up for the lost income. But each day, another application. I shudder to count them, but I consider them my Trail of Tears, marking the road I've taken, an arc that describes the changes of my life.

Kids? They continue to amaze me. For all that they change, they remain a constant. They're good kids, though they bug the crap out of me - but I wouldn't trade them for anything. They're my pests, my blood-pressure raisers, my treasures. The one summer was supposed to be "our time," but since 2008 each day has become ours. I'm to a point where as much as I yearn to go back to the workplace, I'll be traumatized to do it, if it means leaving them.

Something's happened, I guess. And it continues to happen, only now I'm not fighting it as much as I am embracing it. It's making the journey more interesting, and richer.

end of trouble

2010-06-02T18:30:00.001-04:00

For now, anyway.

more trouble

2010-06-02T16:30:00.001-04:00

There's more happening here than you think...

playing with trouble

2010-06-02T14:30:00.001-04:00

Hmnn... I need to get back to this one

trouble

2010-06-02T12:30:00.001-04:00

This is just a comp... is there a series coming?

Three years, thirty years

2010-06-02T11:21:00.001-04:00

It was supposed to be straightforward, if not easy.

The morning meeting that concluded with the lot of us being "rightsized" was a prudent thing, from the viewpoint of the Company. The tea leaves suggested that the next few quarters would be lean, and it was best to prune things back sooner rather than later. Operating decision, and as much as it hurt me, I understood.

Besides, with my experience it wouldn't be too difficult to get something new. Fifteen years working, nearly half of that in a lead position, and four solid years of making lots of tough decisions. A pretty nice CV and plenty of recommendations pending. A couple of months, sure - after summer things would pick up, which meant a whole lot of time with the kids, time that I hadn't had since they were born. A plan was hatched. Brush everything up and bond with the family, collect a little unemployment and have a summer to remember.

Idle hands and all that meant I was applying for jobs all the while. No sense in letting something pass by 'cos I wanted a summer in the sun. Recruiters and headhunters were recruited and hunted. All had glowing words for the experience on my resume. None, however, had anything "at the moment," though I was "on file." Cool, yes? Working and playing, best of both worlds. Because though things were starting to look tough, I was tougher and more prepared.

Between then and now, insert a vast gray sea of static. Remove the heady optimism and replace that with a tenacious mantra of "keep moving, keep looking." The recruiters and headhunters have themselves been replaced with younger, updated versions with equally bland proclamations of "soon, things will change soon." I imagine a chart scaled in geologic time.

It takes 1000 days to forge the spirit, and 10,000 days to polish it. I hear that Miyamoto Musashi said that. Three years, thirty years. This cycle of my life is now well into its third year. My spirit is still being hammered and shaped, in remarkable ways. The expectations I used to have are gone now, the old notions changed and in the process of being rewritten. I will be in my seventies when it's all said and done.

This is what I have, each day. Family and then the work in progress that is Scotaku. Two-thirds reforged, feeling like I'm awakening and brushing back the clinging tendrils of what used to be.

lost in transition :: reboot

2010-06-01T10:05:00.001-04:00

Let's try this again, shall we?

The currents of my life are fractal; I thought I was riding a wave that was going to bring me to Place A, but I did not realize that the wave was merely a small mimicry of something larger, something with a completely different destination. Now I think that there is no level of macro that I can zoom out to and see the whole pattern. I need to focus on this scale, on this daily pattern and rhythm, nothing else.

I have rebooted to no fanfare. There has been no epiphany, no chorus of angels from on high. There is only this small thing, this flicker of joy inside, sublime and lifesaving. Cornerlot is being kicked, savaged by time, fate and circumstance, yet we are not broken. Each day is a gift, something I'm starting to understand on a completely different level.

These words, rough and random, are yours only if you choose. The words to come are mine but I share them, freely, because it's what I have to do.

This is my chronicle.

Hiatus.

2010-05-22T11:40:00.003-04:00

More Later.

Recalibrating - 5¢ Therapy

2010-05-17T10:46:00.000-04:00

My recollection is hazy these days, but I remember reading somewhere that Toulouse-Lautrec said something like "Greatness cannot be measured with a yardstick." Sounds like something he would say. More relevant to my fantastic life, I've dug out my yardstick and sanded it clean. Metaphorically—I do have a yardstick somewhere here in the Main Keep and maybe even a belt sander, but I'm digressing.

I've been trying to mark the highs and lows of my life with an outdated measure. Things have changed, dramatically, and I cannot orient myself via old tools. That is not displaying adaptability. I'm not an entrepreneur now. Not a Veep, not a Creative Director. Not a designer. Those are the essential marks that once defined me. On the other side, I am a good husband and father. As much as I hate to openly admit it (there's the old yardstick slapping me again), I am a good waiter at a good restaurant. The times, they have a-changed, and I'm not what I once was, "one equal measure of heroic heart, made weak by time and fate, but strong of will."

Okay, perhaps that line does define the essential Scotaku, along with this: "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." The present and future are cloudy. I don't know where I'm headed nor how to get there. But somehow I feel like I'm moving now. I don't know why.

Stick with me here. Yesterday I had as guests two college-age students from Japan. The visit was lively, fun and we residents of scenic Cornerlot thought it was fantastic. I can only hope the Japanese felt the same. But as the day wore on, I realized how little I know about the Japanese language, and how much farther I have to go to reach my goal of being even marginally fluent in that language. This realization was the precipitating recalibration of my personal metrics. My goal has moved to a far distant horizon, but it has become clearer in my vision. Just like with the balance of my life, I have decided to clean off my yardstick and for a while just consider how I wish to re-mark it. Perhaps, after much contemplation, I will choose not to add divisions and sub-divisions of the measure - perhaps I will realize that the yardstick is just a stick, and that such tools are useless on my longer journey.

Avoidance Therapy

2010-05-16T07:14:00.000-04:00

If music is the space between the notes, then I've been downright terpsichorean around here. Everywhere else, too. Since the Big Weekend of '10, I've essentially shut everything off and done nothing but the bare essentials around scenic Cornerlot and the awesome restaurant. Has this unplanned technique resulted in anything? No, not really.

It's been a long week by any scale not impartial. The Co-Regent and I have been scouting out new (to us) cars so that her failing vehicle can be replaced, though neither of us is optimistic about adding the burden. We need two cars in this family (screw you to anyone who decries this facet of our lives), but we don't need that second payment. It'd be a no-brainer if one of the legion of businesses to whom I've applied would just freaking hire me, but the way things sit right now... we're going to have to make a lot more sacrifices.

The Heiresses will be less than pleased, I can say with certainty. As much as they thought Kit Kittredge was a really cool movie, they're fairly certain that it was all fiction. Belt-tightening is for "other" people in books and old films, not for us here, right? Right?

So we have that to look forward to. Oh, the stories we will be able to tell.

Today I play host to some Japanese students. They will not learn of our True Situation. Instead we will go shopping, hang around the main keep, cook some, eat some, and maybe even talk. Since their English is on a par with my Japanese, it should be a fun day. I may not be able just yet to go to Tokyo, but dammit, I can still bring Tokyo to me.

Weekend AAR

2010-05-10T11:14:00.000-04:00

Long couple of days. Something about being in the fantastic world of F&B is that while the pay can be weak, at least the hours can be long. Saturday was Event Day From Hell, with the entire building being shut down to the general public so that a Bar Mitzvah, a Bat Mitzvah and two other parties could take place. Four hundred people milling around. Two DJs. Four different buffet stations. Two dance floors. The setup and preparation was intense. The execution... was executed. Mayhem from 10:00AM until 5:00PM. And then at 5.00, all the parties ended.

6.00 was first seating for dinner. I have never seen such coordinated chaos in my life. The breakdown, rebuild and reset took place in about forty minutes. It would have taken less time, but there were plenty of Mitzvah-ers who felt they didn't have to leave, or at least try to get out of the way. No matter. We turned it and were ready by the time the first reservation arrived, twenty minutes early. The rest of the evening was normal, except for the pre-set of the building for Sunday, which took until about 1:00AM.

Mother's Day. The single biggest day in a restaurant's life. The single most dreaded day for servers. First seating was at 9.00 for the buffet, which ran through until 2.00. There were, I believe, at least four turns for each station, which means that each table saw four different parties throughout the morning and afternoon. Most stations were three tables, with a couple of us being "lucky" enough to get four. Three tables is better - the server has a chance to slow things down a little and pamper the guests, which makes for a nicer time for everyone.

After 2.00, the building turned off the buffet and went back to menu service. The switchover takes about an hour, which gives the last buffet seating time to finish up and the kitchen time to get prepped for working the line in a normal manner. At around 3.00, the Dinner Wave began. It's all a haze at this point. Miles, many miles were walked. Hundreds of pounds of food, drink, dish and glass were hoisted and carried, often precariously, through the maze of tables and patrons.

Which reminds me: Table 40 - this is not your living room. Please do not freaking SPRAWL. Just sit, please, and leave the aisles open for people, mostly waitstaff, to walk along. I'm surprised that nobody crashed a tray onto you.

At around 10.00, the last table was gone. Maybe 10.15, I don't really even care to remember. They were nice, a young couple with a good sense of humor and a visible interest in each other - no, they weren't pawing and groping, they were talking, but each looking with such great interest at their partner. They were nice. I'm glad they came, but even more glad that they left.

Today, I rest. The awesome restaurant spent weeks planning and preparing for the last two days - the kitchen worked tirelessly on prepping all that food. The bus staff cleaned, carried, toted, filled, and reset without complaint. Management was acceptable. The waitstaff were tired, angry, hungry and sore from two solid days of setting and breaking down and resetting, carrying chairs and linens and chafing dishes and tables upstairs and down. But never were the guests aware.

To the best of my admittedly meager knowledge, there were no complaints over the last two days. Sure, a kid punched me in the ass, but he was like... three, and thought he was being funny. Thanks, kid - you netted me about twenty extra dollars from your shocked and shamed parents.

We did it. Now, more sleep.

Older, Wiser

2010-05-08T11:21:00.000-04:00

Choose one, I guess.

The celebration (aka "Springtime Christmas") was passed over (aka "Passover") in lieu of a long working day. The very Blood of Cornerlot did come by the awesome restaurant, however, to make sure that there was indeed some manner of recognition of such a glorious day.

I've hit my Danny Ainge number, which will mean something only to fans of 1980s Celtics basketball. Which I am. Was. Whatever.

So what will the next year bring, I wonder? New lows? Some actual highs? Time alone will show me.

I don't normally go in for resolutions, per se, but I'm really going to try to be a little more positive. Yes, we're being sucked into the heart of the whirlpool. But it's actually a thrilling ride. And with some skill, luck, and a little divine assistance, we may even slingshot ourselves into a higher orbit.

That would be cool.

More Later.

A Magician Called Gob

2010-05-06T16:11:00.000-04:00

The trials keep coming, one after another. Looked at individually, they aren't all that much to deal with; stacked like a maddening tower of bills, they overwhelm. I don't know how much rope is left here in tumbledown Cornerlot, but I think we're getting close to the end of it.

Co-regent's car has started making an un-carlike noise. Dutifully, I brought it to our mechanic (whom I trust implicitly) and after about a half-hour of poking, prodding, driving and assessing, he asked me to "have a seat."

He's never asked me to sit before giving me his diagnosis/prognosis.

The car, faithful Honda from another century, is now at the point where we either keep throwing money at it with rapidly diminishing return, or we look to get a replacement. In a normal world a discussion would be held between the co-regent and myself, and we'd do some math (maths for my international readership) and decide which opportunity cost to go with. But it's not a normal world.

The car is at a place in-between. We are at a place in-between, as well. We can go neither one way nor the other. In the vernacular, we're fucked.

I have applied to eight jobs today, which makes twenty jobs applied for in the last ten days. I'm pulling shifts at the awesome restaurant as frequently as I can - despite bitching about each and every moment I spend there - and I'm doing well, considering the venue. I'd love to say that I've sold some fiction, but I haven't. I'm working at it here, people. We all are.

God, if you're out there... really. I get it now. Message received.

Ouch.

2010-05-04T12:25:00.000-04:00

Nicht Trinken

2010-05-03T11:16:00.000-04:00

Such signs are posted throughout crumbling Cornerlot, generally near water spigots, but occasionally on a door or photograph. This is a side-effect of having a co-regent who is also a German speaker. And writer, apparently. Thanks to such diligence, we are still alive. The Great Water Event of '10 is nearing its end, reportedly, but we will never forget the hardship, the raw dessication.

Tomorrow, perhaps, things will be back to normal, in that we won't have to boil our water before drinking it, but I'm thinking that such activities will be good for the Heiresses, something to keep them humble and hardworking as they get older. No need for them to trade solely on their classic good looks, wit, and charm. A solid work ethic is what will get them through their lives. And as we all know, boiling water is the start of the ethical maturation process. It ends somewhere around the 15th birthday, I believe.

I'm thinking about setting up my own wind farm/yakitori stand, right here on the Main Grounds. I'd set the windmill up atop the highest spire of the castle, where there exists already an ancient TV antenna (aerial, for my overseas readership) which is eyesore enough yet accepted by the neighboring tyrants. Changing this to an efficient, aesthetic windmill should prove no problem. And since windfarms do little more than slaughter birds (according to... something I read?), then it only makes good sense for me to capitalize on this "windfall" and offer the choicest cooked meats to a hungry world.

I'll have to apply for permits, of course, but this whole plan makes so much good sense that I'm sure it'll be approved in record time.

Now I need to disinfect everything I own, thanks to this plague-infested water situation.

You're never thirsty

2010-05-02T11:24:00.000-04:00

Until there's a ban on drinking water. I can't recall being as parched as I am right now, even though I'm not really thirsty at all. Until this Boston-area water problem is fixed and pure dihydrogen monoxide is coursing back into dilapidated Cornerlot, I can only figure to be in a state of perpetual thirst.

There is beer and wine, I suppose. You know, if I'm forced to go all Bear Grylls and do what I need to in order to survive.

And please don't mock me 'cos I'm not eyeball deep in supplies against just such an emergency. Yes, I should have 20 gallons of potable water on hand at all times. Yes, I should have a hoard of gold and morphine to use for bartering. I don't, m'kay? I suck that way.

That Bear Grylls thing is sounding like a solid option. I know that local shoppes are out of water, but since Budweiser is essentially water, and the price point is somewhere along the pocket-change level, I may have to venture out across the wasteland in order to get a case or two.

Wish me luck.

A fine line

2010-04-29T17:35:00.000-04:00

I have a lot of conflicting emotions roiling around inside right now. I'm not sure which shall emerge as dominant. Mostly, I want to lash out at something, anything - or curl up fetal and forget.

This is not a good place in which to find myself.

The balance of the evening, nighttime and morrow will be a study in contained conflict. I have things I need to do which require me to be at my social best. Inside, however, I am–and will be–a maelstrom of rage. Redundant? Fuck you.

This is what happens when you bump into the person who laid you off two years ago... when the relationship is now waiter to guest. Just a shade after two years, and I'm still angry. Rest assured, however, I was professional.

Just like I was two years ago.

Crap.

Raining, Pouring

2010-04-27T10:20:00.000-04:00

The hits just keep on coming here at crumbling Cornerlot. I just bid adieu to the repair-bloke who took my nonfunctional washing machine and turned it into one that works. It didn't take long, but it wasn't all that cheap, either.

Remember, I'm working for tips here, people.

But it's working, the fellow was pleasant and dedicated, and now I can turn my attentions to the mountains of laundry which have arisen as tectonic plates of clothing have smashed into one another in a simile of Himalayan proportion. At least I will have something to do today other than study.

I also had a fence technician stop by the fortress yesterday, to survey the situation and come up with a plan and a budget. The plan is good, the budget staggering. I don't know how we here can responsibly finance such a necessary project, though I am willing, at this point, to liberally deficit spend. For The Children™. Seriously, though, as small as the fortress keep is, those linear feet add up fast. But the perimeter must be secured, as the flow of illegal squirrels has become a torrent. They're ruining the neighborhood. Gang activity has been observed.

I have volunteered to act as host to some fresh-to-the-country Japanese students. Eons ago the Japanese opened their country and homes to me, and it seems natural for me to reciprocate. Getting our schedules to sync, though, is proving problematic. I may be able to drive them to the airport when it comes time for them to return home, next April. Shame. I've met my students, briefly, and they seem like good kids. College-age, outgoing, pleasant. I hope that I don't scare them away, should we actually get together.

Now I'm going to try to figure out how to work some "____ n desu" phrases into my everyday life.

More Later.

Friday Fiction: Reboot

2010-04-23T09:03:00.000-04:00

I debuted this a while back, but have since tweaked it a little. It's called An Appetizer and a Soda, and it took 2nd Place in a local, unimportant competition. Enjoy.

***

How can she be so put-together? He feels like an idiot in his khakis and button-down. She's got on a summerweight sweater the color of an old rose, some kind of rough cotton peasant shirt under that, and her jeans are evidently made to precise specifications. He looks at his shoes, scuffed inappropriately and worn at the heel. He probably should have worn socks. There's a light breeze that pushes her hair like she's in a commercial, shiny straight black hair that undoubtedly smells like a spring rain. Caitlin Kimura on a Saturday night. Caitlin Kimura, sixth-period algebra two rows over and two up. Why did she agree to go to the movies with him? He'd finally screwed up his courage on a dare—Tony Wallace had bet him fifty bucks he'd be too scared to do it.

"That was great!" she says, teeth white and even, skin glowing in the marquee lights. "I thought it was going to be all bloody and scary, creepy like on the commercials." She's bouncing with energy. He feels like putty.

"I dunno," he says, "That whole part with the guy running around in the lab... he'd have been caught." What is he doing? Agree with this girl! Agree with her!

"That was the whole point," she says, spinning lightly, "Remember? The reporter distracted the aliens by blowing up their eggs—I bet she's going to get an Emmy, or at least a Medal of Honor for that."

"It wasn't real," he mumbles, realizing that he's never ever going to even hold her hand. What's his problem? For an hour and twenty minutes she'd been sitting right next to him, and he hadn't even had the courage to bump into her leg or shoulder. Well, he did drop a Twizzler and sort of bump into her, a little. Near the shin.

She looks at him, hands on hips, head tilted towards her right shoulder, hair caressing the sweater. "Duh," she says. He wants to die. Then she laughs, "I know it wasn't real, but come on! It was a blast!"

He breathes for the first time since the house lights went down and powered by her smile he takes a chance. "So do you want to go get something to eat?" The blood roaring in his ears could make it impossible to hear an answer. She slides her phone from a snug pocket and checks the time.

"My dad's supposed to pick me up soon," she says, frowning. He's relieved that she's going to decline, sad the night has to end. At least he took a chance. She starts pecking away at the phone, probably texting Ana or Cassidy or one of her other girlfriends that her "date" is over and she's finally free. The parking lot is pretty full because the movie had just come out, and he looks for an easy route to get away, some place to hide before he has to call for his own ride.

Then:

"Hi, Daddy? The movie just ended and Brian asked if I'd like to go get something to eat... I was wondering if I could have another half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes before you come pick me up?"

A car could have blown up in the parking lot and it would have been less stunning. Rebels could have come rushing across the pavement firing wildly and screaming about righting injustices and he wouldn’t have noticed. The part of his brain that's just slightly older announces: "Caitlin Kimura just extended our date." This thought translates to his jaw dropping perceptibly, but then that slightly older part of his brain acts quickly and helps him close it, restarts his heart. She reappears through his confused assessment of reality.

"My Dad wants to know if he should pick me up back here, or at... um... where did you want to go?" Her eyes sparkling and brown.

Wordswordswords. "Wherever... I... I think I that we should just go um howabout to there's a Chili's right over there." He swallows a cotton-dry bolus of nothing.

"Awesome," she says, and she reschedules her chariot. He looks at the sky again, at the moon just peeking over the treeline. What just happened? He's got a chunk of the fifty still, crisp bills from the ATM when Tony had paid him. It wasn't a lot, but it was a start. An appetizer and a soda. Maybe another date, even.

They walk across the lot and talk about the movie. As they get about halfway to the restaurant, she puts her arm through his.

Hen's Teeth

2010-04-21T09:11:00.000-04:00

Yes, posting has been light. Something about a combination of schedule and writer's block. Toss in a dash of lack of motivation, and voila! Scotaku's America is sere and heartless.

I've been following the world, in the manner of reading as much as I can about the goings-on therein, and I have to say that this representative of the middle of the curve is less than heartened. Perhaps my lack of posting/output is in some measure a factor of this? Because I see that things in The World are a mess, I've turned inwards and focused on what's happening here in crumbling Cornerlot. I've tried to maximize the time I've spent with the Home Clan, and the rewards therefrom have been intense. As I don't see much outside the walls, I do what I can within. It's been a good choice to date.

Fitness has become something of a priority, which is not a statement I often make. Having the metabolism of a meth-addicted hummingbird and the build of a rake, I often delude myself into thinking that I exist in a state of perpetual solid health. This is not the case. In fact, I'm probably scant minutes away from a catastrophic failure, and so I've taken to being more active, with a plan of upping the levels to a point where they may be described as a "workout." Nothing too fancy - I do enjoy my rakishness - but definitely something to get rid of the rust and put a new shine on things. Especially with beach season drawing near.

Mission:Tokyo! is still a go. I've got myself to the next plateau of the language, where old bits have taken root and new bits are strangely confusing. Again, I'm not looking to become a native speaker, just looking to be able to survive sans dictionary. I've volunteered to be a "friend" to some new Japanese students who have just arrived here in the States, so hopefully some immersion-learning will happen through that exchange. I've also got a line on relatively inexpensive lodgings that may not get me killed, so I'm looking into that, too. Now I just need to win the lottery or something.

More Later.

true love story no. 57

Home Stretch

I. Am. Alive.

10.

About the gaps...

What is this place?

Busy ^2

Tomorrow is a Red-Letter Day

Perfect Day

My God, it feels like Spring

The first new step is shaky...

DNR.

Shameless Plug - UPDATED ++DoublePlus UPDATED!

chapter twenty three

chapter twenty two

chapter twenty one

chapter twenty

chapter nineteen

chapter eighteen

chapter seventeen

chapter sixteen

chapter fifteen

chapter fourteen

chapter thirteen

chapter twelve

chapter eleven

chapter ten

chapter nine

chapter eight

chapter seven

chapter six

chapter five

chapter four

chapter three

chapter two

Chapter One - Boston, Present Day

Prologue: Hakodate, Japan 1854

Life goes on, of course

Death Comes to Cornerlot

Feeling GREat

Countdown

Not A Bag Man

The Course of Someone's Life

A little each day

Did Thing B

Signpost 480

Thoughtgun Blast*

Urban Awesomosity

Blogroll Addition

Nine Years Later...

Analyzing Relativity

Secret Techniques

Geeked.

Equilibriumed.

Returned.

:: renaissance? ::

:: ending ::

Not much to see here.

Critique Wanted

I am, by God, exhausted.

Fourth.

Humour

Oh. Oh my goodness.

Mission: America!

Postponement

Summer

Clover-depth-of-field

Take care, and write often.

Who was she?

More popular than Lady Gaga

Thank You, FIFA

No, the other Chandler. The first one.

Beautiful Day

playing with trouble, again

Embracing

end of trouble

more trouble

playing with trouble

trouble

Three years, thirty years