The Hermit's War

Inspired by R.K. Milholland's Last One Standing

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It was a red age, and the tides washed the blood back and forth across the sands. The beach was strewn with the bodies of invader and defender, the sea-wolves from the north and the lambs who had found their teeth and come out to meet the Norsemen head-on. Now, the long battle was over, the monastery burned, and the birds and crabs settled in for their great scavenger feast.

In one corner of the beach, set apart from the rest, lay the great slumped hill of a Viking. He was farther from the others, and the few prints that lay in the wet sand showed he had run straight up the beach in great haste, only to be brought quickly and decidedly short. The vermin of sea and shore scurried and skittered over the leather armor and furs, seeking the meet within. A little farther on, some feet from the body, rested the man’s head, eyes already plucked from the sockets by some swift and hungry gull.

The warrior’s helmet had rolled farther on, to a part of the beach where the sand was more firmly packed and strewn with tiny pebbles and pieces of broken and discarded shell, and sat there like a small cave or pagan temple, engraved with dragons above the high-slit and down the nose guard. It was an iron helm, gouged and dented by sword and spear but still whole, without crack or break. Before the dragon-helm aligned themselves two armies of hermits. The largest ones, nearest the metal shell, were of exceptional age and size.

To the north was a speckled battler, who used as a home a bronze-banded ram’s horn. The drinking vessel had been a prize from another such battlefield, a crab’s age ago, and to gain it he had savaged his opponent, and his weighty, rock-like claws had been oozy with the thin, pale blood of the rival hermit and covered with bits of quivering flesh. The cup had saved the speckled hermit’s life many times, but now it chafed and grew weak in places. It was time to trade up.

To the south was a dark challenger, almost black in color, and the hermit’s claws protruded from the gaping remnants of a human skull. The dark hermit’s eyestalks floated like disembodied pupils in the remnants of the eye-sockets. A deadly blow had crushed the face of the skull from the nose bridge on down, and from this terrible wound the dark hermit’s needle-nose claws extended. A thin tuft of leathering skin and hair yet remained at the very top of the skull, beyond the reach of the dark hermit’s claws, but all the rest had been picked clean to fuel his growth.

The two hermits had each come across the dragon-helm at about the same time, and immediately sized each other up. The giant hermits had attracted their share of straggles; smaller hermits who waited to scavenge the leftovers and to move into their hand-me down shells, and when the two hermits had begun the preparations for battle, the smaller ones arrayed themselves in line by size, keen to take trade their old shells for the discarded mansions of those just slightly larger. The two lines sat facing each other expectantly, one eye-stalk on the shell they prized, and the other on their potential rivals.

Without signal, the skull-backed hermit launched itself forward, thin claws grasping for the speckled hermit’s vulnerable eye-stalks. The older hermit scuttled backwards, then brought down its heavy claw to crack against the bony eye-ridge of its rival’s shell. The dark hermit skittered left and right across the loose pebbles, dodging the heavy, crushing claws, poking and prodding with its narrow, sharp claws, probing for a weak spot. The speckled hermit dragged itself forward and back, great claws opening and grasping at the edges of its opponent’s shell for purchase.

The lines of waiting hermits wavered as the two great ones battled. Every now and again a few of the smaller hermits crossed over, to insinuate themselves into the neighboring queue. Some, because their size was middling, found a place; others were forced to fight with crabs their own size for a place in the new line, or were sent scuttling back to the other line.

Finally, the horn-shelled hermit found purchase on a cheek bone, and began to wedge its claw into the gap between cheek and ocular cavity. Ensnared, the dark hermit struck out blindly, stabbing at its hardy opponent and grasping at its legs, but the majority of its blows bounced off the iron rim of the drinking-cup, or simply scored the hard shells. The claw of the speckled hermit was inexorable, and with ever increasing pressure it forcibly pried the dark crab from its skull, and with a splurt the great claw began digging into the soft underbelly.

The speckled victor scuttled away from its dying rival; the smaller hermits were already falling on the dark hermit, wrenching its soft meaty mass from the previous skull-shell. Alone, the great hermit disengaged itself from its long home. It turned and carefully inserted itself into the dark recesses of the dragon-helm. The metal was cold against is vulnerable abdomen, but the great muscle found a place to attach itself, and in a few moments the speckled crab was well-situated, eye-stalks looking out through the bronze eye-slits, much as the skull-backed hermit’s had.

Before him, there was a line of movement, as the smaller hermits systematically abandoned their shells to move into that of their larger neighbors, the two lines sorting themselves out. Now new hermits wore the ancient drinking-vessel, new eye-stalks peeked out of the gore-stained skull with its tuft of hair, and all down the line the hermits adapted to their new hermitage.

Bracing itself against the packed sand, the bronze-helmed hermit rose up to its feet. The new shell was large and would last for a long time, but it was heavy and would take a little getting used to. It scuttled forward, heavy claws before it, back toward the waiting feast of Viking flesh, and the army of hermits followed, in their own time.

###

Topeka Gold Rush

  0800 – Topeka Assistance Center

            Buying Friday’s marijuana tax stamps left me twenty thousand five-dollar bills and forty-five pounds lighter. I shifted the Gladstone bag in my hands like a kid tonguing a missing tooth as Marsha Thomas of the Kansas Department of Revenue set her minions to feed the cash bricks through the money counter and play with the UV light. I smiled and we chatted for a few minutes about a web article on a bill to legitimize the sale of marijuana for medical purposes in the Kansas legislature.

            Tax evasion was serious. That’s how they got Capone.

Tax stamps are just good business. When it comes to laundering drug money, the hardest part is getting rid of small bills. Luckily, the Department of Revenue takes cash. I pay my taxes, offload a pile of petty cash, and return greater value to the customer. Each pack of Topeka Golds is a hundred-fifty bucks. For that, you get a premium product: twenty hash cigarettes, each cylinder a gram of high-THC hashish rolled in unbleached hemp paper, with the characteristic golden tip. The packs were a thing of beauty, stiff hash paper with modern commercial labeling and logos, right down to a mock-Surgeon General’s warning; each pack is sealed with a twenty-gram processed cannabis tax stamp. It’s one of the selling points: guaranteed weight, guaranteed purity, no rolling, no hundred and fifty dollar fine if caught.

            Marsha handed me a fat stack of tax stamps and I bid her farewell until next week.

           

0845 – Clock In

            A group of protestors emptied a barrel of pig shit on the car as I pulled into the Verdetech LLC parking lot. I contemplated the windshield wipers for a moment, then thought better of it and turned off the ignition. I stepped out of the car through the passenger side, where there was slightly less filth to drip on me. To the protestors, I was all smiles and handshakes. I pressed the flesh with the rough hands of farmers and fishermen, and looked into the fresh faces of college freshmen and sophomores, at least some of whom were wearing Washburn University t-shirts and other attire. The signs were less decipherable—something about pollution and Mississippi.

            Five minutes later, I’d made it through the protestors and into the building, the lead woman in tow. Her name was Jenna McCrade, and she was going for her masters in Environmental Science.

            “Your pig shit is killing the ocean.”

            “Okay?”

            “High-nutrient runoff from the Mississippi River is responsible for a dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico the size of New Jersey. The porcine manure used for fertilizer by your corporate farm contributes to the ongoing ecological devastation. Your experimental fields in particular are the worst commercial farms in the area in terms of nitrogen runoff.”

She clutched a thick file to her chest like a Transylvanian peasant in Dracula’s castle might hold a Bible. “I have numbers.”

            I nodded. “Two questions. One: Do you have a proposed solution? Two: How’d you like a job?”

           

0900 – Meeting with Mister Hogan

            Bud Hogan was in my office and drinking my whiskey before I’d even had a chance to check my email.

            “There’s ice in the tray, Bud.”

            “I take mine neat.”

            We assumed our positions on either side of the desk. Bud was forty-four, balding, paunchy, and had a face of broken veins. He liked heavy jewelry and bad off-the-rack suits, and owned about a couple hundred acres around Kansas that earned more from government subsidy than legal crops.

            “What can I do for you, Bud?”

            “Well Gid, I’d like to do a bit of business with you.”

            “Not interested.”

            “You ain’t even heard me out yet.”

            “Our philosophies of business are incompatible.” I said. “Verdetech LLC makes a quality product. Your weed is shit and you spice it with meth. You keep one step ahead of a major bust and you take too many chances. Being in the same room with you is a business risk.”

            Hogan sat back, finished his drink and tried to eyeball me. He was a champion eyeballer, but I had pig shit in my eye.

            “You got a nice little operation here, Gid, but you’re small time and overpriced. There’s a world beyond Topeka. People want what I have to sell, and you know it. Damn pot-heads don’t care about tax stamps and THC levels. They ain’t payin’ for your label, and it’s about high damn time you woke up to that fact.”

            Bud always left an empty glass and bad feelings when he left.

1000 – Project Update with R&D

            Yngvi and Yurgi had a lab rat strapped to an electronic cigarette when I got over there, and I waited while they safely stored the critter. Yngvi was the chemist, and Yurgi was the chemical engineer. The R&D space was a former greenhouse, repurposed into a lab because it was well-lit, well-ventilated, and in the very off-chance of explosion the easiest to write-off and rebuild. The only pieces of paper in the room were the boys’ diplomas. I’d replaced their lab notebooks with iPads after an unfortunate visit by the Topeka fire department the previous year.

            Yngvi held up a partially disassembled e-cigarette, displaying a clear plastic lozenge with a slightly green fluid in its guts.

            “Recipe 3. Blend is 25mg/ml THC by volume, with 10% cannabis essence for flavor—the Acapulco Gold hybrids. We used glycerin as a vaporizer base, since we can buy it wholesale from the biodiesel guys upstate.”

            “This is not the final design.” Yurgi explained. “An e-cig is not a mini-bong, the atomizer–heating element–was made for a nicotine compound. There are yet problems with incomplete vaporization and excess residue issues.”

            “We are addressing those.” Yngvi said. “Once we settle on a formula, we’ll need to work out the specs and cost for commercial production, and move beyond animal trials.” The chemist waved a hand at a row of lab rat habitats.

            “Sounds like you guys are on track.” I said. “So tell me: at this point, what else do you need from me?”

1130 – Weekly Consult with Legal

“Bud Hogan paid us a call this morning.” I began, waiting for the kettle to boil. Jase Calhoun, the company’s lawyer on retainer, sat with his eyes half-closed like a West Texas Budai. He said nothing, and I poured the tea and handed him the cup. We were in my office, shoes off. The lawyer had let his hair loose for this consultation, the straight grey-and-white locks falling over his shoulders. His eyes opened.

            “Speaking as your lawyer.” Jase said, staring into his cuppa. “I would advise against having any dealings with Mr. Hogan. Aside from his popular reputation, he has seen far too much attention from law enforcement and other authorities in the last few years.”

            Jase sipped his tea, old laugh-lines formed into a bitter scowl.

            “As your friend and your lawyer, the best way to avoid Bud Hogan’s intentions is to give him something else to think about. All warfare is based on deception.”

            “If your opponent is temperamental, irritate him.” I responded. “You know, Bud doesn’t think much of buying tax stamps.”

            The lawyer’s laugh lines bunched at the corners of his mouth.

            “Friday, there’s a Lunch for Lawyers social networking affair downtown. I expect the county tax collector and the district attorney to be there. If you can get me anything solid by then, it might help move things along.”

            “I’m taking Charles to lunch in a few minutes.”

            “Ah.” Jase said.

            We sat quietly for the next few minutes and finished our tea.

1200 – Lunch with Charles

            We went out for quesadillas. My car was still covered in pig shit, so Charles drove. I talked. When I was done talking, we’d arrived at a little hole-in-the-wall that served Mexican Bohemia beer. We took a table on the sidewalk and Charles ordered.

            I don’t tell my people how to do their job. Charles, as our head of security, is a creative professional with years of experience in his craft. The law is something he works through and around to get the necessary result. As we work our way from the salsa through the guacamole, I know he’s making plans. At the next table over, a couple surreptitiously light up a couple of Topeka Golds. We finished up with cajeta and headed back to the office.

            “How far you want me to take this?” Charles asked.

            “Any legal option.” I picked my words. “You’ve got twenty thousand dollars cash back at the office. Let me know when you need more.”

            Charles digested that.

            “I’ve got a file on him. Three inches thick. Know your competition and all.”

            “What have you learned?” I said.

            “Bud Hogan is a man without respect. Not for the law, not for man or money or power. Corn’s got seed rot, so he can’t launder the drug money. Puts him in a bad way for clean cash: mortgages and liens on all his properties, but the banks don’t want to foreclose in this economy.”

            “Back taxes?”

            Charles pulled into his parking space. “I reckon so.”

1300 – Meeting with Shawnee County School Board

            “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I’ll be brief and to the point: Verdetech LLC would like to buy you out.” A finger-wiggle flipped the PowerPoint to the next slide, and I continued. “This is a ten acre lot, less than a hundred yards from this building. We are offering to purchase the property from the county.”

“No offense, Mr. Welles, but I don’t see how that is possible. The area has already been designated for the construction of the new agricultural high school.” said Blake.

Blake Parson was the head of the Shawnee County School Board, an ex-marine who found managing nine school districts more dangerous to his hairline than any military command.

“I’m aware of that, and to be honest that’s part of the reason we’re making the offer. Some of the crop research we engage in is, as you know, experimental—including some licensed research in non-scheduled plants with psychotropic properties, including salvia divinorum—and our paper milling operations produce a certain amount of air pollution. Obviously, it is not ideal to have those operations in close proximity to students. Verdetech is asking to purchase the land from the county at market value—”

A number went up on screen.

“—in addition, we would like to make a contribution to the high school building fund, to ensure that the students have the best equipment and facilities available.”

Blake looked at the number on screen. “What kind of contribution?”

“We’ll match the county, dollar for dollar.”

1437 – Unscheduled Interruption

            Charles walked into my office and shut the door. Rosa and I stopped talking.

“There’s been a fire at the Half Day Creek house.” Charles said. “Melanie and John are okay, but the police arrested them when the fire department came to manage the blaze.”

Melanie and John were contractors, owners of the Farm Futures greenhouse. Verdetech LLC farmed out small research projects to them. Most of their work involved commercializing lesser cereal grains, but they also cultivated new cannabis strains on the QT.

            I let go a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“Rosa, please call Jase. Charles, I want you down there and post bail. Use the company credit card.” I asked while Rosa hit the speed dial on my phone.

“Did the fire reach the house?” I asked.

            “No, but a friend on the force said the cops are searching it.”

“Okay. Take a company car and a couple laptops, and take them shopping. Fresh set of clothes, burner phones, dinner, set them up at a hotel, and let them know they’re on full per diem. Leave them the car with them, take a taxi back.”

“Boss.” Charles said. “You know what this looks like?”

“I now who it looks like. Bud Hogan.”

Rosa hung up the phone, then handed Charles a company credit card from her wallet. Charles nodded to her and left.

            “Gideon” Rosa said. “Which account do you want to charge this to?”

            “Overhead.” I said. “Busts are the cost of doing business.”

1530 – Owners Meeting

            Rosa, Tobias and I kicked everyone else out of the executive conference room. Maxi was out on location, but was going to phone it in using the voice over IP system. We had a set protocol for talking about things over any communication line. I had to couch everything in code words and euphemisms, disguised as meaningless, buzzword-laden business babble.

            “…no reason to believe that this incident poses a significant threat to our primary revenue stream.” I finished.

            “From a quality assurance perspective, we should probably institute a general procedure to be instituted immediately if this sort of thing happens again.” Tobias added. “We’re a growing company, and we can’t keep thinking like a small company and doing things just because that’s how we’ve done them in the past.”

            “I don’t like waiting for the competition to take us out. I don’t know about the rest of you, but this whole incident suggests a serious security risk.” she said. “We need to deal with it in a more forceful and permanent manner.”

            Maxi spoke up, the ghostly voice from the speakerphone.

            “When we started this company, it was with the understanding we were going to approach this as a proper business—pay our taxes, provide the best product, market the shit out of it, reinvest profits. We wanted to avoid unscrupulous and unprofessional practices, and set limits to what we would and would not do. That hasn’t changed. I call a vote. All in favor of Gideon’s suggested resolution?”

2000 – Clock Out/Night Deposit

            The building died by degrees, as people finished their shifts or headed out early. I clocked out with Tobias, another forty-five pounds of green bricks in the Gladstone at my side. He locked the building behind us, and the night security walked us to our vehicles. A late afternoon rain had washed off most of the pigshit, except for the parts caked and dried in the gutters of my windshield. The smell, I suspected, would last longer.

            The car was almost on auto-pilot, keeping under the speed limit and stopping at every red octagon and crosswalk on the way. Trucks and minivans zoomed passed me as I went five miles under the speed limit on city streets to the bank, and parked under a streetlight. I dropped my load at the night deposit, one more for the Friday night pile of week’s receipts for the local businesses. Then I drove to the next one.

            Too much cash for any one bank. To allay suspicion, we use a dozen banks, rotating on a schedule. Less than ten thousand dollars each deposit, otherwise the banks would alert the Feds. It’s a necessary chore to get the cash to a place where we can use it. We have other ways, but the money piles up if we don’t make our deposits. Too much cash on hand raises the wrong kind of awkward questions. I was on the last drop-off of the night when a man walked out of the darkness with a gun.

2030 – Meeting with Mr. Hogan (II)

            Bud Hogan had a Topeka Gold hanging off his lip, and a Maadi-Griffon .50 BMG held with both hands. The Maadi-Griffon was a cannon; the product of paramilitary fetishism. A one-shot high-caliber elephant killer. Bud couldn’t have been more villainous if he’d shown up with a Luger and a Charlie Chaplin under his nose.

            I raised my hands. I doubted he wanted to kill me.

            “You’re a smart boy, Gid.” Hogan said. “Business-like. If you weren’t such a fuckin’ college-educated snob with your MBA, we might not have to talk under these circumstances.”

            I let the silence grow a bit after he finished.

            “Strategic partnership. Your product, my distribution. I got buyers from out of state, real interested. There’ll be good money in it for the both of us. Five years from now, weed’ll be legal, and we can go legit.”

            “No.” I said, keeping my eyes level with his.

            “Son, I ain’t giving you a choice.” Bud said.

            I threw the Gladstone at him and ran.

            There was a boom behind me, and a scream. Bud Hogan was lying on the ground, tears flowing, hands limp and useless at the wrists, probably broken from the recoil. My Gladstone bag looked like a popped balloon; the left cash in it was confetti on the sidewalk. The bullet was embedded in the frame of the night deposit box. I looked up at the security camera; reached for my cellphone.

            “Don’t worry Bud.” I said, dialing 911. “Help is on the way.”

###

Setting Sun

A man in a faded lab coat stands before a counter, tapping a needle. He holds it up to the dim electric bulb, squeezing the last bubble of air out. His index finger caresses the flawless glass as he examines the colorless fluid inside. The room is not chill, but a shiver runs through him. The night is not particularly warm, but a cold sweat beads his brow. For a moment, nothing else exists for him but the needle. It calls to him, and the hollow of his arm aches in response. Something in him enjoys the wanting. The grim hunger that promises fulfillment pervades him, and he fights the urge to give in just yet.

            From beneath a gentle brow his dark eyes drift from the syringe to the countertop, where there is nothing to entice him. Just another old veteran of this campaign, scarred by many battles; the beauty of the wood marred by dark stains and ugly scratches. Dr. Takonashi could not ignore the stains; he had seen too many of their sources. Too many times reaching out a gore-covered hand to find a tool had left a lingering legacy. Pained by the memories more than the crook of his arm, he turned to focus on something else.

            Behind the curtain, he hears the patients in this makeshift infirmary moan and scream and whimper. They are so close to him, yet so far away. Blocked by the meager barrier Takonashi erected for the suggestion of privacy from blind eyes and weeping sores. The cloth wall kept them out of his sight, but he could still hear their pain.

            Takonashi’s shoulders dip in exhaustion, but he cannot rest. Sleep is difficult; fitful and unsatisfying. Even when they die away to fitful sleep, the screams of the patients echo in the space behind his eyes, and would not go away. Images come to him, unbidden: caverns of raw flesh exposed by bloody tears from swollen, sightless eyes. A portrait of the emperor who failed on display at the officer’s mess. Himself, standing in front of a mirror donning his new uniform the day after he graduated from the University, the same day he joined the Army. Burning the last photograph of his parents after he hears of their death.

            Beyond the curtain, one of the patients begins screaming again. A man. The doctor realizes that the needle is still in his hand.

            The needle would stop the screams for a moment. He would open the curtain, and find the man by the sound of his screams, find the vein by touch with his experienced fingers, plunge the needle in and…the screams would stop. The man’s eyes will dilate, and the patient’s pain would be washed into another world.

            It is what he should do. His pain is as nothing to his patients. Takonashi does not move toward the sound of the screams. In his hand, the needle weighs heavier than its physical substance would suggest. Cold sweat stings his eyes, and the doctor knows his decision was made before this bout of guilt.
            With practiced ease the tourniquet is drawn. The doctor’s fingers tingle and go numb. Takonashi places the needle's gleaming tip against near the same spot as he had the day before, and the day before that. The wounds are ugly, puckered things, never allowed to heal. His pale blue veins stand out, rivers along the sallow geography of his arm.
            Behind the curtain that separates him from the infirmary, the doctor’s pain is drowned in the ecstasy of morphine. The weight of the world lifts from his shoulders and his eyes become flat and glassy. Tears he had been about to cry never fall from eyes that sit above dark, bruised shadows. Beyond the curtain, a scream slides into a long drawn-out rattling hiss and comes to a stop. The screaming man had died.
            The doctor pulls aside the curtain, and surveys the room which is both hospital and morgue. He gazes upon a hall of the dead and dying, and those cursed with a long and painful life.

            Takonashi beholds the survivors of Nagasaki.

            The years pass like seven petals, floating through the orchards in the autumn of life; small pink and white fragments of silk-smooth blossoms blown hurriedly about by whimsical winds.

            Kumi sits in a room on a bed which is high off the ground, like a table. Her back is very straight, and her hands rest lightly on her knees, just as in class. The nurse had left the room only a few moments ago, having made sure she had properly exchanged Kumi’s school uniform for the loose colorless smock she now wore.
            Dr. Takonashi enters and favors Kumi with his watery-eye smile, his dark eyes squinting behind thin spectacles, the edges of his mouth turned up just enough to show he is, in fact, smiling.

            “Hello.” He greets her.
            “Good morning Dr. Takonashi.” Kumi chirps, giving a head nod with some shoulder action in lieu of a bow, due to the fact she is sitting, which the doctor returns.

            “What is your name, my dear?” The doctor asks.

            “Watanase Kumiko.” The girl replies.

            Their eyes lock. Not staring but…resting on each other. She is first to break the contact, looking away, letting his eyes roam carefully over her, her aside-glance straying back on occasion into his slow-blinking, constant eyes. Her legs and bare knees are slung over the table and dangle above the floor.

            “Kumiko.” The doctor says. Kumi imagines him tasting the syllables in his mouth. “That is such a pretty name. And how do you feel today?” The doctor inquires.
            At first, Kumi answers with a mechanical shrug, the rise and fall of both shoulders. The overhead light reflected in her eyes changes slightly. Kumi knows she shouldn’t look the doctor in the eyes. Her mother wouldn’t approve if she were here. She also knows the doctor is still looking at her.
            “My mouth hurts.” She says.
            “Ah.” The wrinkle between the doctor’s eyebrows tightens slightly. “Where does it hurt, Kumiko?”
            “The top of my mouth, near the back.” Kumi replies. There is something in her voice, like the look cornered animals have in their eyes.

            “Let’s have a look then, shall we?” He says, turning, and opens a drawer of an old solid-wood counter, the top of which is somewhat scarred and stained. The hand returns with a long, thin piece of wood.
            “Open your mouth, please.” The doctor orders, and Kumi does as she is told, letting her jaw fall downwards, revealing small white teeth and a bright pink tongue. The doctor removes a small flashlight from the pocket of his white lab coat.

            “And please stick out your tongue. Very good, thank you.” He presses the wooden board down slightly on her tongue, the little light dancing on the back of her mouth.
            His eyes never leave her mouth as he calls for the nurse.
            “Yes, Doctor Takonashi?” says the nurse, coming from the other room.
            “There is inflammation in the adenoids. I’m going to have to cut them out. Please bring my implements.” He says. Kumi thinks the way he talks to the nurse is colder than the one he talks to herself.

            “Of course Doctor Takonashi.” The nurse replies and scuttles off. The doctor flicks off the flashlight and replaces it in the pocket of his lab coat, disposing of the tongue depressor and donning a pair of thin rubber gloves.

            When the nurse enters again, she carries a chrome-bright tray with a white cloth, laid out with small, sharp things. The tools on the tray gleam.

            Calmly, the doctor selects a thin scalpel. The nurse comes around behind Kumi and gently presses her into a more reclined position, so Kumi’s back rests lightly against the bed.

            With his left hand, the doctor opens Kumi’s mouth and tilts her chin up and to the left. He is still holding the scalpel, like a pen. Then the scalpel goes in, and Kumi feels something hard against the top of her mouth. She tries not to press her tongue against it, but the taste of metal engulfs her, and she nearly gags.

            Several sharp pains come, and the flavor of steel and plastic is replaced by sickly-sweet copper, and this time she does gag, sitting forward to retch. A torrent of liquid metal comes over her chin and into the pan the nurse had presciently placed there.

            Kumi looks at the pool of her own blood and the small gobs of pinkish meat laying there. The doctor places the scalpel on the tray to be sterilized later. He doesn’t look at Kumi, trying to avoid her eyes. The nurse leaves. Kumi wipes her mouth and tries to speak.

            “Doctor…” Kumi manages, swallowing blood.

            “Yes, Kumiko?” The doctor gives her his full attention now that the nurse is gone.

            “I..you can call me Kumi. It is my secret name.” Her mouth tastes funny, and she’s forced to swallow to speak.

            “Have we…met before?” The doctor asks. Kumi cannot speak, her mouth hurts so much, and she only nods.

            “Nagasaki. At the field hospital, the infirmary. I remember a little girl.” He seems unsure of himself. “She was there with an older woman, a sister or mother.” A stupid tear trickles down her cheek. Kumi meets the doctor’s eyes, and they share a moment of suffering.

            “Kumi.” He says. “Let me give you something for the pain.”

            There is a needle. It seems huge to her. She feels him lay it against her skin, and then the penetration – not so much aware of pain, but the needle is cold, so cold. There is a sense of pressure, as something is forced into her veins with steady, practiced hands. Kumi doesn’t feel much different. The pain is still there, but less urgent. Her throat feels slick. Kumi sees the nurse return.

            “See that she rests well. I have given her something to make her sleep.” Takonashi informs the nurse.
            Dr. Takonashi leaves the room without waiting for the nurse to carry out his orders. Kumi knows he knows she will. He has other patients to see.
            In the waiting room, she hears him call.

            “Who is next?”

            Autumn turns to winter, and the peach blossom trees are bare. Yet even in the most barren times, something may grow. Seven shoots break through the snow, and turn newborn flowers to pale spring light.

            Takonashi stared at his belongings. How many years had he stayed at this school? Yet there had been hardly anything of value to pack for their trip. He wrapped a few clothes of no great value around his faded lab coat. The bundle of diplomas, military papers, and a copy of his letter of resignation to the principal he placed in a large manila envelope. From his small shelf he selected a small hardbound book by Lafcadio Hearn, the only gift he’d received in ten years, and an English medical dictionary with his life savings tucked into the cover. The bottle of sake he had saved for them to share he took down from his hiding place. Everything he cared to own fit well enough into his small, bamboo frame suitcase. He’d bought her one just like it.
            Of course, he was also bringing his medical bag. He could hardly elope without the tools of his livelihood. All the medicines, needles and knives he would need in an emergency, or to set himself up in a small village. Sitting at the bottom lays a clear glass bottle, a pale and unreadable label on one side, with a steel cap. It is about half full.
            Next to the bottle was the small kit containing his works: the syringe, with replacement needles, and a length of coiled rubber tubing. The vein at Takonashi’s temple pulses a little. He listens to his heart throb, and feels the steady beat at the great arteries on the back of his neck, and his throat…and down to rest on the bandage over the inside of his arm.
            A knock sounds politely on the door, distracting the doctor as he kneels down to reach for his bag.
            The room was still, sunlight shining through an open window covered by a screen. All was quiet. The person at the door knocks again. “Takonashi-kun?”
At the sound of his name, Takonashi removes himself from his awkward position and opens the door. “Yes?”
            Kumi stands there, smiling at him. The light of the window flashes over her flawless skin for a moment, and her dark hair frames face. She laughs and falls into his arms. His callused hands caress taut, young skin.

            “Are you packed yet?” She whispers into his ear.

            “Yes my darling.” Takonashi says as he grips her tighter, and pulls her through the door.
            While she takes off her shoes, Takonashi takes her suitcase and places it next to his own. Together, the lovers enter the adjoining tea room and lower themselves onto the lightly padded pillows in front of the low table.

            “When do we leave?” Kumi asks.

            “We have a few hours before it is time to catch the train to Tokyo.” Takonashi replies.

            “Then we can be married…” he says Kumi as she settles against him and nuzzles his head.

            “Yes.” Kumi says “But we have some time before that. Time enough…”

            Kumi twists to rest her arms on his shoulders, her forehead resting against Takonashi’s own, and the lovers stare into each other’s eyes. Her smile becomes less innocent, more seductive. He returned her smile with his own. Sometimes he had trouble keeping up with her youthful energy, but somehow he matched fire and enthusiasm she showed in their love games.

            Suddenly, Takonashi became more aware of the throb in his temples; the bandage over the wound in his elbow was loose and was coming off in his sleeve. He kept the arm still as his left hand scratched the hairs on the back of her neck.

            In throaty whispers, Kumi murmurs endearments to him. The slight sheen on her skin, the sleepless teenage eyes, and the conspiratorial tone creeping into Kumi’s voice arouse him. At the same time, they look into each other’s eyes and see recognition there—she has become like him. Takonashi feels the bandage slip almost onto his wrist.

Something trickles from the wound. They kiss.

            At this, Kumi grabs his arm at the elbow and squeezes with unknowing strength. Takonashi gasps through their kiss, and Kumi bites his lip to keep him from calling out. At last they break apart…and he sees her impish grin. There is always a little pain to heighten the pleasure. They have both come so far since they met. The thrill of taboo settled on them in the beginning, but now…now they just feel the same need.

            All Takonashi feels is his desire. His—no—their addiction.

            “I want you to do it to me.” She whispers in his ear. “I need a taste before we go.”

            With a nod leaves the room, and returns with his medical bag. Kumi reaches in his bag for the needle, the tube, and the small steel-capped bottle. She is as eager, as willing as the first time.

            There is enough in there for them both.

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