Index
Chapter 1: In which a plot driver is inserted with the finesse of a sledge hammer.
Chapter 2: In which a cast of totally unlikeable characters interact
Chapter 3: In which there is violence
Chapter 4: In which there is conflict
Chapter 5: Long, tedious ending
Crossings
By Eline (Kanzeon on ff.net)
Note-type-thingies: This is a little bit AU . . . as in a small side-track off the main timeline.
Warnings: Violence, cussing, extremely unpleasant situations and only one recognisable character . . . Because Sanzo's the only Saiyuki character here.
Worn-out disclaimer: I own nothing and fanfic is copyright infringement, I know, but it's not like I make any money out of it . . .
Timeline: A little while before Sanzo found Goku.
Dedicated to sf--don't stress yourself out too much over your Prelims. (I didn't hurt Sanzo . . . much.)
* * * * * * * * * *
Dusk. The sun was setting on an autumn day.
Dust. Clouds of it kicked up by mule-teams or herds of livestock driven through this particular country road. Everyone was in a hurry to get home before nightfall. Back to families. Back to dinner and bed for those who had them.
The ferry at this crossing was not particularly crowded. It was a rural area, with only farmers using the crossing for bringing goods to and from larger towns. Some merchants used it as a shortcut to the prosperous cities of the eastern seaboard, thus allowing some enterprising soul to set up the ferry operations at the river. There was a small inn and hostelry on the other side of the river, catering to cart-drivers, weary shepherds and the like.
* * * * * * * * * *
The bartender had wanted to kick him out because the youth did not look of age to be in a taproom, but the look in his eyes was old--old beyond his years. And there was the matter of those monk robes . . .
But money was money after all and the laws were never very rigidly enforced out here.
Genjo Sanzo, protector of the Heavenly Land and Infernal Land Sutras, sat in the public room of the inn at the ferry point, poking disinterestedly at his noodles. He was much more interested in adding to the number of empty beer cans stacked up beside him. It had been an acquired taste, much like the cigarettes he had been smoking despite the stares of just about everyone in the room.
He ignored them, accustomed as he was to the incongruous picture he presented.
So . . . he was headed east now. The circumstances that had lead to his current path were still fresh in his mind.
He had showed up at the gates, bloody and weary from the last encounter with renegade mountain youkai who had thought that a lone human would be easy meat. Most of the blood was youkai blood.
But they had let him in, of course. Into their sanctified ground and their temple because of his title. Because of the easily recognisable chakra on his forehead, no doubt.
As if he was anywhere near holiness, godliness or the next best thing. Whatever that was.
They liked to come up to him, talking about things he was sure they would never have voiced if they had spent a week beyond their safe walls. Philosophy. The ancient teachings. Koumyou Sanzo, his esteemed Master.
As though they had any right to say anything about his Master. His Master was years dead, torn apart like a rag doll.
He had not seen the grave. It housed only a corpse. The flesh was not important when the soul had departed. And yet . . .
And yet he supposed that he would go back there. To the temple he had known all his life. When all this was over, however long it would take . . . Perhaps he would lay the Sutras at his Master's grave and . . . And *what*?
He had gone outside to smoke, more to avoid any annoying monks and their scandalised looks than anything else. Like they had never seen anyone smoke before.
Even out in the shaded courtyard, he was not alone. Novices, craning their necks to have a gander at Genjo Sanzo, who was lighting up and trying to get a moment of privacy.
Oh for crying out loud . . .
He glared. They scuttled off. But he was interrupted a few minutes later by the remarkably mellow tones that had welcomed him into this temple barely five days ago.
"Ah, Sanzo-sama. You appear well."
The abbot was a spry old man for all his years. It made him uneasy, having a sixty-year old man differing to him . . . He had a feeling that the abbot knew and used it to his advantage.
"Well enough. Thank you for your concern." He stubbed out his cigarette irritably, losing the inclination to smoke entirely.
"Hmmm . . . Scandalising the rank and file again?"
"The rank and file are far too cloistered."
"True, very true." The abbot nodded in a genial fashion. "But what would you have us do? We chose seclusion over the distractions of the outside world, believing it to be the less of two evils."
"Why should there be only two paths? Or any at all?" Sanzo asked rhetorically. That was a question his Master had poised the novices once.
"Ah, Koumyou Sanzo's influence . . . I meet your Master once. Remarkable chap."
"He had more tact."
"Sanzo-sama is very blunt," the abbot observed dryly. "If you don't mind me saying, the years out in the world have aged you."
He was seventeen--that much he was sure of. His Master had marked the day he had been found in the river. But the abbot was not talking about his physical age, which tended to lead most people into underestimating him.
"And it's not often that monks such as yourself go about armed."
The frailty of his appearance was deceptive . . . but it also led both humans and youkai to believe that he was easy prey. Considering the places he had been to in order to source out the information he so desperately sought, that had been a drawback and an ever-present annoyance.
"Such is the world that we have removed ourselves from. It's not an easy path you've chosen for yourself, Sanzo-sama."
But it had been his choice. His choice to go on living while he pursued his never-ending quest. It had been four years, and the leads were still slim.
"We have heard also of your reluctance to accept aid from other temples."
They did not have what he needed. He had sought the youkai killers who had slain his Master, and that meant mingling to the shadier elements of society. The monasteries he had passed through on occasion knew nothing that could help him. All they wanted was someone named "Sanzo-houshi-sama", so it was imperative that he avoided and distanced himself from them. But sometimes, it was the only place he knew that would afford sanctuary to one wounded teenager who did not even look like a monk.
That fact galled him to no end.
Sanzo glared into the distance. "And so?"
The last growth spurt had ensured that while he would not loom over most people, he would not remain a runt for the rest of his life. It also meant that his wardrobe was dwindling down to the threadbare remnants of the last time he had accepted a temple's charity. Those robes had no doubt been burned by now--torn and bloodstained as they had been. He usually would not accept the clothes they lavished on him. It was also unlikely that the remarkably new monk's garments he wore now had came out of any store of second-hand robes, but he let them continue with their little deception. It was either that, or go around mother-naked and scandalise the rank and file even more.
The abbot smiled to himself and looked up at the reddening leaves.
"You're not the type to go around with an alms bowl. Or ask for help."
No, he was not. He had tried that before. When he was thirteen and new to the world outside the temple. But few people actually gave anything without demanding something in return. And then he discovered the nature of the world without the constraints of the temple walls and its rules. From all the propositions and the lewd remarks thrown his way, from the various attempts to rob him or worse--from the bodies he left in his wake--
Nothing for nothing. Kill or be killed.
"Perhaps it is time to rethink your options?"
He had options?
It was going to be another offer to wall him up in a monastery again--
"I could write an introduction letter to Hongfu Temple in Chou An," the abbot said, blithely breaking into his train of thoughts. "You should go--there has not been a Sanzo there for almost a decade.
"Besides, it comes with a stipend," he added delicately.
The abbot, Sanzo had to concede grudgingly, was a clever man. He knew all the weak points of a hastily-chosen path that had not changed since that boy who was no longer Kouryuu had ran away from Kinzan Temple all those years ago.
"I still fail to see how that will help me accomplish my mission," Sanzo ground out icily.
The abbot shrugged. "In Chou An is also the Temple of the Setting Sun. The one with the shrine of the Three Aspects--marvellous place it is . . ."
"I don't believe in gods." He had found that that line usually shut a lot of priests up.
"Oh, each to our own," the old abbot said calmly. "But you really should go see it at least once in your life."
"What's this?" he asked suspiciously. "First you want to tie me down to a temple and now you want me to go visit some shrine?"
"Did your master ever speak of it to you? No? Ah."
It still grated, it did, this other man speaking of his master as though he had any right to mention him at all. The abbot was going on about how the Three Aspects were the earthly mouthpieces of Kanzeon Bosatsu herself when he noticed the expression on Sanzo’s face.
"So you don't bend your neck to anything or anyone?"
"No. Not to the gods."
Especially not to the gods he had barely believed in four years ago. For therein lay the thorny heart of his discontent . . . If the gods existed and watched over them every fucking moment of the day, then where had they been on the day his Master, a servant of those same gods, had spilled his lifesblood out on the hallowed grounds of a supposedly holy temple?
There was no reason to believe in them now. He had himself, and that was all he needed.
"The Three Aspects are not gods as the layman would define the term . . . More like a kind of oracle," the abbot pointed out. "And perhaps the Three Aspects could tell you where you should go on your search, Genjo Sanzo. It must be tiring to wander about without any sense of direction . . ."
For once, he did not retort or snap back. The abbot had hit on a particularly sore point. When all else failed, there was always the faith that he barely even practised. But it was his Master's faith after all . . . and he would complete his search at any cost.
"I’ll consider it," he said, more to stop the old man’s incessant prodding than anything else.
The abbot spoke of a great many things in the next few days--whether out of the mistaken belief that Sanzo would be interested or merely to prattle about the monastery, the countryside, the state of religion this back-wood area to an important guest, he would never know.
In the end, he had accepted the letter from the abbot of Louyang Monastery to the Patriarch of Hongfu Temple reluctantly--just in case he changed his mind on the way--and set off, intending to find some place that served drinkable beer. Despite all his protests, they would have secreted new robes, provisions and a little cash in the bundle that they swore contained leftovers from yesterday.
He had gone east in the direction of Chou An--not because the abbot had suggested it though. One thing Sanzo never ever disclosed to anyone was that his wanderings were not entirely as aimless as they appeared to be. There was always this . . . *instinct* that drew him onwards. And something that could have been a voice--calling, always calling him . . .
Admitting to anyone that he heard voices in his head was the surest way of landing up committed to an asylum by well-meaning people like the abbot of Louyang.
Brooding about it would not do any good now. He drained the can and asked the barkeeper for directions to the privy.
"Out the back." The barkeeper jerked a thumb at the back door of the public room.
The back courtyard of the inn proper was not that well-lit, but the arrow and sign to the privy was clear enough--foot high characters painted on the wall that also warned of the penalties for urinating, defecating and vomiting anywhere other than the designated toilet. Sanzo hoped that most of those yokels could read--he only had one extra pair of slippers.
Following the light of a very feeble lamp on the far wall, he made it to the archway in the wall separating the front of the inn from the back half. The kitchens and a sheltered courtyard lay beyond, occupied by various staff members taking their evening meal or drinking to pass the time. The privies were at the far end of the compound, no doubt in close proximity to the river where everything could be disposed of out of sight and out of mind.
When he strode past, he heard the noise of some altercation near the kitchens.
"Get the hell away from there, stupid old hag!" The innkeeper was berating some drudge out by the courtyard wall. A few ferry-hands on their dinner break were watching with ill-concealed amusement. "What did I say about you coming here? I'll thrash the living daylights out of you! Be off!"
The servant did not seem fazed by this outburst at all. Spindle thin and grey, she looked at the landlord in a considering fashion before shuffling away through a darkened arch to what could have been the staff compound or storage area.
"Oi! Boss--the little woman giving you trouble again?"
"The gods alone know why I married the bitch!" the innkeeper snarled to his lackeys. "If you layabouts are done with your meals, clear out!"
It was none of his business--merely background noise. He made his way to the privies and back to the inn proper. Before he reached the barroom however, he scented a cool zephyr of damp air that signalled the approach of an autumn gale.
When Sanzo got back to the bar, he ordered the strongest liquor they had--straight up.
Later, when the customers had thinned out and the drinkers remaining were well beyond the dead-drunk phase, the priest was still at the bar, a three-quarters empty jar of the region's most potent rice wine in front of him. He had smoked his way through the box of Marlboros as the rain poured down, his mood as sodden as the ground outside.
When the cigarettes ran out, he decided to call it quits for the night. However, his legs were not that sure of themselves when he started to get up.
"Oi, young master, you look like you might need some help," said the thickset man who seemed to be a bouncer of some sort who had been helping groups of inebriated customers out the door, sometimes not very politely. Sanzo supposed that customers who were staying at the inn got slightly better treatment.
"No need." He should not have had that much to drink, really, but--
Despite his protests, the man--who looked like he was used to this sort of thing--got Sanzo’s arm over one stout shoulder and headed for the stairs. "A good night’s sleep will do you good and we’ve got the just the thing for next-day-hangovers . . ."
If he had been any less drunk, that man would have died for his presumption. As it was, he was stuck trying to walk in a straight line up the stairs. Tripping slightly on the landing, he swore fluently.
"Hey, careful there, young master--"
Sanzo registered the man's murderous intent just in time to avoid the blow meant for his head. Ducking aside, he pulled away and fumbled for his gun, silently cursing his ill luck and his carelessness. He had not sensed the undercurrent of danger until now--
Some clarity returned to him as he forcibly shouldered aside the effects of the alcohol. Survival instincts, honed fine by years of living on the proverbial edge, kicked in almost instantly.
There were others just ahead and a few coming up from behind. They reeked of violence, these lawless men. It made it easier for him to sense them in the gloomy stairway. The main problem was that there were too many of them and it was not a particularly spacious staircase to begin with--
The "helpful" member of the inn's staff lunged for him, intent on finishing what he started.
His first shot--fired too hastily at close range--got the man in the thigh. The noise of the gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.
Then the other potential robbers were there, armed with clubs and sticks. He dodged their clumsy attempts with ease and raised his gun again--
But it was far too cramp for his speed and agility to work to his advantage. And to top it all off, the alcohol he had been imbibing was beginning to take its toil on his reflexes.
Someone landed a lucky blow in the dark. It caught him hard on the temple and he moved backwards instinctively to avoid the press of bodies that was threatening to trap him--
Through the blaze of pain in his temple, he could tell he was falling.
Damned stairs--
* * * * * * * * * *
End Part 1.
Crossings
By Eline (Kanzeon on ff.net)
Note-type-thingies: This is a little bit AU . . . as in a small side-track off the main timeline.
Warnings: Violence, cussing, nasty stuff, etc, etc . . .
Worn-out disclaimer: I own nothing and fanfic is copyright infringement, I know, but it's not like I make any money out of it . . .
Timeline: A little while before Sanzo found Goku.
Dedicated to sf--okay, so I did throw him down the stairs, but he's still alive, see?
* * * * * * * * * *
Picking on the youth who dressed like a monk had been, in retrospect, a mistake. They normally preyed on lone travellers because they were less likely to be trouble. That boy had been more than just *trouble*--drunk or not, monk or not . . . He had been hell on two feet before they had got lucky enough to land a blow on him. Kuro would probably lose his leg. A messy, messy business . . .
The gunshot had been a near thing. But fortunately, it could be explained away to startled guests as thunder shaking up some of the sheet metal roofing out back.
Rifling through the hardly priest-like boy's belongings in the safety of his small back-office behind the kitchens, the stout innkeeper reflected that it had not been worth the bother. The brat had not been carrying that much cash. Some funny roll of paper, odds and ends like writing materials and spare slippers. At least the gun was a quality piece . . .
His questing hand found something solid in the bundle. Dragging out the weighty cloth-wrapped object, he spent a moment or two undoing the meticulously tied knots and pulled out--
A gold diadem, by the gods . . . By the weight and feel of the heavy circlet, it was nothing less than solid gold.
Lu'dan the innkeeper was a pragmatist who counted his losses and gains in cold, hard coinage. Lu'dan was also not above cheating his own men. There was no need for any of them to know that they had caught a larger fish than they had expected.
He thrust the diadem back into its wrappings swiftly as the footsteps of his lieutenant Shibun reached the door.
"Boss? Was it worth it?" the skinny, hawkish man enquired.
Lu'dan snorted and gestured to the boy's scanty belongings. "Hardly. How is Kuro?"
"Gave him the strongest stuff we had--he's going to be out of it soon." Shibun glared down at the limp body on the floor. They had dragged him down here because they could not risk disposing of the body so soon with awake guests around. "Pretty boy's still alive? That can be fixed . . . Boss, we wouldn't mind making him a lot less pretty."
Lu'dan looked down at the youth, noting the delicate features under the shock of blonde hair. His men had to be appeased, but there were other possibilities that could entertained. "Tie him up and throw him in the shed at the back. Try not to break his face in while you're at it."
"You mean . . ."
"He's young. Kyoba'll pay for hair and eyes like that."
Shibun started to grin unpleasantly. Kyoba the flesh-trader operated in the relatively lawless north, but he did come by or send men down occasionally to pick up anything Lu'dan just happened to have lying around. It was an infinitely more profitable way of getting rid of any inconvenient victims. None of those Lu'dan sold north ever came back.
* * * * * * * * * *
Sanzo knew what hangovers were. They were the natural result of piling strong liquor on top of beer. Waking up to a hangover and a throbbing pain in his head was unpleasant to say the least. Waking up with all the above combined with several dozen aches and pains all over the place was just another day in the life of Genjo Sanzo, seventeen-years old and hating every moment he was delayed in his search by morons who thought that they could kick him around.
He groaned involuntarily as the lump on his skull reminded him of the events of last night--
Damn it all . . .
It would have been lucky for him if they had just kicked him around. No, he had fallen off the stairs, drunk as a skunk and incapable of shooting straight. And then they had probably kicked him around for fun.
Opening his eyes with some effort, he confronted his current surroundings warily. Darkness--no, dimness surrounded him. The air smelt musty--some kind of storeroom? There was light coming through a small barred window set high in up in the wall opposite him.
So they had not chucked him into the river or killed him straight off. The only people who had made such a mistake were all dead now. Sanzo generally saw to that . . . if only his arms were not bound behind him with something that felt like wire.
Fuck.
They had also ripped the hem of his robe and gagged him with it. And there were dried tracks of blood on his face that itched--the fall must have grazed his temple. He was propped up against the stone wall of this small room and when he tried to test his limbs despite the agony it caused, he found that his left ankle had been chained firmly to a steel ring set in the floor, effectively anchoring him to one spot.
They were not about to underestimate him again.
Through the blinding pain and the mounting urge to retch, Sanzo cursed himself or being nine kinds of a fool. He had been unforgivably careless. All because of one stupid storm . . .
His body managed to work up a few dry heaves--he had not eaten enough to produce a spectacular mess. Which was a good thing because he would have choked on his own vomit with the gag in the way.
The nausea passed and he forced himself to focus on something else besides his injuries and current state of dehydration. A useful technique he knew to distance his mind from his physical discomforts also provided him with a way to suss out his immediate surroundings to a certain degree. Awareness of himself faded back and was replaced by sensations of another kind. The room . . . shed . . . was largely empty except for himself and the musty rushes on the floor. He strained his limited resources a little more and found the faint traces of life beyond the wall. Humans were not as easy to sense as youkai--they . . . *emanated* a lot less. He was still within the inn compound--there were people moving just outside. And he doubted that any of them would help him--the fact that he had been attacked on the stairs and locked up in here meant that the innkeeper was aware of the going-ons in his inn and perhaps even in-charge of the crooked operations here.
He gradually became aware of noises just outside. Movement and voices, coming closer. The inn's servants? Or perhaps the not-so-honest landlord--
"Stupid hag . . . do something useful . . . That brat in the shed--get going!" Definitely the landlord. Ordering about the drudges, no doubt.
The door creaked open and a stooped figure bearing a basin of some sort slunk in.
Sanzo had a brief glimpse of the courtyard outside before the door closed again, leaving him in the semi-darkness with the shadowy shape. Whatever it was, it barely made a sound as it crossed the floor slowly towards him.
He could tell that it was female, but barely recognisable as such. She was thin--no, bony because she was not young. Her hair was a rather colourless shade that could have been dirty straw or mousy brown before it had faded with time. It hung down in some places over her face, obscuring her features. The innkeeper's woman from last night.
"So . . . you're the one Lu'dan netted last night." It was a dry, disconcertingly cold voice. Sanzo found himself wanting very much to inch away from the old crone as she plunked the basin down and squatted right beside him. She hauled his head up and peered into his eyes for a moment before ripping the gag off. "You look like they dragged you down the stairs backwards."
Still reeling from the pain that all that movement caused, Sanzo certainly *felt* that way. He probably looked worse--his skin tended to bruise easily.
Up close, the woman was not as old as he had originally supposed. About forty, but prematurely ageing. Her greying appearance could be attributed to her drab clothing and faded hair. She attacked his face none too gently with a washrag, mopping away the dried tracks of blood from his forehead. "Huh--it's only a flesh wound . . . Nothing you'd die of. Now, what was it that knocked you out . . . Ah."
Bony fingers found the lump on his skull and he almost yelled when she prodded it.
"That's a fine goose-egg you've got there, boy," she said almost cheerfully. "Got no ointment for it though, so you'll just have to grin and bear it for now."
Suppressing the urge to wince because he could not escape her ministrations, Sanzo bore the indignity in silence as she slapped a pad of cloth over the wound on his temple and held it in place with a few strips of bandages.
"You're lucky to be alive. Most of those he robbed wind up as sausage filling," the woman said. "Or maybe not . . . He's keeping you alive after all."
"Should I be asking why?" Sanzo asked sarcastically even though his mouth felt like a desert at the moment. He was privately relieved that he had not touched any of the meat dishes.
"He's thinking of selling you to Kyoba the flesh-trader. Because you're such a pretty boy . . ." Callused fingertips caught his chin and turned his face gently. "So very pretty."
He twisted away from her grasp with a snarl. "Go get your fucking entertainment elsewhere, bitch. Do you get off on other people who are worse off than you?"
"Such a nasty tongue--I heard Kyoba cuts out the tongues if his merchandise doesn't co-operate . . ." Her smile was bitter. "I pity you, boy. But I never gloat." She reached out again to touch his hair.
"Get your stinking hands off. You don't get enough prick from your husband?" he hissed. "Why am I not surprised?"
Her mouth widened into a dreadful parody of a grin as she grabbed his hair and hauled him to face her. There was only hatred in those cloudy eyes. Hatred that had been honed needle-fine by time into something cold and inhumanly focussed. But worst of all, he could tell that there was nothing remotely maniacal behind that twisted facade. She was frighteningly sane despite her ranting.
"You really are a nasty little boy--there's nothing I'd like more than to slit the throat of my *husband* from ear to ear . . . and he knows it. No husband of mine, boy," she rasped in his face, bequeathing the unpleasant scent of what was probably a rotting molar or two on him at close quarters. "Do you know how long it took for me to become ugly enough to disgust that pig?" That awful rictus again as she bared her teeth. "Oh, I was pretty once. So pretty . . . like you. But being pretty gets you in trouble . . . as you know now."
She released him and patted his hair back in place as though nothing had happened. "So you just be a good boy and behave. We'll make your stay here as nice as possible . . . And don't bother yelling--this is the too far away from the inn for the customers to hear you."
* * * * * * * * * *
Lu'dan looked up from his tally-books when the door to the back-office creaked open. There was a reason why he did not oil the hinges to his rooms anymore. The reason for this particular habit shuffled in in her dark threadbare robes and old clogs. The innkeeper wondered for the thousandth time just what trouble he had heaped on his own head for marrying the old shrew back when she had been presentable.
"Well?" he barked to cover his unease. The presence of Shibun outside his door was one mitigating factor that allowed him to speak with the mad woman during the day. While he spoke, his eyes automatically roamed about to make sure that there were no sharp pens or sharp objects of any description within easy reach. "The brat will live?"
"More than enough for you to sell him off," she said. So she was coherent today at least. "He could have concussion, internal injures . . . who knows? He could drop dead as long as he does it after Kyoba buys him and that's all that matters, isn't it, dear?"
"Shut up, old woman," the innkeeper snapped, more out of habit than anything else. "Feed the damn brat and keep him quiet."
"Yes, dear," she said with a smirk that he did not trust in the least.
"And stay away from the kitchens during operating hours--the sight of you unnerves everyone!" Not to mention the last time she had tried to poison his food. It would have been easier to get rid of her if he had not married her so publicly all those years ago. Most of his staff was wary of her and she had the drudges running scared.
"Whatever you wish, husband dear."
"Get out," Lu'dan snarled. No, he could not trust her and her peculiar moods. One would think that a woman could be happy with her lot when she was married and had a comfortable life, but no, not that bitch. She *would* go about like she was in perpetual mourning and de-scale fish all day long to spite him when he offered her the life of a prosperous businessman's wife.
But he did sigh with relief when she was gone. It had not been that long ago since the time she had tried to poison his pen nibs . . .
* * * * * * * * * *
Keeping awake while the old woman had been in the shed had been tiring--all Sanzo wanted to do was sink back into the blackness and rest. But that would probably cost him in the end--he had to be aware and ready, should any chance for escape present itself.
So far, he was out of luck. The old woman had came back once more with water and porridge--which she left within easy reach if he really wanted to bend and lap it up like a dog because she had not bothered to untie him.
Hunger and thirst won out around midday--if his reading of the patch of light from the window was accurate. Besides, he reasoned to himself, he needed to conserve his energy and he was weaker than a kitten at this point.
And then there were the annoying dizzy spells that struck without warning. He had almost blacked out the last time he had bent over the damned water bowl.
The need for his battered body to recuperate won over all his mental protests eventually and he dropped into a light doze towards the evening.
He was roused much later by the slightest scrape of wood against stone. Alert by force of habit, he kept his breathing even and tried to discern his latest visitor from the shadows. It was past sunset and he was saved from complete darkness by the waxing moon and a relatively cloudless night.
The innkeeper's woman emerged as silently as before. She was not wearing her clogs and in one hand, she held a pair of unusually sharp knitting needles. Sanzo tensed up to shift himself as much as he could in his trussed up state. Perhaps he had been wrong in the assessment of her overall sanity--
But she bent over his ankle with the needles and started to prod at the padlock.
It did not take her too long to work the tumblers in the lock around. Next, she produced a set of rusty but functional wire-cutters and sliced his bonds apart. His arms were numb from being restrained. Movement . . . hurt.
Sanzo gritted his teeth and flexed his arms. His training had ensured that his cramped muscles would recover fairly quickly. The pins-and-needles sensation told him that blood was returning to his limbs. Now if only the pain from all the bumps and bruises would fade away so quickly . . .
A clay jug was shoved his way. Water--clean and extremely welcome at the moment. Now was not the time to argue with his parched throat.
"Hurry up and drink." The old woman held out a small bundle of something that might have been provisions as she spoke in a low tone. "Take it and go down to the dock. You should be able to get a boat and escape," she said curtly. In the dimness of the shed, she definitely seemed more or less normal. It occurred to him that the madwoman-act by day could cover up a startling amount of competency when no one else was around.
"You really must despise your husband," he muttered when his throat no longer felt like a desert. An ally at this stage was . . . unexpected, but he would not throw away a chance like this.
"Spiting him is my hobby until the day I get close enough to cut his throat," she said. "Hurry up. I have a copy of the gate key here." And what she showed him was indeed a copy--painstakingly shaped from what could have been a scrap of metal roof sheeting. It seemed that she had kept herself rather busy over the years . . .
An unused key. She would not leave until her whatever vengeance she held close to her heart was satisfied.
"I'm not leaving without my things."
"Fool. Kyoba could come along at any time and you'll be worse than dead if he brings you up north. Do you like taking it up the ass, boy?"
"I don't intend to go anywhere with anyone." Sanzo tested his balance gingerly by standing up with the aid of the wall. Fuck it all . . . He was still getting dizzy spells that made his vision swim. "Listen, do you want revenge on that man or something?"
"Why, yes." She cocked her head to one side and raise done eyebrow sceptically. "Are you saying that you want to take on Lu'dan and his men? Shibun and the others are wondering if they could have a go at you if Kyoba says you don't have a virgin ass."
"If you haven't noticed, baba, you're not the only one who has a score to settle,"
She laughed at that. "What a little spit-fire you are. You boys like to play so much . . . Are you sure can play with the bully-boys? They play very rough."
"I can play down at that level--if I had my weapons back. At the very worst, I'll be dead," he continued, ruthlessly suppressing the thought of other, less pleasant outcomes. He would find his own way through this--even if it did kill him. "Dead and you'll have one more failed attempt on his life--but you can go on nursing your damned grudge for eternity for all I care. What's one more bitter-pill compared to what you want? Will you move, or stay still until you rot away in this stinking dung-heap waiting for another chance?"
She regarded him for a long moment. Whatever it was she was scrutinising, Sanzo supposed he would never know. "I see. You're not a very nice boy at all. I think they did underestimate you . . ."
"Then help me get my gun. And the rest of my things." Namely his master's diadem and Sutra. Most important of all, most precious of all--the only reminders of his Master and his quest. "Better yet, show me where it is and I'll--"
"Men who have nothing to fear sleep in peace. Lu'dan doesn't sleep in peace without a locked door and alert guards. After all, he's afraid I might slit him open the way I gut a fish . . . I'm not even supposed to be here. It took a few months for me to learn how to pick that lock on my room." That mirthless smile again. "And you've been roughed up too much--."
"My gun makes a large difference even if I can't stand."
"Confident, aren't you?"
"Hardly. But I will do what I set out to do. And I am going to get out of here on my terms no matter what."
There was a spark of understanding then. They both had very little left to lose.
"You can try. If you're not afraid of dying," she conceded.
"So what is *your* reason for living, baba?" he countered.
Her face was expressionless, but something else about her seemed to burn. Sanzo could sense it on the edge of his perception, burning away ceaselessly. It was an icy, cold rage that had lost all heat but none of its murderous power. "That filth . . . has killed those dear to me. This place," she said, indicating the walls around them, "was built using my dowry and the money taken from my *real* husband. All this . . . all of it because I was pretty enough to gain the attention of that filthy lump of shit." She practically spat out the last part.
"So you have a motive," he said flatly. "I wouldn't mind seeing that bastard dead, but it's none of my business as long as I can get out of this place."
The woman tilted her head in a gesture that was probably an unconscious holdover from the days when she was supposedly pretty. "Is this your idea of a bargain?"
"No. Just a suggestion because I won't guarantee anything."
"And people think I'm mad?"
"You're pathetic," he ground out. Wasting his breath on this woman was making him thirsty again and he felt another headache coming on. "You've been trying for *how* long already? Some day, you'd just be living day after day, wishing that he'd slip and break his neck. Waiting for that bastard to drop dead or die from food poisoning perhaps. I'd say you're very close to that stage, baba."
She was glaring at him now, no longer as focused and cold as before. It appeared that he had struck a nerve. "I wanted to be *alive* to spit on his grave," she hissed. "I wanted to make sure he was dead."
Ah--the old bitch was not insane after all. He could understand the need for a clean kill. That was why he always aimed for the head and chest. Very few humans and youkai could actually get up to stab you in the back after that sort of thing.
"Maybe you still can."
"I'm holding you to that, boy. How soon can you move without falling over?"
Sanzo scowled at her. If *she* could see that he was not entirely stable on his feet, then he really couldn't fool anyone at all. "Give me another day or so. And tell me the layout of this place so I won't be walking around blind."
They worked the wire into makeshift bonds that could be pulled apart in an instant but could past muster if anyone was to do a cursory check. The chain and lock on his ankle were fixed in place again and would do as long as no-one tested the padlock.
Now all they needed was a plan, which Sanzo intended to formulate around his aim of getting his Master's Sutra back.
But everybody knew what they said about the best-laid plans . . .
* * * * * * * * * *
End of Part 2.
Rating will go up because of violence, Sanzo-abuse, etc, etc . . .
Crossings
By Eline (Kanzeon on ff.net)
Note-type-thingies: This is a little bit AU . . . as in a small side-track off the main timeline.
Warnings: Sanzo-abuse and violence.
Worn-out disclaimer: I own nothing and this disclaimer is about as effective as wet tissue paper when it comes to ass-covering.
Timeline: A little while before Sanzo found Goku.
Dedicated to sf--Sanzo's still okay, honest . . .
* * * * * * * * * *
The next day continued as usual for the inhabitants of the inn. An established routine kept the ferry running from the crack of dawn to dusk like a well-oiled machine. Cursing and hollering a quaintly obscene chant to the beat of their labours, the morning crew hauled at the thick oiled ropes to guide the morning load of livestock and patient-eyed farmers across the river.
There was a lookout posted on the roof, ostensibly to watch the ferry in case of any difficulties. His vantage-point also covered the flat area of the river bank that the inn was situated upon as well as a good mile or so terrain. It was also boring work. The sudden appearance of something totally unexpected around the late morning made the lookout freeze for a moment before he issued a shrill whistle that had a lot less impact due to the advent of lunch.
The sharp-eyed man on watch signalled frantically at the resting crews in the courtyard, but owing to the lack of anyone looking in his direction, his gestures were ignored. A well-thrown pebble got him the attention of one of the burly ferrymen, who dropped his lunchtime ration of beer and swore at the man on the roof.
The lookout merely gave him the finger and then a well-rehearsed signal that stopped the man in mid-tirade.
"Shit," the man was heard to mutter before turning to his crew of ferrymen, porters and part-time criminals. "Horses spotted . . . men coming from the north!"
That got everyone's attention in an instant.
"Kyoba's men!"
"What, right now? It's barely *midday*!"
"Get moving then!" someone barked. "We've got to tell him not to come by the front again--you know how the boss hates that!"
"Imagine what *that* would do to the business . . . Those hillmen--"
"Boss usually sells him wine and anything else he's got on hand," said one of the more practical members of Lu'dan's staff. "Business is still business."
"I heard from Shibun that they've got something more to Kyoba's liking than wine."
"Someone get Lu'dan then!"
There was much scrambling as a runner was sent to redirect the riders from the north and another hurried to find the innkeeper. The rest milled about, passing information in whispers as the inn's operations practically halted in the wake of the excitement.
One lone figure in the middle of the tumult continued her work, knife glinting dully as the scales were neatly removed from the body of a trout. It was as though she had not heard a thing, but then they were used to that sort of thing from the old woman and paid her no heed as they moved past her.
It was not the first time that the northerner had came to do business with Lu'dan, merely one of the few times he had come in the day instead of under the cover of night. It was . . . unexpected to say the least, not to mention unwelcome for at least two people.
Unnoticed and unremarked upon, the old woman stood up and headed for the inn again, shaking the silver scales off her hands as her clogs beat a steady tattoo on the ground.
There was not much time left now . . .
* * * * * * * * * *
Dropping in and out of a fitful but much needed rest, Sanzo was surprised when the door to the storeroom burst open to admit the dark bulks of men with enough metal on them to rival a blacksmith's shop.
With them came a lean vulture of a man with metal discs sewn in his belt and well-oiled boots--obviously the leader from the way he was deferred to. There were knives in his belt, sharpened and polished with care and constant use.
They were not the soft men of the cities and towns--their weathered skin bespoke of days and nights spent under the open sky. Sanzo knew instinctively that they were not like the innkeeper and his motley crew of crooks. When these people attacked, they didn't start with clubs and work their way up from there.
The display of shifting weaponry stopped as the vulture-like man moved in with Lu'dan at his shoulder.
"Only one?" the stranger said in a rather pronounced northern accent.
"Times are tough, Kyoba. Mass disappearances attract attention," Lu'dan said with a shrug.
"And the sausage trade is very convenient as winter approaches, I know," Kyoba said, a hint of a sneer in his voice. "Well, let's see her then."
"It's a boy."
"Is it? Looks undernourished to me," Kyoba said sceptically and Sanzo struggled to stay very still and harmless-looking as they loomed over him--even though he sincerely wanted to deck someone for that last crack at his appearance. He would have to bide his time . . . for now.
"The hair is nice . . ." The speaker took a handful of that hair he had been admiring and jerked his head up. Sanzo fought down the urge to swear--he was getting *extremely* tired of having his hair pulled on by all and sundry.
Face to face with the sharp features of the slaver, Sanzo got to see Kyoba's expression of scepticism fade into a brief moment of surprise, and then of calculativeness. "Well, well--if you didn't tell me it was a boy, I wouldn't have known it at first. Gave you trouble, did he?"
"A little," Lu'dan lied. "So you're interested?"
"We'll see," Kyoba said and gestured to his henchmen.
They pinned his shoulders down on the none-too-clean floor. Sanzo knew that he could be free of his mock bonds in a second, but the shed was too small to attempt retaliation as his speed worked to his advantage only when he had room to manoeuvre in, without several people practically sitting on him. And he was without his gun, which did not bode very well when the numbers were stacked against him and he was still one of the walking wounded. He did not even know if the old woman had found his firearm and belongings--including the all-important Sutra--yet.
And so he endured the efficient hands that pulled his robes aside and stripped his pants off. Endured the hands that wrenched his jaws open and the slaver's presence as he bent close to check the state of his teeth. Endured the prying eyes that raked over him as though he was a piece of meat on the butcher's slab. Endured as his thighs were shoved apart and his genitals subjected to that invasive yet cold touch. Endured it all when Kyoba slicked a finger with some sort of oil and shoved it into--
Sanzo had been half-expecting it, but the revulsion at the slaver's probing finger almost made him retch. He settled for clamping his teeth in his lower lip, silently seething.
"Nice and tight . . . How ever did Lu'dan come across a pretty piece of flesh like you?" Kyoba wondered softly as he wiped his hands off fastidiously on a cloth.
Sanzo looked up, blood welling up from the place where he had bitten his lip.
Hardened as he was, Kyoba stepped back involuntarily. That icy violet stare promised death.
"Well?" Lu'dan asked from somewhere behind the slaver.
"He's over sixteen, Lu'dan--rather overripe for the market, I'd say," Kyoba said in a bored tone. Sanzo knew what this was. This was where the haggling started and both sides would attempt to get the better of the other. If *he* had not been the merchandise in question, he would have found it all very amusing.
Now all he wanted to do was kill a lot of people in an extremely messy way.
Unfortunately, they were not about to leave him alone at the moment. Two of the hill bandits stayed behind as their leader and the innkeeper moved out of the shed to conduct negotiations. A mistake on their part because it was obvious that they were keeping an eye on the prospective goods--Lu'dan would get what he thought was a good deal and Kyoba would walk away thinking that he had got the better of the fat innkeeper.
Which made it imperative that he escape soon. *Now* was a good time.
The timing was unfavourable and he was lying half-naked amidst the clothing that Kyoba had not bothered to replace, damn him--but that was just how fucked up his luck was at the moment. The only thing advantage he had going for him was that they thought he was helpless . . .
Sanzo looked up at the two guards. They stared back but made no move as he struggled into a sitting position.
"I need to take a piss."
"What?" one of the men barked.
"I said I need to piss. I haven't been able to take a piss for the whole fucking day," he said loudly and jerked his bound arms meaningfully.
"The boy says he wants to piss," said the other bandit who sounded better versed in the local dialect.
"He's not our problem yet."
"Yeah, but when Kyoba's done dickering with that fat ass of an innkeeper, he's going to be our problem anyway," his comrade pointed out. "If he pisses all over himself, you know someone'll catch Hell from Kyoba cos it makes them stink."
If they had been Lu'dan's men, they might have done a little more than just haul him upright. But these bandits appeared to be professional slavers. One of them even stood to one side, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.
That sort of set-up would have worked if their prisoner was as secure as Sanzo appeared to be.
He cast all caution to the wind and freed his hands with one pull. The man holding him upright got a hard chop to the windpipe, effectively silencing him and sending him choking to the floor. Before the other guard could even react, Sanzo had already moved. Surprise was on his side, as well as an entire childhood's worth of training and strength born from sheer bloody-minded desperation. Hindered as he was, hobbled as he was, he was still able to deal his opponent a crippling blow to the gut. The elbow to the side of the man's head made certain that he would be out of it for now.
Wincing at the strain that the manoeuvres had caused, Sanzo got up and set his clothing to rights. He was going to pay for all that exertion eventually.
He freed himself of the remnants of the wire and chain and stretched carefully. A moment of concentration with his ear pressed against the wooden surface of the door told him that there was no one outside. According to the old woman, he was in the compound furthest from the inn proper and closest to the river.
He could not wait for her to come back. In a situation like this, he knew he could only depend on his own resourcefulness.
The two slavers had weaponry aplenty--just not the kind he was used to. Genjo Sanzo relied on his gun and his own skill at hand-to-hand. The heavy swords were just not worth the aggravation. Nor the damn bullwhip or the odd bolas that were probably more common in the north than here either.
His gaze fell on the wooden doors. They were sturdy and not easily budged, but the handles were more like wooden rods that could be detached . . . with a little bit of force.
When the handle broke off, it had left him with a spar of wood roughly two feet long with a jagged point. It was at least *something*.
He gripped the rough stake firmly and tensed when he heard footsteps. A heavy tread that probably belonged to one of the ferrymen or the innkeeper's minions--he was willing to bet that the two were one and the same anyway. Flattening himself against the wall, he waited for the owner to come around the corner. There was nothing for it now but to go all out on an offensive--he was pissed off enough to try.
The man who rounded the corner was not expecting the foot that tripped him and blow to the back of the head that brought instant unconsciousness. Sanzo was not expecting the second man coming up directly behind the first. Stunned at first, the man's chagrin at being ambushed quickly changed to anger and a predictable turn of violence.
Damn and damned again . . . There were just too many people at this inn and no time for subtlety at all.
Sanzo feinted and struck out with the crude piece of wood and caught the man square in the gut as he rushed past like an angry bull. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to keep him from screaming as he went down, clutching at the stump buried in his flesh.
So much for the element of surprise. The courtyard began to fill up with armed men. They were robbers and murderers after all, already for the day when the authorities or more dangerous rogues than they came knocking. But at the odds of a least a dozen to one, Sanzo knew that he was the one being hunted. And they looked like they would dearly like to give back what he had dished out a day ago.
They had all the exits from this yard covered and the only reason why he wasn't neck-deep in steel was because they still remembered what he was capable of.
Cornered, he was forced to give ground while desperately seeking an opening. Maybe he could try the walls . . . and be a target for all and sundry the moment he leapt up. Better to look more incapacitated now to lull them for a while. He took another step back and staggered a little, feigning weakness.
"Give it up, boy, and maybe we won't be too hard on you." The thin man with the unpleasant smile was probably the innkeeper's lieutenant, Shibun. "But you did Kuro a really bad turn the other day and Ryuu'da down there doesn't look like he's going to get up again. Time for a little payback, no?"
The ring of weapons closed in.
Fuck this . . .
Rats would fight when cornered. Kill or be killed. Sanzo prepared to go for Shibun. If the leader could be taken down, he could have a chance yet--
The gunshot rang out in the still afternoon air. Familiar, yet odd because Sanzo was usually behind that gun when it was discharged.
Whether used on youkai or humans, the exorcism gun was still a gun. A weapon that discharged bullets with a force unusual for its size. A hefty chunk from the left side of Shibun's head disappeared in a spray of blood, tissue and cartilage.
"Boy!"
Just behind the modest-sized lynch mob was the old woman. His gun was flung up in a high arc over the heads of the momentarily stunned henchmen. By the time they had turned towards the sound of her voice, Sanzo had already caught his weapon and fired on them without hesitation.
Men scattered even as several of their number were ruthlessly taken out of the equation. In the resulting panic, Sanzo ducked through one entryway in a wall that divided the inn from the rest of the compound. Exhibiting a surprising turn of speed, the old woman joined him there.
"You took your own bloody time getting here," Sanzo muttered, marginally relieved now that he had a fighting chance. "I suppose I should be lucky you can shoot--"
"The moment Kyoba showed up--I went to Lu'dan's rooms to get that," she said, indicating the gun. "There were some bullets in it. And I was aiming for his back," she added neutrally. "Can't see very well, I'm afraid."
Sanzo opened his mouth. And shut it, refusing to get into a discussion about where the bullet would have lodged in his skull if she had missed Shibun completely due to the cataracts that obstructed her vision. He realised at last that she had not been using her eyesight at all in the dark last night.
"Did you find the rest of the bullets?" He hoped that she had the sense to get them as well.
She pulled the heavy pouch out of her sleeve. "I thought you might need them. That's only five of them down so far."
Sanzo noted that down somewhere as he reloaded his gun. "The rest of it . . . Did you get everything else?"
"I kept my end of the deal. I hid it in the eaves outside the kitchen because it would look too conspicuous if I dragged it all out here."
"Don't give me that!" But some part of him grudgingly admired her manipulativeness. He would have to fight his way through the rest of them to get to his objective.
"You said you would get out of here on your terms, priest. I merely added my own terms."
"Your death is going to be on your own head!" Sanzo snarled as he reloaded and fired on one man unfortunate who had been trying to sneak up on them.
She only pursed her lips and pulled out a thin but sharp knife that looked like it had been used to clean fish. "You needn't worry about me, priest. Lu'dan's got eighteen men--mostly stupid louts and three of them aren't in any condition to move after what you did to them. Minus five now. Kyoba's men are the ones you have to watch out for--I think there are around a dozen of them."
"Ten of them at the moment." Silently reviewing the odds, Sanzo knew that he could not really blame the old woman for the current mess. After all, he had thrown his lot in with a madwoman, which would make him equally insane.
Hitching up his torn robes, he pulled himself up on the wall, ignoring the ache in his stiff muscles. Then laid down flat on the tiles to start picking off the men that had been closing in on their position. And not a moment too soon. They had hauled out some old firearms and crossbows to begin an offensive.
* * * * * * * * * *
End Part 3.
Crossings
By Eline (Kanzeon on ff.net)
Note-type-thingies: This is a little bit AU . . . as in a small side-track off the main timeline.
Warnings: Violence--I mean a lot of it.
Timeline: A little while before Sanzo found Goku.
Dedicated to sf--I'm crap at doing these action sequences, really . . .
* * * * * * * * * *
It was supposed to have been a simple transaction. Lu'dan had done it many times. Sweeten the flesh trader's disposition with a little brandy before getting into the bargaining--and by the gods, the man could haggle. He had also been hoping to get Kyoba to buy up those tuns of wine that were rapidly turning into vinegar.
Midway through the preliminaries in his office, they had heard the alarmed shouts of the men outside. And then came the gunshots that were the precursor to more sounds of carnage.
Lu'dan felt his mouth go dry and his eyes swivelled back nervously to the lean figure of the man sprawled out in the chair meant for guests.
Kyoba arched one wisp-thin eyebrow sardonically. "A *little* trouble, you say?"
* * * * * * * * * *
Reload. Fire. Reload. It would be easy to think of them as youkai . . .
When humans became beasts, when they fought like animals to survive, when they fought *others* to survive . . . no better than youkai. But that would be to judge and no one, least of all himself, had that right.
Reload. He knew only the acrid smell of gunpowder and the cold ceramic titles under his belly as he searched for targets. The courtyard had been picked clean. The survivors had the sense to put something solid between themselves and Sanzo's aim.
It had been barely three minutes, but Sanzo kept count of the hits and rare misses. Nine . . . No, eight more down. One wounded in the right shoulder and probably bleeding to death at the moment on the ground.
Taking a chance that no one would stick their heads out so soon, he scrambled over the tiles and hopped over another wall just as someone fired a crossbow bolt that grazed his arm--
And practically landed right on top of another batch of heavily armed men. By their dress and appearance, they were Kyoba's men. Their reaction time confirmed this and he had to dodge various swords and spears more urgently than before. It was a mercy that none of *them* had crossbows . . .
And Sanzo realised that he was temporarily out of bullets with no time to reload.
Shit--
But they were human and not youkai. Slower. More prone to depending on limited senses when fighting. Sanzo knew he could duck away from their blades and the predictable paths they would follow because they had gripped the hilt in one way or another, whether they depend on the right foot or left foot . . . But that would be playing with them now that he was armed.
Or so he would be in a moment or so. He evaded a wild slash from a heavy curved blade and dispatched his would-be assailant with a punishing kick to the gut. That bought a little more time for him to fit five more shells into his gun. Going hand-to-hand would reduce the number of casualties, but none of them were particularly concerned for *his* welfare and he was getting impatient.
There was a fine line between fighting for survival and toying with the other side.
He ducked a set of bolas that whirled past, shoved the cylinder back into the gun, thumbed the hammer in place and found the thrower almost a second later.
They did not stand much of a chance after that. Sanzo had barely ducked behind the woodpile stacked in one corner of the yard before the remainder of Lu'dan's men came rushing in--or staggering in the case of the last man who looked like a casualty of the very first altercation. One more set of bullets and a few moments later, he was moving out cautiously amidst the newly downed men.
From the corner of his vision, he could see a figure in grey slinking along in the shadow of one wall. If he had not been specifically looking out for it, he would not have noticed her presence following him.
She had come to see the end of this. And she would probably get her way. Anyone in the inn with a functional set of ears would have heard the noise by now, so he only had to watch out for the last key players on this bloody stage . . .
The back portion of the inn was now empty and the way to the kitchens lay open and inviting.
Sanzo declined to move from the archway in the wall and kept a careful watch, paying little heed to the growing noise level from the building.
A moment later, a pair of kitchen drudges ran out, caught sight of him and fled screaming. Somewhere in his mind, outside the coldly focused zone that was all he allowed himself at this stage, he supposed that no one really looked their best with a quarter of someone's brains splattered over them.
Sanzo silently counted to ten. He sensed movement before he reached seven and shifted slightly to the left. The blade meant for his head thudded into the archway next to his ear.
"That won't work."
A bitten-off curse was heard from the opposite archway that opened up to the passage leading the taproom. "Can't blame a man for trying," Kyoba called out and stepped out into the open. "I take it that you've finished off most of my men? That's something that demands your blood, boy."
"You can try," Sanzo said levelly and moved away from the archway.
"So you want to play now, is it?" The northerner's fingers were inching to the throwing knives at his belt even as he made to draw the large blade slung over his shoulder.
"No," Sanzo said flatly and fired even as he heard the soft snap that signalled the discharge of a crossbow. Someone else had been hiding beyond the archway, waiting for a shot. He had known that from the start of the entire suspicious set-up and he had realised that it would probably miss from that kind of awkward angle, but he caught the nasty little bolt in mid-flight anyway.
His bullet tore into the slaver's gut at practically point-blank range. Blinking in surprise, Kyoba looked down at the bloody wound in his midsection.
"Well . . . for a city boy, you sure fight dirty," Kyoba said calmly before slumping back against the wall to breathe his last, the throwing knife falling from his numb fingers. The slaver had been ready to die any day, unlike certain other people who were trying to make a break for it along one side of the inn proper after throwing aside a currently useless crossbow.
He strode past the slaver's body, cocked the gun, aimed and fired, neatly shattering Lu'dan's left knee as he ran.
The innkeeper went down, howling in pain and shock. He started gibbering for mercy when Sanzo walked up to his writhing form.
"I'm not particularly interested in taking your life. I think someone else wants it," Sanzo said and stowed his gun in his sleeve. He did not have to look behind him to know that the old woman had followed.
Swearing incoherently, Lu'dan flopped over on his belly and started to crawl away. Even though it was futile. Even though there was not a chance that he could go even ten metres with a wound like that. But that was to be human. To desire survival.
Like a dread spectre, the innkeeper's wife approached, he shuffling gait no impediment when her objective could barely even move.
"I sharpened this every night, thinking of the day I would use it," she said stoically.
Sanzo did not look away when she hauled Lu'dan's head back and drew the knife across his throat. The idiot had it coming for keeping a viper like that so close to his heart.
"So you've had your pound of flesh," he said dispassionately as Lu'dan gurgled and twitched on the blood-soaked ground. Sanzo wondered briefly why he had even felt enraged by this dead lump of flesh. In the end, they all died the same way. Graceless, ungainly and emptying out their bowels as death overtook them.
"Do you feel vindicated?" he asked the old woman holding the bloody knife. A rhetorical question to be sure. No fanfares heralding the end of evil. No sudden light from the heavens announcing the deed. Just a body and a bunch of other bodies on the ground.
Humans killed other humans. And bathing in the blood of humans did not make one more human. Survival merely meant that some were better at being human than others.
The knife dropped to the ground. "Right now, I don't feel anything much . . ." And she crumpled forwards gracelessly in a dead faint.
* * * * * * * * * *
Crossings
By Eline (Kanzeon on ff.net)
Note-type-thingies: Fic is actually based loosely on the soap opera that was the story of Tang Sanzang from Xi You Ji--but I think I butchered it beyond recognition.
Warnings: Long, protracted ending. Non-yaoi. (Darn, poot and blast--I'm losing my touch . . .)
Dedicated to sf--long melodramatic ending warning!
* * * * * * * * * *
Swearing sulphurously under his breath, Sanzo kicked the door to the inn's taproom open awkwardly. Hardly an easy operation for a skinny teenager lugging around forty-odd kilos of unconscious baggage. His muscles were burning with fatigue, but there were still things to settle and he would be damned if he was going to pass out before that.
The patrons of the inn had been alarmed by the screams and the gunshots. Sanzo judged that it had been about ten or fifteen minutes since the old woman had fired that first shot but they were still running around like headless chickens after all that time. Some of the faster ones had already started running out to the road, intent on fleeing what had sounded like a full-fledged battle.
He raised his gun and fired a round into the air.
Instantaneous silence. He had to remember how effective that was . . .
"Someone take care of this," he snapped, depositing her limp body into the arms of the petrified kitchen staff. Selecting a cart-driver at random, he continued to bark out orders. "You, run to the nearest township and get whatever passes for authority there to shift their asses down here to investigate. Send someone out to clear the bodies. And check if there are any still alive . . ."
Though he doubted that there were any survivors amongst those who had taken a direct shot. He aimed for the head and chest--and he seldom missed. Those that survived . . . *those* he had been dealing with them hand-to-hand when he had emptied his cylinder.
One look at the bloodstained, battered monk with his gun was enough to set people scrambling to obey. There was nothing boyish about him now. Not any more.
Sanzo wanted a cigarette. Or ten. Or a stiff drink. The inn's customers were babbling again as they milled about, trying to make sense of the chaos.
They did give him wide berth as he strode to the bar and appropriated a half-full bottle of whiskey.
All he wanted was a quiet corner to recover some desperately needed hours of sleep, but that was wishful thinking. He made do with a deep gulp of the whiskey and went to hunt for his belongings. They were where the old woman said they'd be--someone had rifled through them, but everything was in order and he had no quarrels with dead men.
The sooner he got out of this place, the be--
"Er . . ."
He glared at the kitchen maid who had dared to pluck at his sleeve as he brushed past.
"Excuse me . . . sir, what are we to do now?"
"How the hell would I know?"
"But if you've called the authorities . . . ah, sir--someone has to explain all this . . ." She cringed back, wary of a blow or worse.
There were other expectant faces in the room. Other people looking at him. Possibly other people coming along in a while who would want to know about the two dozen or so dead bodies outside. And there was that old woman, still out of it but relatively unharmed . . .
There were no expletives that could sufficiently express his ire at the moment.
"All right," he snarled and gestured in disgust at the bloodstains on clothes and skin. There were probably bits of the late Shibun somewhere in that mess too. "But find me someplace to change!"
The kitchen maid ushered him to the small room adjoining the kitchens that served both as a storeroom and servants' quarters and left him alone very quickly.
Sanzo let out an exasperated breath and looked about the dim room, wishing that he could just sneak out of the back window just this once. But no, not this time . . . He was stuck in this mess.
Feeling more than a little stifled in the cramped space, he threw the window open and almost swallowed his tongue at the sight that greeted him. Namely the upside-down corpse of one of Lu'dan's men swinging like some kind of macabre wind-chime just outside.
He took a closer look at the man. Definitely dead. The stiff's left eye was a bloody mess--it looked as though someone had rammed a long, thin and extremely sharp object through and hit the brain right after--
Oh. Oh shit.
Craning his neck to avoid the dangling body, he looked out and up at the open window on the second floor. The man's own belt had been tied around one ankle and the other end was fastened somewhere in the room upstairs. Sanzo would have bet his gun that he was currently situated directly below Lu'dan's quarters . . .
It took some effort and balancing on the windowsill to undo the belt from the corpse's ankle and catch it before it hit the ground. Rigour mortis had not set in yet. He had been barely dead for half an hour . . . Half an hour in which this man's comrades had been dispatched . . . Lu'dan would have been busy with greeting Kyoba and so this man had been upstairs, alone and doing guard duty outside his employer's room when he had been killed. If Sanzo's guess was correct--and he *knew* he was--the guard had been most likely taken by surprise.
Just the element of surprise and the guts to kill in a manner that would result in very little noise and very little gore . . . You didn't even need that much strength to penetrate the eye and the soft tissue behind it--
One more dead body. There were two more bullets in his gun at the moment.
Sanzo propped the stiffening corpse up against the wall outside and fired one shot. The corpse fell back, still leaking enough blood to be convincing. Of course, these bumpkins would not have seen enough of violent deaths to know that a shot at that range that would have resulted in a considerably larger amount of blood all over the place.
From somewhere outside the room, the babble of frightened voices started up again. Sanzo opened the door irritably and faced the panicked faces outside.
"Someone tried to sneak out the back--I shot him," he snapped curtly. This announcement, they took in their stride, eyeing the smoking weapon in his hand fearfully. After all, there were all those dead bodies outside to attest to the monk's willingness to kill anyone who got in his way.
Left to himself again, Sanzo felt the first twinges that signalled the end of the last adrenaline rush and the onset of true weariness. He was beginning to feel each and every one of his hurts again. Overstrained muscles, the ache in his skull and the most recent acquisition of a flesh wound by that lucky crossbow bolt. Fortunately for him, the wound was shallow and merely required washing.
A tiny sink in one corner yielded water drawn from rooftop cistern. He washed off the blood as well as he could and poured a splash of whiskey over the gash in his upper arm. It stung like the blazes, but he had done enough field dressings to know what to expect by now. That was why he kept bandages in his small pack of possessions for minor injuries like this.
His clothes were beyond the skill of any tailor or laundry-woman to repair--not that anyone would have touched them in the first place. Sanzo stripped off the offensive garments and used them as rags to mop whatever fluids or viscera still clinging onto his skin. He had not bothered with underwear after so many months of living in the open and the current set of pants had outlived its function.
And then there was *that* cumbersome package, given by the monastery as "a token of good will". There would be fresh robes in there, as loath as he was to admit needing them. But when he opened it, the garments within were not the robes that a travelling monk would have worn. He had last seen robes like *this* four years ago.
Of all the--
Sanzo closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to be calm. The abbot was an *annoyingly* clever man.
And he could not feel angry at the presumption. Not when it had been *he* who had been putting this off for so long.
Master, you've won. Again.
The shirt and pants were practical, if a bit of a pain to pull on over new wounds because they were rather tight. He put the robes on and belted it with the sash. Smoothed the fine material over his shoulders and set the largely ornamental breastplate over it--it would not defend against real weapons or the claws of a youkai.
It was a reminder that a Sanzo was a defender of the Sutras, not just an elevated monk. He remembered that . . . that particular morsel of information from his Master.
You are now Genjo Sanzo.
He wondered what Koumyou Sanzo would say about Genjo Sanzo finally donning the robes of his position and not just the name he had been given after all this time. An acknowledgement? Perhaps so.
And it felt right because he could not keep running from the unavoidable fact that he was his Master's successor. With responsibilities. With a mission to fulfil because he had failed his Master.
Sanzo unfurled the Infernal Land Sutra and set it about his shoulders. He would not be parted from it. Never again. Like the robes, it would serve as a constant reminder of the cross he bore--as heavy a weight as the diadem he wore on his head.
* * * * * * * * * *
The appearance of Genjo Sanzo robed as befitting his rank stunned all and sundry who had stayed behind out of sheer morbid curiosity. An unfortunate effect that caused people to start bowing and scraping if they had to address him about the locations of all the bodies.
He did not want this. He did not want all these sheep following him around asking for directions. But there was nothing he could do about it now.
In the meantime, the kitchen staff made a lot of coffee and fretted while waiting for the authorities to show up. Which they did--a good hour later. Sanzo had never seen a larger collection of men who wished that they were elsewhere--preferably counting their stocks of dried goods or tallying bales of hay.
The authorities out here were apparently made up of anyone who could read, write and count past ten. And they had no idea about how to approach him and the problem at hand.
To forestall any tiresome questioning, he held up the letter from the abbot of Louyang. "My name is Genjo Sanzo. I was being unlawfully detained by the innkeeper and his wife helped me escape. If you want a damned confession, then yes, I did kill those bandits out there. Some of them are flesh-traders from the north. If you ask one of the drudges, they could probably point you in the direction of where some of the innkeeper's victims were buried."
The amazement at his title, the shock at his bald-faced acknowledgement of the massacre and the identities of the slain seemed to knock the officials for a loop. Then came the tiresome statements from witnesses and the other servants who protested loudly that they had been working under duress under their crooked master. A search of Lu'dan's quarters--which were the ones just above the kitchens as Sanzo had guessed--alone yielded far more precious baubles and personal effects for one innkeeper, not to mention a meticulous tally of illegally-gained goods.
Men were sent out to the site of a mass grave that supposedly held the remains of victims who had wound up as entrees. They came back in, ashen-faced and shaken, to confirm the fact that there were a large number of incomplete human remains buried less than four feet underground. A lot of people who had patronised the inn would be feeling queasy for a fairly long time to come.
It was early evening before anyone of them came up to him again with anything significant. A lot of coffee had gone down since than and Sanzo's patience was rapidly fraying.
"Sanzo-sama . . ." the man began hesitantly, mentally fumbling with a prepared speech.
"Well?"
"It is apparent that the former owner of this inn was a brigand and murderer. It comes as a shock to us all that he had dealings with an illegal flesh-trader You acted in self-defence and justice was served--"
"Don't talk about fucking *justice*. You're just glad someone else took care of it for you." Sanzo ground his cigarette out on the tabletop and glared at the official. "There had to have been some cases of disappearances in the past. But you never checked, did you? If I were you--for which I am eternally glad I am *not*--I would investigate just how much grease the landlord applied to the palms of your local law enforcers to close both eyes to his fishy dealings."
The official went purple in the face, then turned pale as Sanzo's accusations hit a little too close to home. He started to splutter, but was pulled back by another officer.
"Forgive us," the second man said. "I am Dagen, currently holding the rank of lieutenant in this sorry excuse for a provincial office, but I was merely educated as a law clerk. Please understand that our resources are spread thin. Bribery here is easy if you consider the fact that the average official barely gets enough to get by. We are grateful and more than relieved for your help, Sanzo-sama."
Sanzo snorted softly. "So wrap this investigation up. I haven't got all day."
"We shall. But would you at least say a prayer for the dead? People aren't happy that there's a mass grave here . . ."
He seriously wanted to tell the man to fuck off. But he did not. In the end, he went with them anyhow. To a small field not far away from the inn, but well away from the main road. To where they had unearthed several sites containing various humans remains.
Some superstitious folk had already brought a tablet and joss for the dead.
And for the sake of his Master's compassion--compassion that had lead to a rescue of an orphaned boy from the river--he chanted the Sutras that he had never forgotten. The Heart Sutra. The Diamond Sutra. Not so much to appease dead spirits but to ease the minds of the people who had came to watch and pray that no restless souls remained here.
There is no ignorance,
and no end to ignorance.
There is no old age and death,
and no end to old age and death.
There is no suffering, no cause of suffering,
no end to suffering, no path to follow.
There is no attainment of wisdom,
and no wisdom to attain.
And then *she* was there, looking drawn but steady on her feet at the back of the crowd that had gathered. Somehow, she had found the time to shed her bloodied clothes and had turned herself out in a respectable grey smock and proper shoes. Enough to pass off as human again. Like some wronged woman who had not condoned her husband's actions and had piously helped a priest.
She came up to him when he finished, ignoring all the officials standing by. The look on her face seemed to say, "So you really are a priest. Wonders never cease."
Dagen looked at Sanzo with raised brows. "And this lady was the w--"
"Is the owner of the property and the ferry crossing according to your rather interesting backcountry inheritance rules," Sanzo said flatly. "I believe it is written in your province's charter that any capital of the deceased reverts back to any blood-kin who can claim it as inheritance. Or, in the case of no heirs and blood-kin, it goes back to the surviving wife as a repayment of the dowry money upon the annulment of marriage via death."
It had to be said that some of Dagen's peers did not look too happy about that. But they were not about to argue about it now--not with a volatile priest quoting their own laws at them.
"Very well then . . ."
"Sanzo-sama, would please consider ministering to the families who are trying to identify if the bodies belong to one of their lost loved ones?"
Sanzo felt his headache returning with a vengeance. He would be trapped by this mass of superstitious peasants and--
A bony hand clamped down on his arm. "Priest, would you help an old woman? I'm having trouble remembering some of the prayers and my conscience cannot wait." The old woman nodded genially at the officials as though she had not heard the previous exchange. "And my legs are none too steady--premature arthritis, I'm afraid."
"But Sanzo-sama--"
It was an escape route and Sanzo grabbed it hurriedly. "The lady needs to pray for the wretched soul of her husband--"
"And my arthritis--"
"--In private."
"Yes . . . the riverbank will do," she said, putting her weight on his arm a little more than what was necessary for support. "Mustn't take up too much of the priest's time now . . ."
"I think you've put a lot of noses out of joint today," she said when Dagen and the other part-time officials were out of earshot. "Fortunately, I did not burn that marriage tablet yet . . . You should have been a lawyer, priest."
"Hmph." Sanzo lit another cigarette, ostensibly watching some men setting up a grave marker for the slain. "I stayed a while at Louyang Monastery--long enough for an old priest to babble on about certain points of the law."
"Embarrassed at helping out an old women?" She sounded amused. "Walk with me a while, priest. I think I have a confession to make now that all this is over . . ."
"As long as it keeps me away from that pack of damn vultures."
"They're just awed."
Sanzo snorted. "Awed at a mere monk?" He doubted that anyone here really knew the significance of his rank.
"No, boy. They think you look like some heavenly messenger of sorts. And who would pass up the chance to look at a young god?"
"That's the largest load of crap I've heard all day." Sanzo glanced sideways to see if she was hiding a smile. But her expression was mostly blank. "Hmmph."
"There are rabbit-holes out there, but you'll have to watch out for them," she said blithely.
Leaning on his arm for support, she headed purposefully in the general direction of the river, stopping and here and there to pick up a wild flower or two. Sanzo hoped that she was not entertaining any suicidal fantasies--he was in no mood to save people from themselves. Let the other priests do the dispensation of salvation and hope--he was hardly qualified.
Afterwards, she merely knelt at the small boat dock and set the pitiful handful of weeds gathered from the field adrift on the current.
"There's no incense to burn. I wonder if he would mind . . ."
"The dead rarely care about such things."
"Perhaps." They watched the weed flowers float over the deceptively calm surface of the river. "He's always been with me, but I think I should let him go now. He's not my reason to go on living anymore."
She sat back on her heels contemplatively. "It wasn't anything like that, you know? That kind of grand and sweeping romance that girls want . . . He wanted to find a wife and we got along well enough. This is *not* the part when I fling myself into the river--I actually got over that years ago," she said matter-of-factly. "I think I really would have done it back then . . . But I had an obligation to him."
"He would have wanted you to live." A meaningless platitude.
"No, priest--you do not understand . . . I was three months pregnant when my husband was murdered. We got along well enough for *that*." By the tone of her voice he could tell that she was privately amused.
He glanced down at her still back, slightly disconcerted. "So . . . did you . . ."
"Oh, no . . . I wasn't that frail. I gave birth to a son--a healthy boy."
The child would have been killed by Lu'dan then. Two lives for which she had waited so long for revenge.
"Poor boy . . . Lu'dan would have killed him. But I crept out as soon as I could get up. I suppose I didn't know what I was doing--I could barely crawl and there was no where I could go for help . . ." She stood up and brushed off her robe absent-mindedly. "Didn't even think about pinching a horse to escape--but I couldn't ride anyhow. I couldn't do a lot of things back then . . . Girls where I came from were mostly trained to be ornamental vases . . .
"I couldn't keep him with me."
A bird flew over the surface of the river before them, shattering the calm surface of the water.
"I'm telling this to you, priest, because you are not like any holy man I have ever seen," she continued steadily. "I suppose I had some notion of escaping on a boat or something back then. But there weren't any boats--none that I could manage, I think . . . So I put my son on an old plank and hoped like mad." Her gaze followed the river's path southwards. Southwards where it would shortly join other tributaries to form the trunk of a larger river that flowed east.
The Yellow River.
"Miracles . . . do you believe in them?"
In that instant, Sanzo did not trust himself to answer. He did not even trust himself to breathe.
"Boy?"
He found his tongue at last and uttered the blandest thing that the monks used to say at the monastery when faced with such questions. "They have been known to occur."
"Ah? How pedantic . . . that would have been what the monks at the temples I visited as a child would say. Usually right after the bit about how the Goddess of Mercy aids all those in need. I don't put much faith in them after all these years." In the light of the fading sun, her hair was tinted yellow and orange. Her eyes--which could have been any shade from brown to dark blue before the cataracts and a life spent in darkness had obscured them--reflected the light for a moment when she turned to face him.
"I don't think about the possibilities anymore. It was a very old and warped plank after all. So, priest, what say you?"
"Someone once told me that in life, we would have to make our own way," Sanzo said tonelessly, not trusting his voice one whit at that point. And we make our own way, no matter what the cost. "Perhaps you are asking the wrong kind of priest about it. I just killed more than two dozen men because they were in my way."
He knew what she was asking of him. If it had been the right thing to do. If she had actually drowned her son despite her best intentions. If she had been less than sane at that point in time to have done such a thing.
If only he could answer--shocked as he was, confused as he was . . . He was barely seventeen--but how much time could prepare a person for something like this? Sanzo had never thought much about his parentage because the boy he had been had simply decided that Koumyou Sanzo was all the family he needed.
And Koumyou Sanzo was the kind of person who could deal with this sort of thing. Because he would not judge and he would not turn people away even though he would give bloody cryptic answers most of the time. But in the end, there would be a grain of truth in it and it would be more comforting than anything that Genjo Sanzo could ever say or do.
Behind his stillness, shock gave away to confusion and a hundred questions that clamoured for attention.
What if--
How long ago was--
Did she leave anything with--
Questions that died halfway to his lips.
He was too much of a coward to ask.
Not now.
So very afraid of the answers.
Not yet.
She frightened him, this woman with her dark past, haunted eyes and deep scars. The failure to protect the most precious things. The ever-present guilt that lurked behind every nightmare. The myriad of what ifs. The depths she had sunken to.
It was like looking into a--
"Which is not much of an answer at all . . . Though if you had said copying out the Lotus Sutra twenty times, I would have been just a little disappointed. Priest . . ." She had stopped ruminating and was looking at him expectantly. "Are you leaving on whatever quest you're on?"
"How did you--" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
"You look like you were trying to find something. Something important. So important that you wouldn't let a lowlife pack of bandits stand in your way." Something like a real smile appeared to grace her face for a moment. Or perhaps it was just a trick of the fading light.
"You could say that . . . So what are you going to do?" He wanted her to live. He knew that she had to be alive when he had completed his quest for his Master's stolen Sutra. She had to be to answer his questions when he was strong enough to ask her.
"I don't know . . . There's nothing for me here except bad memories . . ."
But he had to be able to find her some day.
"But someone told me that I had to make my own way . . . Why should I let that bastard taint my memories anymore?" She looked back at the ferry crossing and the inn. "It was *my* dowry money he stole to build it, damn it."
"You could keep it," he found himself saying. "It's still a profitable venture out here."
"True. A woman doesn't have it easy out here in the sticks, you know?" She plucked one last grass stalk from her clothing and got up carefully. "But this place is going to get a bad reputation. I suppose that can't be helped now."
Sanzo contented himself with making non-committal noises now and then. "Ah."
"I'll have to hire more help . . ."
Only then did he realise just how ruthlessly practical she was as she neatly redirected her focus from revenge onto her own life. She had apparently lost the suicidal impulse years ago. Thoughtfully silent, he followed her back to the inn where the kitchen drudges were timidly setting things to rights.
"Eh--they fall back on routine well enough . . . at least they didn't run away," she said, surveying the clean-up in progress.
"Trained dogs don't stray far away from their food dishes."
"Very true, I'm afraid. But they've got *some* spirit left in them. Stay for dinner, priest? I don't think I need my store of rat poison anymore."
It was in his mind to refuse, because all those foolish officials were still hanging around, as were the curious and annoyingly inquisitive. He was not in the mood for any more questions or hearing the whispers as they covertly glanced his way.
It was the fucking monastery all over again.
But the old woman steered him into a relatively quiet side-room and set a loaded tray in front of him despite his protests. "Eat it anyway. You're too skinny. And no alcohol until you get through half of it."
The pot was calling the kettle black, but Sanzo was more annoyed because she had pre-empted his wish for spirits.
"What's that then?" he asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the crowded common room and taproom where things seemed to be moving along as usual and the patrons seemed well on the way to getting very drunk. "The post-investigation and exhumation party?"
"It doesn't hurt anyone to follow their routine. It takes their minds off other things."
Sanzo did not doubt that most of those who had seen the contents of the mass grave would want to find forgetfulness in a bottle and let the tablet and grave markers do the remembering for them.
"Those yokel officials out there aren't following their routine. It'd be better if you were rid of them."
"What, and lose the chance to sell overpriced beer to that lot?" she asked sarcastically before leaving him alone. And in the end, the desire for a strong drink faded and he found himself wanting nothing more than to rest.
Sanzo did not regret the chance to bathe and wash all the accumulated grime and blood from his skin. A reasonably long soak in the baths relieved some of his aching muscles and allowed him to sleep the moment he found his bed in a room well away from the noise of the crowd downstairs. It came with a bolted door and he permitted himself to let his guard down at last.
He did not dream. Exhaustion carried him deep into oblivion and well through the night. When he finally woke about an hour after dawn, he realised that it had rained in the middle of the night and he had slept through it all.
Regarding the mist-draped countryside from his window, Sanzo wasted a quarter of an hour musing on nothing in particular. It felt good to empty out his mind before dressing in his robes--the robes of a Sanzo. He would get used to it, in time.
The ferry was in operation as though yesterday had never happened. By the looks of it, someone had drafted some burly farm-boys and they were cheerfully bungling their way through the delivery of a load of chickens across the river. Down in the common rooms were the comatose forms from the previous night, sleeping peacefully through all the yelling, splashing and squawks of outraged chickens. Sanzo was suddenly glad that he had not indulged in any beer. He would be able to make his escape with relative ease now.
A familiar figure was directing the staff in the cleanup downstairs. She looked up when he trod on one particularly creaky step on the way down.
"Thought you'd be out of it a bit longer than that . . . Breakfast?"
"I'd rather be out of here before that lot wakes up," he said, nodding at the snoring collection of officials, farmers and the like.
"Pity. I'll see you out." And she did, walking out all the way to the main thoroughfare with him. He did not protest it, not even when she pressed a bag of provisions on him.
"The least you can do is get a little less skinny," she said.
"Don't waste your breath thanking me."
"Oh, I won't . . . Though I was told," she began casually, "that they found Lu'dan dead--shot in the knee . . . and throat."
Sanzo did not deign to reply.
"And they also said that you caught the last man sneaking out behind the kitchens and shot him--through the left eye . . ."
"And so?"
She looked at him for a moment and looked away. "Nothing--just curiosity . . ."
They glanced back at the inn and the surrounding compound. It was not as though a simple building could have any more meaning or significance than what people placed on it . . . but this place had to hold a wealth of unpleasant memories for her.
"You've made up your mind to stay here?"
The old woman nodded. "In the end, this is still home. I saw the first brick laid--you could say I've grown . . . rather attached to it."
There was no way he could have forestalled his next question. It simply rammed its way out unchecked without any intervention by his brain. "So how long has it been since then?"
"About twenty years or so . . . I think."
*That* was like a punch to the gut. And he did not know what he ought to feel at that revelation. Too long ago. So it couldn't be--
As if you could trust *her* judgement when it came to time-keeping! the insidious voice in his head jeered at him. Twenty years could be seventeen years or an eternity living inside her own head!
But what if her account was accurate? And if it was not, then some other child had drowned in the river. Not the first to do so. So many babies left to drown in that river . . . And he, out of so many of them, had survived.
While he had been immersed in his own thoughts, she had been speaking. "If you're looking for a stopover during your wanderings, boy, this place is always open and it *has* got good service."
"Perhaps . . ."
"That's the most civil I've ever seen you, priest."
"Genjo Sanzo."
"What?"
"My name is Genjo Sanzo."
Her eyes widened. "Your rank is that high? But you're only--" She paused and shook her head ruefully. "No, I wouldn't underestimate you. My name is Ketsu'e."
Sanzo nodded and stepped out onto the road. East again, through the mountains this time and all the way to Chou An . . .
"Hey . . ."
He stopped and turned slightly.
That slightly girlish tilt of the head again. "Come back someday, boy--and next time, I expect a real answer from you."
One day. Some day, he would come back to face this woman once again and ask her . . .
Ask her his hundred questions and perhaps a thousand more.
And perhaps, he could answer her question at last.
* * * * * * * * * *
End of fic.
Fic Status: Complete as of 06/09/2002. (Fic was actually started in March 2002. *looks sheepish*) Unbeta-ed. (So if anyone is kind enough and has the time, I wouldn't object to having it beta-read.) It is also the first multi-part-fic in two years that I actually finished. T_T I suck . . .
Update Status: Being continuously revised. Typos and grammar--very, very bad. After corrections, the fic will merely be bad.
Credits:
The fragment of the Heart Sutra was from Dr. C. George Boeree's site:
The idea for this was lifted off the original Xi You Ji. (What, you thought I had any original ideas in my head? Perish the thought.) About 500 years after the Great Sage had been imprisoned under the mountain, the Buddha created the Scriptures and sent Guanyin (the Goddess of Mercy/Kanzeon) to find a holy man to fetch them from the West. The lucky guy was Xuanzang (kanji = Genjo), a foundling who had grown up in a monastery and taken up vows. He was also the son of a royally-appointed official and a well-born lady, but he had been born after his father had been murdered by a lecherous boatman. The boatman impersonated the official and abducted his wife. The lady stayed alive for the sake of her unborn offspring and set him adrift on the river shortly after his birth because she was told to do so by a deity sent by the Goddess of Mercy. The baby was found by the abbot of Jinshan (kanji = Kinzan) Temple and grew up without knowledge of his parentage. Nevertheless, the tale has a happy ending--Xuanzang's father was not really dead, everyone got re-united in the end and the bad guy got his comeuppance, etc, etc. Xuanzang took the name Sanzang (kanji = Sanzo) and set off for the West about three chapters and a lot of poetry later.
Note-type-thingies: If Sanzo in Kazuya Minekura's "Saiyuki" had been the type to jump up and yell "Mom!" on the 99.99% chance that it really was his mother, this fic would've turned out *very* differently. But that's about as likely as him giving up on the coffin nails . . . And I'm not one for happy endings without at least a truckload of angst in between. (Xuanzang's real mother, Yin Wenqiao, ornamental vase that she was, still had the sense to write a message on her shift in blood and bite off her son's little toe for an identifying mark even when she was promised a miracle. Sanzo appears to have all his toes . . .)
Fanfic Checklist
Body count: 26
Angst: Yep.
Do nasty things to Sanzo: *nods* *runs away as fast as she can*